Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NICK
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I say for the twentieth time as Anthony holds the door open to a trendy restaurant in the West Village.
“Doing what? Eating decent food? Very scandalous,” he teases, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as we enter.
That single contact sends warmth radiating up my spine, which is frankly a ridiculous reaction given what those hands did to me an hour ago.
But apparently, my body reacts to chivalry in much the same way as it reacts to hot sex.
“You know what I mean. We’re out in public. Where people can see us.”
“That’s generally how restaurants work, yes,” he says.
I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from fidgeting.
I’m too nervous to address the underlying issue.
If we’re out together, people will take photos of us.
Photos of him and me will be splashed across the internet.
Combine that with what he said at the concert, and people will infer things.
Is he happy for this…whatever it is…to be dissected by the world?
My stomach twists at the thought.
After my haphazard attempt at making him breakfast, we stumbled back to my bedroom, where we chatted on my bed before it morphed into another round of getting to know each other’s bodies to mutual success.
Afterward, Anthony showed no signs of wanting to leave, and we just hung out in bed talking and laughing together.
I’ve never had this before. Someone I can just talk and laugh with so easily. Someone where the transition from talking to kissing and sex feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s just another extension of our conversation.
It’s kind of terrifying how right everything feels.
The hostess does a double-take when she sees Anthony.
Because this is Anthony Devine. It’s strange how I almost forgot that at different points this morning, even as posters of him stared down from my wall.
Poster Anthony has perfect hair, smoldering eyes, and looks like he emerged fully formed from some kind of celebrity factory.
Real Anthony had bedhead this morning and gets a crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating on how to make me squirm, and spent five minutes trying to figure out how my shower worked while I laughed at him through the bathroom door.
As much as I’d admired and obsessed about poster Anthony, I think I like real Anthony better.
The fame almost feels like just another fact about him now, not the defining feature. Like how Jade is left-handed, or Teddie is allergic to shellfish. Interesting, relevant sometimes, but not the first thing you think about when you think about them.
But right now, watching the waitress’s professional smile falter and her eyes widen as she realizes it is him, I’m reminded that, to the rest of the world, he’s not just Anthony. He’s a headline waiting to happen.
“Table for two?” she manages to ask once she’s recovered.
“Please. Something in the back if possible?” Anthony asks.
We’re led to a relatively secluded corner booth, though at least three people track our movement across the restaurant. Anthony seems unbothered, immediately picking up his menu like this is totally normal.
“This place has an amazing all-day brunch menu,” he says. “But it raises an important question. Are you a sweet or savory brunch person?”
“Both. Always both. I don’t understand people who can choose.”
“Correct answer.” He grins at me over his menu. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Just one reason?”
“Well, there’s also your excellent taste in dying plants and your strong opinions about types of cake.”
I can’t help laughing. “Don’t forget my ability to kill said plants with aggressive love.”
He scrunches his nose at me. “A very attractive quality. It shows commitment.”
We order—him getting eggs Benedict and me getting French toast—and fall into easy conversation.
It’s surreal how natural this feels. Every so often, I have to resist the urge to pinch myself again because I’m having brunch with Anthony Devine, and he’s stealing bacon off my plate and making fun of my coffee order— “Four sugars? Really?”
“I have a sweet tooth,” I defend myself. “You knew this about me. You bought me red velvet cake on our first date.”
“Technically, we’re still on our first date,” he points out.
Our eyes snag, and he gives me a bashful grin.
“It is turning into a very long first date,” I admit.
“What’s the highlight of our first date so far?” he asks, leaning in with his forearms crossed on the table, that crooked smile playing at his lips.
I try not to blush. “That thing you do with your tongue is pretty high up there. What about you?”
“Seeing your Anthony Devine shrine.”
I ball up my napkin and throw it at him. “We’re never calling it that.”
“Your museum of appreciation?”
“Nope.”
“Your gallery of aesthetic admiration?”
“I’m going to start throwing cutlery at you next.”
He laughs, a genuine, unguarded laugh that makes my chest tight. Because I’ve watched so many video clips of Anthony on the red carpet and in interviews, and I know his laugh doesn’t usually sound like this.
“I’d dodge flying cutlery. I have excellent reflexes. Comes from years of avoiding flying underwear on stage,” he says.
My eyebrows raise. “That’s a real thing that happens?”
