Derek
BY MIDAFTERNOON on Tuesday, I’m beginning to believe the crisis is over. There’s still a lot of fallout to deal with—not least of which is one of the security staff at Tiki apparently taking bribes from guests to sneak them into the “forbidden area” around the “murder cabin”—but the major calamities seem to have ended. I’m no longer getting phone calls every five minutes from people on the verge of meltdown. Dimi actually had time to sit and drink his coffee while going through emails, instead of sipping while zooming around the complex. It seems like everything is going to be fine.
Don’t get me wrong. We’re still dealing with more than the usual crap. We have over a hundred people out on sick leave, and although the temp dancers have arrived and are currently being trained up by Pete, with the watchful, if not useful, supervision of Mandy from entertainment, they’re not my regular people, they’re not familiar with working at Planet Joy, and they’re not going to deliver up to the standard I usually demand. It’s a blow to me that the guests who will be here this week won’t get the usual Planet Joy experience.
Yeah, I know. I need to get over myself. Chances are, nobody will know the difference.
I also still have an active crime scene at one of my resorts, and I had a meeting this morning with the detective in charge, Jeff from legal, and Kim to try and sort out what the hell we’re going to do. All Detective Gooding would say is that they’ll try to wrap up the scene as soon as they can, and that things are proceeding.
That’s super helpful, right?
I followed that meeting up with a discussion with Dimi and Link about whether we need to demo the bungalow. At the moment we’re undecided, but I think it’s probably going to happen. There’s too much morbid interest in the site. If Tiki was a small independent hotel, we could play up the murder to attract clientele who actually want to stay in a room where someone was gruesomely murdered, but that’s not what the JU experience is about.
At some point today I need to squeeze in a follow-up call to security. When I got the phone call at three this morning from Tiki’s night manager, I honestly didn’t know what to expect—in that hazy just-woken state, I actually feared the ghost of Peter Rutherford was wreaking havoc. Hearing that a security guard was charging guests ten bucks each to sneak them into my no-go zone, and in the case of one particularly intrepid couple, past the police tape and into the bungalow, woke me all the way up—and sent my blood pressure through the roof.
“I don’t know if I need to call the police or not,” my night manager said. “I thought it might be best to run it past you first.”
I’d assured him it was, then called the head of security on his cell and woke him the fuck up while I put on pants.
By the time that was dealt with, a new security officer brought on shift, and the trespassing guests sternly but politely told to keep to the public areas of the resort, and advised (not by me, because I didn’t have a freaking clue) that criminal charges can be laid for interfering with a crime scene, which includes entering one without permission, I was so wide awake there was no way I’d get back to sleep.
So I didn’t bother. Instead I went to my office and cleared out my inbox. When Dimi arrived at seven (seriously, he got there a full hour before his required start time), I was caught up on everything I’d had to overlook yesterday and ready to tackle the day.
The pot and a half of coffee helped.
As a result, today wasn’t the clusterfuck it could have been. Sure, I’m dragging a bit now, but I won’t be scrambling to catch up for the rest of the week. Right now, Dimi and I are going through every single element of our two crises: what happened, what actions we’ve taken, the results, and what still needs to be done. Mostly now we just need to keep on top of other people, make sure they’re doing their jobs. It’s a big relief, because it means making phone calls rather than having to take on mammoth tasks ourselves.
Although we do have a meeting scheduled with accounting for tomorrow. We’ve authorized a lot of unexpected large expenditures in the last two days, and although I know we can cover it, the bean counters always freak out and demand a meeting to recheck the budget when… well, I was going to say “when stuff like this happens,” but nothing like this has ever happened in the history of JU, so let’s just make it “when we spend up big without consulting them.”
“Anything else?” I ask Dimi, who’s tapping away in the app, checking items off on his list and making notes. He looks up.
“Yes, but it’s not work-related.”
My stomach sinks. Fuck, he’s going to leave. I knew it was coming, but I thought I’d have another position ready for him, so I could at least keep him here at JU.
