Chapter 14
Charlie
Taio has been gone for forty-seven years. Shocking, I know. But it’s true. I’m now an old maid with silver-streaked hair and I most definitely missed the rest of my tour all because I was waiting on a boy.
I’ve checked my phone approximately nine hundred times, watching the minutes tick by while my hair air-dries into what will inevitably be a frizzy disaster.
I should’ve blow-dried it. I should’ve put on something cuter than these old sleep shorts and this oversized T-shirt, yet another with Tweety Bird on it saying I tawt I taw a puddy nap.
Terrible pun. Also, I think I own too many Tweety shirts.
I should’ve done literally anything other than sit here vibrating with anticipation like a golden retriever waiting for its owner to come home.
The shower helped. Lava hot, long enough to prune my fingers, steam thick enough to fog the entire bathroom and leave droplets running down the marble walls.
I stood under the spray and replayed the kiss for the hundredth time—the way his hands felt in my hair, the desperate pressure of his mouth, the sound he made when I pressed closer.
That low, rumbling groan that made me wet.
And then we took ten steps backwards with that stupid forehead kiss. That patronizing little peck that felt more like a pat on the head than actual affection. Like I was a child being sent to bed after staying up past curfew.
I’m spiraling. I know I’m spiraling. But forty-seven years is a long time to get “supplies,” and my brain has already cycled through seventeen different scenarios, ranging from “he got lost” to “he’s reconsidering this entire situation and is currently booking a flight back to New York.”
Forty-eight years now.
And now I’m battling glaucoma.
I’ve rearranged my pillows three times. I’ve scrolled through Instagram without actually seeing anything.
I’ve gotten up to check my reflection twice, which is absurd because he’s already seen me covered in sweat and stage makeup and post-crying puffiness.
A little frizzy hair isn’t going to be the dealbreaker.
A smell starts to drift under my door. Something warm and savory, with an undertone of spice that makes my empty stomach clench with desperate interest. I sit up straighter, inhaling deeply. Cheese, definitely. Something meaty. Peppers?
A knock at my door makes me catapult off the bed.
“Charlie? You decent?”
“Define decent,” I call back to Taio, scrambling to arrange myself into something resembling casual nonchalance. I settle for cross-legged back on the bed, phone in hand like I’ve been casually scrolling instead of counting the seconds since he left.
“Clothed. Conscious. Willing to leave your room.”
I’m at the door before he finishes the sentence, yanking it open to find him standing in the hallway with a barely suppressed grin.
He’s still in the same dark sweats and blue shirt, but now there’s a small splatter of something light orange on his collar—evidence of whatever’s creating that incredible smell.
“Follow me.”
“Where are we going?”
“Living room. I made something.”
The aroma intensifies as we walk down the hallway, and my stomach responds with a growl so loud it echoes off the marble floors. Taio glances back at me with an amused quirk of his eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
When I round the corner into the living room, I stop dead in my tracks.
Taio has transformed the space.
The massive sectional has been completely dismantled.
Cushions form walls. Throw pillows create a plush floor.
Sheets drape from the ceiling, anchored to a complicated system involving floor lamps, dining chairs dragged in from the adjacent room, and what appears to be a telescoping curtain rod wedged between two bookcases.
It’s a blanket fort. A massive, elaborate, clearly-took-forty-seven-years-to-construct blanket fort.
LED candles flicker throughout the structure, casting warm amber light that makes the white sheets glow like something from a dream.
The whole thing is maybe eight feet wide and six feet tall at its peak—big enough to actually move around in, not just crawl through like the forts Claire and I built as kids.
Inside, visible through the entrance flap that Taio has pinned back with what looks like a binder clip, is a spread that would make my nutritionist burst into a slew of curse words: bags of chips in multiple flavors, bowls of candy sorted by type, a towering stack of Double-Stuffed Oreos, a family-sized container of Goldfish crackers, gummy worms spilling out of their bag, and in the center of it all, a cast-iron skillet filled with something bubbling and golden that’s clearly the source of the incredible smell.
“Is that…Rotel dip?”
“With chorizo.” Taio looks almost shy, which is absurd given that he’s approximately the size of a professional linebacker and could probably bench-press the sectional he just disassembled. “A throwback delicacy from dorm room days.”
“I’ve never lived in dorms.”
“Too fancy to slum it?” Taio asks teasingly.