“You’d be surprised what people throw. I once got hit in the face with a sleeve of crackers. I still don’t know what that was about.”
We’re just finishing up after an intense argument over who gets the last piece of bacon, when Anthony signs the check with a flourish.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
“Yeah, but I need to use the restroom first.”
“Meet you by the door.”
When I come back, Anthony’s waiting near the entrance, baseball cap pulled low, scrolling through his phone. I’ve almost reached him when I hear a familiar voice that makes my blood run cold.
“Nick?”
I turn to find Chad and three of his gym bros just arriving.
Because, of course, the universe has a twisted sense of humor.
When I’m finally having the kind of morning that makes me believe in rom-coms and fate and that good people manage to find each other, the universe apparently decides I need a humility check in the form of my cheating ex-boyfriend.
“Chad,” I manage.
His eyes flick between Anthony and me, who’s glanced up from his phone. I can see the exact moment Chad realizes why the guy I’m with looks familiar. His eyes widen.
“Is that…?” one of his friends whispers.
“Holy shit, that’s Anthony Devine,” another one says, not quite as quietly as he probably intended.
Anthony steps closer to me.
“Nick, you ready to go?” he asks, his hand finding the small of my back.
Chad’s still staring, mouth slightly open. “You’re…? You two are…?”
Anthony’s forehead furrows, and he looks to me for an explanation.
“This is Chad,” I say. “Chad, Anthony.”
Anthony’s eyes widen. “You’re Chad?”
“Ah, yeah.”
Something changes in Anthony’s stance. He doesn’t puff up or get aggressive, but instead, goes still.
“Nick has told me all about you.” He says the words in a cool tone, leaving absolutely no doubt that the things I’ve said haven’t exactly been flattering.
Chad visibly withers under the weight of Anthony’s judgmental stare. For a guy who once told me I needed to “work on my presence,” he’s currently giving strong “kid caught cheating on a test” energy.
It’s incredibly satisfying to witness. I wish I had popcorn.
Then Anthony’s gaze moves back to me. “You want to head to my apartment, babe?”
I’m almost giddy, both at the fact that Anthony wants to continue hanging out and how he just thoroughly dismissed Chad exactly how he deserves to be dismissed.
“Sure,” I say. “I can think of a few fun ways to spend the afternoon.”
But Chad’s friends have other ideas.
“Ah, could we get a quick photo?” one asks, already pulling out his phone. “My girlfriend will die. She’s obsessed with your music.”
Anthony glances at me, and I give a tiny shrug. This is his life, I realize. These interruptions will come with being out in public with him. I don’t really mind though. I mean, having been a superfan myself, I understand how much a short interaction with Anthony could mean to someone.
“That okay with you?” he asks.
“Sure,” I reply benevolently. After all, even though this guy has bad taste for choosing to be friends with Chad, his girlfriend shouldn’t suffer for it.
Chad’s friends swarm Anthony like he’s a free sample station at Costco. Phones materialize out of nowhere.
“Oh my god, okay, so my girlfriend is literally obsessed with you,” one of them babbles while positioning himself for a selfie.
“Like, she’s seen you in concert four times.
She’s going to lose her mind. Can you say hi to her?
Her name’s Brittany. Actually, can you say, ‘Happy birthday, Brittany’?
It’s not her birthday, but she won’t care—”
“Sure. Happy birthday, Brittany,” Anthony says, his voice warm, his smile camera-ready. But I catch the way his eyes dart toward the door and his gaze keeps drifting back toward me like he’s checking I’m still there.
Chad hasn’t moved. He’s just standing there, watching, his usual smirk nowhere to be found.
“Thanks, man,” the last friend says after getting his photo. “Sorry to interrupt your day.”
“No problem,” Anthony says, immediately moving back to my side and taking my hand. “Nice meeting you all.”
As we head for the door, I hear one of Chad’s friends say, “Bro, is your ex actually dating Anthony fucking Devine?”
“Shut up,” Chad mutters.
Outside, Anthony and I walk a few steps before I start to laugh. “That was kind of epic,” I say.
“So that was the famous Chad?”
“Unfortunately.”
“He seemed…confused.”
“I think his brain short-circuited trying to figure out how his boring ex ended up with you.”
Anthony squeezes my hand. “You’re the least boring person I’ve ever met. You have entertaining views on pretty much everything.”