Chapter Eight

“WHAT do you think?” Steve asked, holding his phone at arm’s length and swapping the camera so his mom could see his full reflection. “Too much?”

“You look fabulous, darling. I know what people wear to these things. You’ll fit in.”

Sure, Steve knew he’d fit in with people. But Drew was still, despite their growing friendship, something of an unknown quantity, and he liked to stand out. “What if he shows up in designer jeans and a sports jacket?” He’d grumbled about having to wear a tuxedo—maybe he’d decide to buck the status quo. What would Drew think if he dressed casually and Steve wore a tux? No matter that it was a very nice tux with pants that flattered his ass and a jacket fitted to show off his broad shoulders. He didn’t want to give Drew the wrong idea.

Whatever that was.

“Send him home to change,” his mother suggested airily.

“Mom!” He switched the camera back. “My hair looks okay?”

“It’s fine, I promise.”

“Should I shave?”

“Do you have time?” she retorted. “Anyway, a little day-old stubble never hurt anyone. Well. Not seriously.”

Oh Lord, he’d opened the door for his mother to make innuendoes. “Mom.”

“I’m more worried about the practical matters. Did you brush your teeth? Are you wearing nice underwear? Remember it’s not safe to keep condoms in your wallet—”

He took a deep breath. “Mom. There’s such a thing as being too supportive.”

She laughed. “Ridiculous.”

The bands of anxiety around his chest eased a little, and he conceded. “You don’t think I’m making a mistake? What with….” He waved his hand, intending to encompass Drew, the date, the movie, his romantic past, hell, Hollywood in general.

“What if you were? Life’s about making mistakes. It’s not about getting everything perfect the first time.”

Easily said by a woman who hadn’t wanted for anything for most of her life. But he wasn’t sure she was wrong either. “I never said I wanted to be perfect.”

“You didn’t have to. I know you. And you like this man. So go on a date with him.”

“I liked the last guy too.”

“Not everyone in Hollywood is a self-absorbed backstabbing opportunist,” his mother reminded him. “But I have to go, baby. You’re not the only one with a date tonight. Have fun, okay? I love you.”

Of course. He could never expect his mother to stay in on a Saturday night. “I love you too. Bye, Mom. Take your own advice.”

“Always, darling. Oh, and if you see Rico tonight, avoid him. I broke up with him and he’s sulking.”

Steve tried to remember which one Rico was—had they met, maybe, one weekend at his mom’s place?—but it eluded him. “Thanks for the tip.”

The call disconnected, and Steve slipped his phone into his jacket pocket. The tailoring held up fine—no weird pulls or lines. You got what you paid for, Steve’s mom always said, and she insisted he pay top dollar.

“I am really going to do this,” he told his reflection.

His reflection looked back, flushed with anticipation. Had he remembered to put on deodorant?

In his pocket, his phone chirped, and he pulled it out to check the message. Be there in five.

Well, at least his panic now had a shelf life. Keys, wallet, phone… time to go downstairs. He locked his apartment, pocketed his key, and got in the elevator.

If this were a movie about his life, the doors sliding closed would have marked the end of act one.

They opened again on Drew Beaumont in a tuxedo, the top three buttons of his shirt undone, bow tie hanging out of his pocket. He was stepping forward as though he were about to enter the elevator but couldn’t now because Steve was in the way.

“Hey.” Drew smiled, showing off his dimple. Steve’s heart tried to skip a beat, but he willed it into submission. “Your neighbor let me in.”

“The perks of fame, huh?”

“Guess so.” He stepped aside to let Steve out of the elevator, giving him an appraising once-over. Make that twice-over. Steve’s cheeks heated. “You look great.”

That felt like a bit much coming from Drew, who looked like he’d just stepped out of the opening scene of a Bond movie. He’d probably spent Steve’s monthly grocery budget on his bouffant.

Oh God. Drew just gave him elevator eyes. While he was stepping out of an elevator. This was totally a date.