“Are you kidding? I think I would’ve loved college. I never got a chance to go. Did you?”
He nods slowly, like the admission is very heavy. “Stanford. I lived in the dorms my first year. Sophomore through graduation I shared a two-bedroom apartment with my girlfriend at the time.”
“Aw,” I say, reaching out to rub his arm. “Another ex who broke your heart?”
“Same one. I’ve only ever had one girlfriend. I didn’t even experience other women until I…”
“Became an escort?”
“Yeah,” he breathes out.
I place my hands on my hips. “Can I ask an obnoxious question?”
Taio puts his hand on his hips, sweetly mocking me. “I prefer your questions when they’re obnoxious.”
“How’d you know you were qualified to be an escort if you’d only been with your girlfriend? Like what if you were really bad in bed and she didn’t tell you?”
“Gee, thanks, Tweety. Sidebar question—do you have a Looney Tunes fetish I should know about because”—he tugs on the collar of my shirt—“you seem to have a lot of these.”
“Just the two…and one Lola Bunny shirt. Another Elmer Fudd, because come on, who doesn’t love that grouch? I also have a few Space Jam shirts and—” I hold my hands in the air. “Okay, you know what? Yup, I hear it now. That’s a lot of Looney Tunes shirts.”
Taio’s eyes bulge to teasing proportions. “I’d say.”
“Back to my question…”
“What do you want me to say? I’ve never had any complaints that I know about.” It’s like watching a tree blush. How is he so tall? Most of my barefoot conversations with him are me speaking directly to his pecs.
“That must’ve been so nerve-wracking.”
Taio grumbles, a low bubbly gurgle from his throat teaming with reluctance.
“It’s not that kind of agency. Really. Rina hired us to be arm candy for events.
That’s it. She encouraged us to network and make friends.
When you rub elbows with the upper financial echelon of humanity, sometimes there are opportunities.
I didn’t actually sleep with anyone until four months in. ”
“And Rina’s okay with this?”
“We’re grown men. There’s not much she can do about it. Look—it’s not my forever plan, okay? It’s a means to an end.”
I read the anguish suddenly shadowing his face. “Taio, do you think I’m judging you?”
“No.”
“Then why are you being so defensive? Please understand if I’m asking questions, it’s only to get to know you better.”
“I just don’t want you to see me as an escort.
I mean, that’s why you keep coming onto me, right?
Because you think I’m some sort of sex Yoda that’s going to get between your thighs and awaken you to a whole new world of magic and creativity?
And then because of my gag order, there’s no chance of public consequences for me being your practice fuck. ”
“That’s not true.” It comes out like a plea, my hands wrapping around his muscular forearms. “Not true. I don’t care what the public thinks.”
“No?” he asks. “Then why are you dating Grayson when you don’t want to be?”
“It was a business strategy.”
“That’s the point. Your job capsizes your love life. Charlie, that’s—”
“Not so different than what you do.”
His eyes lift and he looks shocked, as if my declaration was a slap to the face. “What’s that mean?”
“I mean we both would rather make room for work than love. Or are you going on jobs while still looking for Mrs. Right?”
“Definitely not.”
“So, pot.” I point at Taio, then myself. “Meet kettle. We have more in common than you think. And I don’t see you as just an escort. I see you as…”
“What?” he prods, eyes full of anticipation.
“The guy who keeps showing up right when I’m about to give up.”
He hunches over and hooks his arm around my shoulders, yanking me into a hug. “That’s right.” He kisses the top of my head. “And I’ll keep showing up as long as you need me to.”
Forever, is on the tip of my tongue, but it seems like a “pick me” response, so I redirect the conversation.
“So, what in the world inspired you to make a blanket fort?”
“I had insomnia as a kid. Bad bouts of it, from about nine to eleven. Sleepless spells that would last two weeks. It was miserable. I’d miss school.
I was cranky and constantly saw double. The doctors wanted to pump me up with drugs but my mom was so worried about stunting my growth. I was a little small for my age.”
My jaw drops. “You? Were small? Ever?”
“My growth spurt kicked in really late.”
“Is it still going on?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Like right now, do you think you’re still growing, because I’ll be honest, the mechanics of this are already tricky. Another few inches”—I gesture between us—“and we become a ridiculous-looking couple.”
I’m addicted to his smile, I swear. It takes up his whole face in the best way. “No, I think six-four is peak.”
“Good. So your mom built you forts to help you sleep?”