Xavier

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The tux was fitted to my body, cut to my precise measurements and made of some sleek, stretchy, breathable material. It moved with me, stretching, not constricting. The tie was tight, but I could breathe, after insisting the top button be left undone behind the tie.

Low was in the limo beside me, breathtaking in a custom gown that looked like it had been crafted from spider silk and starlight, molded to her curves and allowing tantalizing glimpses of her skin without revealing anything.

The limo ahead of us disgorged its occupants—Low’s co-star, Dawson Kellor, and his wife Grey. Once they finished waving to the gathered crowd of photographers, they moved up the carpet and away from the staging area outside the front of the theater, and our car pulled forward and it was our turn.

Low squeezed my hand. “Are you ready, Xavier?”

I swallowed my fear, lifted my chin, and recited pi to the thirtieth digit before answering. “Yes.”

She laughed. “Liar. You’re never ready for this part. I know I’m not.” She let out a shaky breath as the valet opened her door, and gave my hand another squeeze. “Smile, breathe, and just be you.”

She slid out gracefully, adjusting the train of her gown as she stepped aside so I could exit behind her, and then there was a blinding barrage of flashes and voices.

“Smile, baby,” Low murmured, tucking her hand into the crook of my arm.

I smiled, focusing on her, on how lovely and perfect she was, on how lucky I was, and my smile was as genuine as it could be. The flashes never seemed to stop, but these voices weren’t desperate or clamoring, and once I remembered to breathe, my nerves subsided some. There were a million questions, mostly about me, and Low didn’t answer any of them.

We moved to stand in front of a black and white checkered background stamped with sponsors and posed for more photos, Low subtly guiding me where she wanted me. An older man wielding a cell phone like a handheld recorder leaned into her space.

“Harlow! Who’s the guy, honey?”

She seemed to know him, and smiled. “Hi, Benny, how’s the wife?”

Benny, the reporter, grinned. “Bah, she’s as contrary as ever.”

“You love her that way, and don’t pretend otherwise,” Low said, laughing.

He guffawed. “Got me there, Harlow, but don’t tell her that.” He eyed me, and then shoved the phone at her again. “Now come on, hon, give me something. Who’s the guy?”

She tucked both hands around my arm and leaned into me. “This is Xavier Badd.”

“He’s your boyfriend?”

She gazed up at me as she answered. “He’s my everything.”

Benny turned the phone to me. “Xavier, how do you feel about landing the woman every man in America dreams about?”

“I have died and gone to heaven,” I said, unable to stop myself from lapsing into formal eloquence. “And I will thank you not to wake me, should this prove to be but a dream.”

Ben laughed. “Hot damn!” he laughed, pocketing the phone. “What a sound-bite, kid!”

I glanced at Low for translation, and she just laughed, pulling me toward the theater entrance. “That’s a good thing,” she assured me.

The rest of the night was a whirlwind. I met a hundred different people as we milled outside the theater, memorizing names and faces, and we watched Harlow be brilliant on the screen and I applauded louder than anyone, and then we were whisked away to a party on a rooftop somewhere.

I found myself with my socks and shoes off, pant legs rolled up, feet in a pool with Low beside me and Dawson Kellor on the other side and his wife beside Low, talking among the four of us into the smallest hours of the night. Even though I was nervous enough to lapse into Spock-speech, and though I forgot myself enough to lecture the director about everything I’d read on film theory, no one seemed to care, and everyone was amazing, and it was the most fun I’d ever had.

And then, with dawn approaching, Low nudged me. “Time to go home,” she said, sleepily.

“Okay. Is there a car to take us?”

She smiled mischievously, blinking sleepily and rubbing her eyes. “Not quite,” she said, gesturing at a sudden welter of noise from across the rooftop.

A helicopter was landing on a designated pad on a higher portion of the roof.

I glanced at her. “A helicopter?”

She just yawned. “Now that the premiere is over, I’m done in LA for awhile. We’re going home.”

“We don’t need a helicopter to get your house from here,” I said, still confused. “It’s only a few miles.”

“No. Home to Ketchikan.”

I blinked. “Oh.” I smiled. “Home to Ketchikan, then.”

“We’ll have to crash in your room until my yacht gets there, though.”

I laughed. “You have a yacht and a multimillion-dollar home in Beverly Hills, and you’re going to crash with me in a three-bedroom apartment I share with my brother and his wife.”

“As long as you’re there, I don’t care where we are.”

“Oh. I see,” I said, not understanding at all, but—like Bast had advised—I didn’t question it.

“I do have plans, though.” Low smiled up at me.

“Plans? For what?”

She shrugged. “Buying a place in Ketchikan and building you a proper lab so you can play evil genius to your heart’s content.”

“I’m not an evil genius,” I protested.

“So you can play Tony Stark, then. Genius billionaire playboy philanthropist.” She bumped me with her shoulder. “The point is, I’m gonna build you a big, fancy lab with all the most expensive equipment we can find. I need something to spend my money on.”

I blinked at the prospect. “You don’t need to do that, Low.”

“Obviously. But I want to.”

“Because you love me, and it would be a way to show me that,” I said, explaining to myself out loud.

She yawned again. “Exactly. And you can show me you love me by letting me sleep on your lap on the way.”

“There are other ways I could show you I love you,” I said.

Low giggled. “Later, big boy. When we get home.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes it is.”

I laughed. “Okay, maybe it was. But I also meant—”

She touched my lips, quieting me. “I know.” She gestured at the helicopter, idling with its rotors slowing. “For now, just take me home.”

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