Wait… wouldn’t his resignation be work-related?
Maybe I’m jumping the gun.
“Sure, what’s up?” I make an effort to sound casual and encouraging. Let me be your mentor and friend. Don’t even think of leaving.
“You know how I’m part of Joyville Amateur Theater?”
I grin. “Of course. I come to every show you guys put on. You do an amazing job.” It’s completely true. For an amateur group in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, they’re beyond exceptional.
“Thanks.” There’s a slight flush of pink on Dimi’s cheeks. “Um, you know how a bunch of the performers from here at JU usually lend a hand with planning?”
“Yeah, you’ve menti— Oh hell, is this food poisoning going to hold up your rehearsals?” That would really not be good, although I’m not sure there’s anything I could actually do to help with that. I know quite a bit about theater, but only from the audience perspective.
“No, no, nothing like that. Or if it is, we don’t know it yet,” he added, a hint of wry humor in his tone. “It’s just that Parker, one of our consultants, called me this morning to say he’s found someone else to help out—for the short term, at least.”
It’s not like Dimi to dance around the point like this. His efficiency has always been one of his best traits. I’m not sure what he’s leading toward, but hopefully it will all come clear soon.
“Oh?” I venture, mostly in an attempt to prompt him onward.
He sighs. “I’m sorry, I’m doing this all wrong. The person Parker found is Trav Jones, the performer who was kind of rude to you yesterday.”
Oh. “Oh.” Am I beginning to sound like a broken record? Wait, didn’t I already know this? “Now that you mention it, Parker—well, I think it was Parker. Dark hair, brown eyes, tall?” I have a lot of people—literally tens of thousands—working in my district, and the ones in the parks rotate. I try to get to know as many as possible but memorizing all their names and faces is beyond me. Dimi nods, though, so if it wasn’t Parker, it was someone who looked like him. “Yeah, Parker actually told me last night when I checked in with Pete at the park. From what I’ve heard, Trav is a very talented performer. This is a good thing, right?” I’m still not clear on what Dimi wants. Does he dislike Trav? That’s not the impression I got—he was a bit surprised, sure, but Dimi’s generally a fair and even-tempered guy.
Like me.
“Yeah, it’s good,” Dimi assures me. “Uh, after the—issue we had yesterday morning with Trav, I looked him up. Just in case. He’s a great performer, and he knows the business. He’ll be a huge help. So you’re not still annoyed at him?”
The sudden change in direction gives me whiplash. “N-no. No, I’m not still annoyed. He’s entitled to not want to be my best friend.” As annoying as that is. “And I spoke to him briefly last night too.” More briefly than I would have liked, to be honest. The guy has a habit of slipping away when I want to talk to him—although exactly what I was going to say, I’m not sure. Even though I’m super curious about his career history, it’s not like I could’ve just asked him about it out of the blue.
Dimi looks relieved. “Good. Have you sold your car yet?”
Okay, if I had whiplash before, I don’t know what I’ve got now. “My car?” Even I can hear the confusion in my voice. I bought a new car last month, and that left me with a perfectly good five-year-old, immaculately kept car to sell. The dealer offered a trade-in, of course, but I wasn’t happy with the terms so I decided to sell it privately. I keep meaning to take some photos and advertise it online, but… well, my schedule is kind of brutal, and every time I remember I have to do it, I’m in the middle of something else. “Um, not yet.”
“That’s what I thought. Can Trav rent it from you?”
I blink. “Come again?” Did he just ask if Trav could rent my old car?
“Trav doesn’t have a car,” he explains. “He’s from New York. He didn’t bother to rent one here, because the performers are bussed between the village and their resorts for rehearsals and performances, and we have shuttles throughout the complex for pretty much everything else. But if he’s going to help with the theater—”
“He’s going to need to be able to get to Joyville,” I finish, finally understanding. “Sure, he can use my car, no problem. He doesn’t need to rent it, either, as long as he takes care of it and pays for gas.” Am I being too trusting? Hang on…. “He does have a driver’s license, right?” A lot of New Yorkers don’t bother—the only reason I got one is because my dad isn’t a native New Yorker, and he insisted.
