6
“Leo! I found you.”
Wayne tracked Leo to the Trident Bar with the instincts of a homing pigeon. How he’d pulled himself together enough to be upright was a testament to his acting skills given how much tequila he’d allegedly consumed in Ensenada. The other guests had been passing around selfies taken with Wayne progressing from fire to cringe with each successive margarita.
Marcel would spend the rest of the night looming over each and every passenger as they deleted the photos once he found out about them. And he would find out. Which was why Leo hadn’t said a word yet. His eyes drifted to the alcove on the far side of the bar, where Marcel had propped his tablet against the mug holding what must have been at least his fifth coffee of the day. He was eating a club sandwich in quick bites but seemed to be tasting none of them. Just let the guy finish a meal before the next crisis. The almond croissant from earlier hardly counted, and Leo wished he’d thought to cajole Marcel into eating at an actual restaurant earlier instead of the bakery treat. Although then he would’ve missed seeing the joy on Marcel’s face at finding the newest addition to his quirky collection.
“You disappeared on me today,“
Wayne said. “I hope you didn’t get stuck on a bus for five hours with your Great Aunt Marjorie or something.”
There was no Aunt Marjorie.
“I acted with Marjorie Pull in Bedlam.“ Ah. He’d been pulled into the Wayne Flagg Show, audience of one. Wayne rested his arm across the back of Leo’s seat and deployed charm as if he were currying votes for awards season. It should’ve been flattering. A hot, famous man ordering Leo another cocktail without asking what he was drinking. His hand brushed against Leo’s back in a gesture that could’ve almost been excused as accidental.
In any other timeline, Leo would’ve been halfway up the stairs to Wayne’s suite by now, content with nothing more than having scratched an itch and a story about his one-night stand with an A-lister. Hell, living in LA, it wouldn’t even be much of a story.
One night with Marcel, however, might not even scratch the surface. Somewhere between watching him spill crumbs on his shirt and buy an even uglier one, Leo had become entranced. He watched Marcel’s long fingers typing away on that fucking tablet and wished they were running over his chest, instead.
“Leo.”
He dragged himself back to the conversation. Or rather, Wayne’s monologue. “Sorry. You were saying?”
Wayne’s smile had been rehearsed in front of dozens of mirrors and presented before thousands of cameras. But for an unguarded second, Leo caught a glimpse of something else—not hurt, exactly, but bewilderment. Losing someone’s attention was completely off script.
Wayne being Wayne, he recovered quickly.
“I have a private dinner planned for tomorrow night,“
Wayne said smoothly, as if he’d already cut the moment from the film that was his life. “Chef’s selection, on my balcony. No family, no bridesmaids, no groomsmen. You should come.”
That didn’t sound like it left much of a guest list. Still, it might not be the best course of action to risk adding drama to Daniel and Alyssa’s wedding by turning down their best man. They had enough stress trying to convince Winnie to stop crying into the shellfish tower and get back to doing her fucking job. And maybe let Marcel get back to doing his.
“Maybe.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Of course you will.