Chapter -15-
“One bed.”
Denz has repeated the same two words for a full minute.
Braylon paces behind him, phone in hand. His shoes clacking across the beige-and-green onyx marble floors doesn’t take Denz’s mind off what the front desk manager just said.
A room with one bed .
It’s not the worst thing. He’s shared a bed with Braylon before. Of course, they weren’t exes then. Back when they treated the queen-sized bed in Denz’s apartment like their own personal Naked Cirque du Soleil performance. But none of that’s happening tonight.
Except… there’s the kiss they shared less than an hour ago.
No. Out of the question.
“You’re sure there’s nothing else available?”
Kiana, the very patient night manager, whose hand keeps twitching like she might stab Denz with a letter opener, smiles tightly. “That’s correct, Mr. Carter. We have one room left. A deluxe with a gorgeous city view and a king-sized bed.”
“No room with double beds?”
“No, sir.”
“How about a rollaway bed?”
“No, sir.”
“A nice ottoman with extra linen?”
A wild look crosses Kiana’s dark brown eyes. “No, Mr. Carter. One room left. One king-sized bed.”
He groans, almost face-planting on the counter. “What about—”
“It’s fine, ” Braylon interrupts. The giddy buzz from the alcohol and dancing has faded. In its place, a grumpy, scowling beast. He holds up his phone. “I checked. Nothing in a twenty-mile radius.”
“Maybe we should try outside the city?” Denz suggests, one eye twitch away from frantic. “I’ll get us a car. A limo. We’ll go to a nice—”
“Denzel,” Braylon says tightly. “Everyone’s booked. We’re already here. Let’s just… stay.”
Denz sags against the counter.
“As I said when you arrived,” Kiana chimes in with the slightest hint of exasperation behind her tone, “it’s the NBA playoffs. The Miami Heat and all their fans are in town. And Ed Sheeran’s performing all weekend at Mercedes-Benz Stadium.”
Which explains the blend of hipsters and people in jerseys spilling into the streets.
“What about,” Denz says, way too hopeful, “a suite?”
He’s not against booking the top-floor presidential. Hell, if it means he can sleep in a bed on one end while Braylon’s at least fifty feet away on the other, he’ll buy out an entire floor.
“Well…” Kiana grins, typing away. “We do have one last city-view, deluxe room with a king-sized bed available.”
Braylon smacks a credit card on the counter. “We’ll take it.”
“Perfect. I just need a form of ID to put on file.”
Before Braylon can fish his license from his wallet, Denz tugs out his own, along with a black AmEx company card. “Our room and whatever else we want is on the CEO.”
Although this isn’t technically a “business necessity,” Denz is positive his dad won’t mind. Or he’ll find a way to bribe Auggie in accounting so Kenneth never finds out. Most likely the latter.
Braylon doesn’t fight him.
A few keyboard clicks later, Kiana hands them key cards and a complicated list of directions to their room. Braylon suggests Denz go up and order room service, since the selection of food at the engagement party hardly soaked up any of the drinks they shared, while he runs to grab essential items.
Denz’s feet hurt, he’s still half buzzed, and in no mood to argue.
“Enjoy your stay!” Kiana chirps, and Denz follows up with an unflattering smile before getting lost twice looking for the elevators.
As promised, the view is breathtaking. Countless skyscrapers shimmer with artificial light. Centennial Olympic Park’s colossal Ferris wheel glows in purples and blues. Atlanta is a field of glittery neon, and Denz watches from a glass tower.
The room itself is an opulent mix of ivories and grays. The flat-screen is a black mirror reflecting everything back at him: touches of gold and emerald in the furniture. The plush high-back in a corner. A small paper bag with the Mélange’s logo.
Maybe stopping in the hotel’s shop for a couple of… incidentals of his own was a little presumptuous?
Denz paces the geometric-patterned carpet. He glances at the bag. Shakes his head and paces some more.
This is ridiculous. It was a couple of drinks. One dance. A spontaneous kiss. Fine, two kisses, counting the gala. Oh, and the blow job on Braylon’s kitchen counter.
It all means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things. Denz needs to chill.
On his third lap of the room, his stomach makes a very unpleasant noise, so he orders a little of everything from the room service menu. Braylon returns just as the food arrives. He disappears into the bathroom with a large plastic bag from a nearby pharmacy.
Denz sets everything out picnic-style on the bedspread: a buffet of quesadillas, a bowl of mixed berries, one personal pizza, both seasoned and sweet potato fries, and chocolate-chip cookies.
“Sorry, are you wasted or high?” Braylon asks when he flops onto the bed.
Denz pops a berry in his mouth. “Both.”
Braylon’s shrugged out of his suit jacket. Slipped off his shoes and socks. Ditched the tie, undone the top two buttons of his shirt.