Dimi looks stumped. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I never thought to ask. I’m not sure if Parker did, either. I’ll find out,” he promises. “Thank you, Derek. I’ve already talked to a bunch of the others from the theater, and we’re all excited about the help Trav will be able to give us. It would be a real pain if we had to set up a schedule to pick him up and drop him off all the time.”
“Not a problem,” I assure him. “The car’s just sitting there. Maybe I’ll stick a For Sale sign in the back window and someone will see it while Trav is driving around.”
Dimi thanks me again and then hurries out, leaving me to contemplate the secret I’ve been deliberately ignoring all afternoon.
Last night, I wanted to talk to Trav, and I don’t know exactly why. There’s something about him that draws me. Sure, part of it is that he’s pretty much my exact physical type. And yeah, I’m honest enough with myself to admit that my ego is also contributing—as a rule, people like me, and it bugs me that he instantly did not.
But there’s more to it than that. I saw him on stage last night. Okay, it wasn’t for long and the role wasn’t exactly the kind that earns a Tony nomination, but his performance was electric. After seeing him, I totally understand what Toby meant when he called him one of the backbones of Broadway. He was compelling, and if he could be compelling as the sidekick to a space pirate in the abridged stage-show version of an animated movie aimed at six-to-twelve-year-olds, I can only imagine what he would be like in a role with substance.
So why doesn’t he want one? Sure, he’s had some great parts, but with his experience, he should be in starring roles by now—and according to that article, the only thing holding him back is him. Why would a professional performer who worked like a dog to get through the ranks on Broadway turn down leading roles?
He’s an enigma, and he fascinates me. I’ve only spoken to him twice, and neither of those conversations were exactly deep and meaningful (nor hinted at a deeper connection), but for some reason, I’ve spent more time thinking about him in the past thirty hours than I really had to spare.
Which is why I got myself a ticket to Trav’s show tonight.
I want to see him perform again, but more, I want to see him again. It’s not uncommon for me to go backstage after a show. The AD in charge of the village doesn’t actually like theater—philistine—and never attends any of the shows, whereas I go pretty often. I consider myself an ambassador of sorts for JU—it’s not always fun for people who are used to night life to come out to the middle of nowhere, and I like to thank the performers, sometimes hand out some park passes or discount vouchers for the restaurants. Nobody will think it’s odd for me to be there tonight. It’s entirely ordinary.
Even if it’s not.
And now I have an excuse to talk to him: the car. We have to sort out details, right? At the very least, I should ask if he has a valid driver’s license.
WHEN THE curtain comes down for the final time, I stay in my seat for a few moments as the people around me gather their things and begin the process of inching their way out of the auditorium.
It was a great show. Not one of my favorites, but definitely one I liked and will recommend. Solid plot, interesting characters. A little bit funny, a little bit solemn.
But hell, Trav is brilliant. I thought so last night after Space Reivers but seeing him in a decent role just hammers it home. Why doesn’t he want a leading part?
Sighing, I get up and make my way toward the stage. There’s a discreet door on the left side that leads back to the dressing rooms. It’s manned by a security guard, of course, but she recognizes me and opens the door to let me in.
“Evening, Derek,” she says, smiling.
“Hi,” I reply. “How’s your week so far?” I don’t know her personally, but security staff rotate through all the parks and resorts the same way the performers do, so she’ll have worked for me at some stage.
“Good,” she tells me cheerfully. “Better than yours, I’ll bet.”
I laugh. “That wouldn’t be hard this week. Have a good night.”
She closes the door behind me, and I head in the direction of the main dressing room, which is really just for show. None of the actual dressing gets done there, but it’s where VIP ticket holders can meet the cast after the show. I’m not sure if there were any VIPs in tonight’s audience, but the cast and crew usually use that room as an informal lounge anyway.