Steve found his voice. “Thanks. My mom insisted on the whole shebang.” Shit. Why had he brought her into this? He absolutely did not want to talk about his mother.

“She’s got good taste.” But maybe Drew knew Steve was kicking himself, because he changed the subject. “Come on, we’d better go. I double-parked. Sometimes I hate LA.”

“The traffic sucks,” Steve agreed, following him outside. “That’s why I don’t—”

He stopped.

I don’t know what I expected.

Because honestly, the car couldn’t have been more Drew: a sleek candy-apple-red…. “What is that?” Steve finally asked, stumped.

“This,” Drew said, waving his arm like Vanna White, “is a McLaren 570GT.”

Bullshit, Steve thought. That is a phallic stand-in. Someone might as well have written I have a big penis on the back. It looked even more dickish blocking in two other cars. “Why is it, though?” he said. “This is LA. You’re never going to be able to drive it faster than twenty miles an hour.”

“Well, it wouldn’t make much of an impression if I picked you up on an e-bike.” Drew put his hand at the small of Steve’s back and ushered him forward.

Steve’s central nervous system lit up like the Hollywood Sign. Only muscle memory kept his legs moving forward. “And the bike would have clashed with your tux,” he managed through a suddenly raspy throat.

“See? You understand. The car has to look as good as me.”

They reached the car, and Drew opened the door for Steve and stepped aside to let him enter. Without the searing touch of Drew’s hand at his back, Steve could breathe again. “Suddenly everything makes sense.”

Drew winked as he shut the door.

Steve had mostly recovered by the time Drew slid behind the wheel, but he had heart palpitations all over again as Drew fondled the steering wheel. “So.” He pushed the ignition and the engine purred to life. “I see that you know how to tie a bow tie.”

“This could be a clip-on.” It wasn’t, though; Steve’s mother would kill him.

“Penrose London doesn’t make clip-ons,” Drew said dismissively. “Now, can you help me or not? Leigh always does this for me.” He scrunched up his face in an expression of simultaneous distaste and self-disgust. “That sounded both pathetic and entitled.”

Steve huffed in amusement and tried not to think about what other things Leigh usually did for him. “A combination I’m sure is unique to you.” They turned toward each other in unison, and without overthinking it, Steve reached over and started buttoning Drew’s shirt.

“Hey!” Drew seemed to think about what he was protesting. “I can’t decide if I’m offended at being written off as not special because other people are also pathetic and entitled.”

“Take your time.” Steve reached the final button. His fingers were remarkably steady, even as they accidentally brushed the skin of Drew’s neck. In the close confines of Drew’s ridiculous car, he smelled incredible, warm and fresh and heady at the same time. “I hear it’s fashionable to be late to these things.”

“A fair point. We could….”

Steve tugged Drew’s tie from his pocket and looped it around his neck before crossing one end over the other. When Drew didn’t continue after several seconds’ pause, he looked up. “Could what?”

Drew’s eyes were even darker than usual, his cheeks an unusual pink. Steve was caught for a moment, frozen. Then Drew wet his lips and cleared his throat. “Could get ice cream before we show. You know, since I’m blowing my diet tonight either way.”

Nope. Watching Drew lick an ice cream while trying not to drip any on his own tux sounded like a recipe for wardrobe malfunction. “Pass.” He made the right side of the bow. “I am not explaining ice cream stains to the press.” No one would believe him. Hell, Steve wouldn’t even blame them.

“Always gotta be the voice of reason.” Drew sounded a little strained as Steve finished tying.

With a frown, Steve tucked a finger down the side of the tie. It didn’t seem like it was constricting, but some people were more sensitive than others. “Too tight?”

Drew cleared his throat again. “No, just a tickle. Sorry. Ready to do this?”

Steve sat back in his seat and blew out a breath. Was he ready to subject his life to the kind of intense scrutiny that came along with associating with a megastar? “Probably not!” He should have thought of that before he let Hilary talk him into acting. “But there’s only one way to find out.”

Drew gunned the engine. “That’s the spirit.”