Denz tries not to stare. Reflexively, his eyes drift to the paper bag and—
Nope . He can survive one night.
He grabs drinks from the minibar—lemonade for himself, water for Braylon—before sitting pretzel-legged on the bed, keeping a manageable distance between them.
They fight over Netflix. Braylon rejects a holiday rom-com starring an actress Kami’s friends with. Denz vetoes anything where half the movie’s plot is just things exploding.
“How about My Best Friend’s Wedding ?”
Braylon swipes a fry. “Never seen it.”
“How?”
“No interest.”
Denz waves a dismissive hand. He’s already embarrassed for him. “It’s decided,” he says, clicking Play. There’s no way he can allow Braylon to live such an unfulfilled life.
Pizza in his lap, Denz shushes Braylon when the opening song begins.
Sharing a room with his ex isn’t as weird as Denz imagined.
Midway through Julia Roberts’s elevator panic attack, they sit shoulder-to-shoulder against the headboard.
Braylon demolishes the seasoned fries, a handful of berries, one of the cookies, but doesn’t touch anything else. Denz doesn’t complain. More for him.
It’s not exactly a WTN—he wouldn’t dare betray Jamie like that—but it’s fun .
Braylon laughs hysterically while Cameron Diaz sings karaoke. He squeezes Denz’s hand when the wedding party sings “I Say a Little Prayer” because, yup, the Sedwick sisters totally stole their act. After Julia Roberts kisses Dermot Mulroney, they pause for a ten-minute rant from Braylon.
“The audacity .”
When the credits roll, Braylon asks, “So, after all that, she ends up with her gay friend?”
Denz falls halfway off the bed, laughing.
He sends a check-in text to make sure Kami got home safely. After confirmation, his eyes scan over Braylon. He’s frozen, watching previews for related movies on the TV.
“My dad would’ve loved that movie.”
Denz lowers his phone.
“Sorry.” Braylon’s best attempt at a smile fails miserably. “I keep bringing him up—”
“No,” Denz interrupts. “I don’t mind.”
Braylon sighs. “He was a bit of a disaster.”
Denz’s wide-eyed expression tugs a fond guffaw from Braylon.
“He was the smartest man in just about every room,” Braylon goes on. “But he was a shit cook. And he cheated at Scrabble.”
“I knew it!”
“He threw himself into a million projects. Never finished any. Like painting his office. Building a birdhouse. Cleaning the attic.” Braylon pauses, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Me.”
Denz bites his thumbnail.
“Sorry. That sounded unfair?”
“I get it,” Denz tells him, far too aware of what it’s like to be the son of someone constantly trying to make you into the better version of themselves.
Braylon drags a hand through his curls, releasing another sigh. “He loved movies like that. Mom did too.”
“Then how’d you end up with such poor movie taste?”
Braylon tosses a sweet potato fry at his cheek.
“No, seriously,” Denz says. “Why do you hate rom-coms?”
“The endings are so trite. So predictable.”
“That’s what makes them great,” Denz nearly shouts. “I know I’m gonna feel good at the end. That I’ll have something to hope for. I need to know that, despite how shitty this world is, there are moments in life where it’s all worth it.”
Braylon watches him intently.
“The best part is,” Denz continues, “even if you know the ending, if you predicted how the couple is going to get there in the first five seconds, the journey is never the same. How we get there is always, always different.”
He shyly lowers his eyes. He’s never said that out loud. Not even to Jamie during a Will Thacker Night.
Another fry bounces off his forehead. Braylon grins before standing to stretch. Denz doesn’t linger on the strip of exposed brown skin from his shirt riding up.
“I need to shower,” Braylon says, yawning.
After plugging his phone into the charger, he pads to the bathroom.
When the door clicks shut, Denz springs from the bed.
He shakes out his hands. What is he doing?
Gushing like a schoolboy about why he’s obsessed with rom-coms?
And to his ex, of all people? The one who left him heartbroken?
Also, what was up with that little nervous smirk Braylon gave him before disappearing?
Behind the door, the water sprays loudly against the tiles.
Ten feet away, Braylon’s naked .
Impulsively, Denz cleans up the wreckage of their food.
Straightens the bedspread. He adjusts the dimmer switch, leaving the room lit by the TV’s glow, then thinks better of it, cranking the lights to maximum voltage.
He’s not going for intimacy. But there, on one of the floating bedside tables, is the brown shopping bag from the lobby.
The little reminder of where Denz’s head was two hours ago.
“You keep looking at that bag.”
Denz swallows down a yelp. He didn’t hear the door open. How long was he in his own head again? His attention snaps toward the bathroom. Steam billows out and—
Fuck .