Sure enough, when I get there, I find quite a few people milling around in varying states of undress—hopefully that means there are no VIPs here—chatting, stretching, and just generally hanging out. Most are out of their costumes already, and some have even already cleaned off their makeup. I scan the room, mostly looking for Trav.
“Can I help you?” A man comes up beside me. His tone is polite, but he looks slightly wary. He’s a little older than me, I think, but in good shape and good-looking.
“Probably,” I say, flashing him my megawatt grin, the one I use on guests who are causing trouble. I offer my hand. “I’m Derek Bryer, one of the assistant directors here at Joy Universe. I watched the show tonight, and thought I’d come back and say hello and pass out some free dinners.” I pull a stack of meal cards from my pocket. Each card entitles the bearer to a free meal (conditions apply) at one of the nominated restaurants.
“Oh, that’s nice of you.” The wariness drops away, and he shakes my hand. “Rick Carter. I’m the producer. So, did you enjoy the show?”
“I sure did. You’ve got a great production here, and some very talented performers.” This is a great opportunity to do some digging. Cue rueful smile. “You’ve probably heard about the staff trouble I had yesterday. Several of your performers here helped me out.”
Sure enough, Rick’s eyes light up with his smile. “Oh, sure! Trav and Kev, and I think Melia, right?”
“Right,” I agree, because fortunately those names are all familiar, not just Trav’s. I had to sign the order for the special pay run this morning.
“That’s pretty bad luck,” he commiserates. “I mean, how often do all your performers go out together, anyway? To get hit by food poisoning… I can’t even imagine the odds.”
“I know!” I’m a little more emphatic than I really need to be, because before I fell asleep last night, I was actually wondering how the hell to even calculate those odds. “If it were part of a movie plot, critics would call it unrealistic.”
Rick laughs and claps me on the back. “Come and meet some of the cast. They’ll be thrilled to get those freebies.” He guides me over to the nearest group, and for the next forty-five minutes I make amiable small talk with cast and crew alike, handing out cards for free food and asking them their thoughts about performing in the village. Several people get up the nerve to ask me about the murder—I don’t think they know it happened in my district, they’re just seizing the opportunity to ask someone who works for JU. I keep my answers vague, although really, I don’t know much more than what the police have already released, and since I’m already struggling with the image of dismembered limbs that pops up every time I close my eyes, there’s no way I’ll risk making it worse by discussing it.
I steer the conversation away from the murder to the resorts themselves. I’ve never actually bothered before to find out how events works out where to lodge the show people. All I know is that I’m required to keep a certain number of standard rooms at my three-star resorts available, to be charged back to the village’s cost center at a discounted rate. I was told that it doesn’t matter which resort the rooms are at, and that the number required can be split across the resorts, so that’s what I had my team do. It’s not really surprising, then, when I find out that the performers and crew for Day Dot are staying at three different resorts—one of them mine. I take the opportunity to get some feedback—after all, it’s not often I can be totally candid with guests, but because they’re here to work, this is my chance to drill down on details.
The whole time I’m making mental notes for the resort manager (and planning a surprise reward for all the staff, because the feedback is good), a small part of my brain is tracking Trav. I located him across the lounge about five minutes after I arrived, and since then, as I slowly circle from group to group, some of my attention is always on him. It would really suck if he left before I got to him.
What almost sucks worse is that I’m so very aware of his presence, and he seems completely oblivious to mine. I mean, come on! He hasn’t even glanced in my direction.
Finally, finally, Rick leads me to the group Trav is with.
“Everyone, this is Derek Bryer, one of the executives here at Joy Universe. Derek, meet Syl, Paul, Hamish, Denise, and you know Trav, right?”
I smile and nod at everyone, then meet Trav’s gaze head-on. “Yeah, we’ve met. Thanks again for your help, Trav. I spoke to Pete earlier, and he said the agency guy they’ve got now doesn’t hold a candle to you.” It’s completely true, but most of the reason I say it is to see if— Yep. There it is, that fire-bright blush.
Who knew a blush could be such a turn-on? Seriously, I’ve seen people blush a million times, whether it be from embarrassment, pleasure, anger, or anything in between, and it’s never affected me the way Trav’s blushes do. I want to strip off his clothes and see if that vibrant red covers his whole body. I want to lick his flushed skin and see if it’s as hot as it looks.
I want to stop thinking about this right now so my hard-on subsides before someone notices it.
“You’re welcome,” Trav mutters. “It was more fun than I expected.”
I decide to give him a reprieve. “I’m glad. You all”—I widen my focus to the rest of the group, who seem divided between looking curiously at Trav and suspiciously at me—“put on a great show tonight. I just wanted to come and tell you how much I enjoyed it, and to hand out these.” I offer the freebie cards. One of the women—Syl, maybe?—takes one.
“What is it?” she asks, then looks at it and her eyes widen. “Oh, a free meal? That’s so nice of you. Thank you.”
The others reach for cards also. “It’s a small token of our appreciation. We’re really glad you’re here,” I tell them. They all murmur thanks, a little bit more welcoming now—it’s amazing how free stuff can make people like you—and I’m quickly drawn into conversation about the nightlife in the various cities the show has played in over the past six months since they left New York.
Soon people start to drift away, and I check my watch. It’s just after eleven, which is probably not that late for the performers, but I’ve been up since 3:00 a.m. and I’m definitely feeling it.
Not that I’m going to let that stop me from finally talking to Trav. I wait for a pause in the conversation he’s having with Rick, and then smile right at him. “Trav, can I have a quick word?”
He looks a little uncomfortable, but nods. “Sure. I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he tells Rick and Syl, the only two left in the group, and then follows me toward the door.
I take a deep breath. This is it. Ostensibly, I’m here to talk to him about the car, but I decided earlier tonight (read: during the show when his performance magnetized me so much I had to fight an erection) that I’m also going to find out once and for all why he dislikes me. Because he does, even though he’s been trying to hide it.
We make it to the hall, and as we stroll toward the stage door, I start. “I was talking to Dimi today, who was talking to Parker—”
He snickers, and I stop. Fuck, what did I say?
“Sorry,” he apologizes. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just… for a second, it all sounded so high school.”
I have to laugh. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it? You’ve got no idea what this place is like—a hotbed of gossip and feuds and politics, just like a soap opera. Or high school.” It’s totally true. We’re an incestuous miniature society, where everyone knows everyone else, what’s going on in their lives, and likely has slept with most of their coworkers.
That’s one of my few firm rules: no sex with coworkers—or guests. There’s so much potential for complication, especially with me being in such a position of authority, and I’ve seen it all go horribly wrong for my colleagues who don’t have a similar rule. Since Joyville is mostly populated by people who work for JU, I’ve had some really lean times over the years, sexually speaking. In fact, my last actual relationship was before I left New York. Since then, it’s just been the occasional hookup when I’m on vacation.
On the plus side, Trav didn’t sound disparaging with that comment, just amused. Time to push forward?
“Anyway, Dimi and Parker activated the secret squirrel message system—” Trav laughs, and I take a second to enjoy the sound. “—and I found out that you need a car.”
Trav sighs. “Yeah. I called a couple of rental places this morning, but even with a long-term rate, the price was scary, considering I’ll only use the car a couple times a week. And because the rental places are all at the airport, it doesn’t make sense to hire only when I need the car—I’d have to get out to the airport to pick up the car every time. The only other option is for someone to come and pick me up, and that’s just not practical, or fair to them.” He sighs again. “I guess I could buy a car.” It sounds dubious, and I can’t blame him for that. Buying a car, even an old banger, just for a few months so he can drive into town a couple times a week is a ridiculous expense.
“Not necessary,” I say cheerfully. “The reason Dimi mentioned it to me is because I can help you out. I haven’t got around to selling my old car yet, and it’s just sitting in the garage, desperate for some love. Wanna borrow it?”
He stops walking, and his whole face lights up. Seriously. You’d think I just offered him a hundred-million-dollar winning lottery ticket. I turn toward him, and something in my belly flips. Indigestion?
No.
Lust. I really like having him look at me that way.
Damn it.
“Really?” he asks, almost breathlessly. “I mean, are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” I assure him. “I keep meaning to list it for sale, but I haven’t had time. It’ll be good for it to be driven, even if it’s not every day.” He’s grinning now, his mouth stretched so wide it’s probably uncomfortable.
“Thank you.” He grabs my hand, half shaking it and squeezing. “I didn’t realize how excited I was about consulting for the theater until I ran into this transport problem and thought I’d have to pass. Thank you so much. I can pay rent.”
I want to squeeze his hand back, but I’m scared if I do, he’ll let go. His hand is warm and callused, and it feels really good in mine. I shake my head instead. “Nope, that’s not necessary. Like I said, it’s just taking up space in the garage. Keep it gassed up and take care with it, and we’re good. Oh, you’ve got a valid driver’s license, right?” I’m assuming he does, since he wouldn’t have thought to rent a car without one, but best to ask.
“Yeah, of course.” He seems to realize we’re just standing there holding hands, and he flushes and lets go. Man, that blush! “Uh, this is really great of you, Derek. I-I want to say again how sorry I am for being weird yesterday.”
And if that’s not the perfect opening for phase two of my plan, I don’t know what is.
“It’s fine.” I have to handle this perfectly. I’m not likely to get another shot. “We got off on the wrong foot. Actually, I wanted to ask… did I do anything? It just seemed like you”—how to put this?—“took an instant dislike to me, and I wondered if it was—”
“No.” He interrupts me, which is good because I’m not sure exactly how I was going to end that sentence. “No, you didn’t do anything. Um, I was actually predisposed to like you. Everyone here has good things to say, and I thought it was really great that you were willing to go above and beyond to keep the shows running.”
I don’t say anything, because what the hell can I say? If he was predisposed to like me, what was our little… confrontation about? Wait, does he mean like like? Is this some sort of playground-crush thing, where a kid is mean to the one he likes to get their attention?
Has JU actually become high school?
I must be wearing my confusion all over my face because he hurries on. “It’s just…. God, this is going to sound so stupid, and shallow. I’m not shallow, I swear. But you look like the boy-next-door jock frat hero, and that pushes a lot of not-great buttons for me. So when I saw you, it kind of brought up some bad feelings.”
What the ever-loving fuck? He judged me based on my appearance?
Don’t get me wrong. That’s happened to me before. A lot. But usually I’m not found lacking.
I’m trapped between being offended and confused, and the fact that his face is getting redder and redder as he tries to explain is adding a healthy dose of lust to the situation.
“Okay,” I interrupt. “Let me get this straight.” He subsides into silence, looking utterly miserable, and I want nothing more than to make him smile. I’ve got it bad. “For reasons I can only guess at, you don’t like the way I look, and you reacted badly to that despite the fact that I’m not—” Fuck, how to finish this sentence. “—that bad a guy?” Lame.
He cracks a smile, the blush subsiding a little. “If someone were to give me a piece of paper with everything I’ve learned about you since I got here written on it, but I never actually met you, I’d say you’re a really great guy.”
I take a minute to think about that. On one hand, it seems like a nice compliment, but…. “So you don’t like the way I look?” Should I be offended? Or just write it off to personal taste? Or both?
“You know you’re hot,” he says bluntly, and his cheeks are red again. “But… it’s not your looks, exactly. More your manner.”
Now I’m truly offended. I work damn hard to be friendly and approachable, even when I don’t want to be. I’m about to end this conversation, and our acquaintanceship, but Trav’s still talking.
“You were popular at school, right? Played football or something?”
“No,” I say shortly. He raises an eyebrow. “Lacrosse,” I admit. I don’t comment on the “popular” comment, because it seems like bragging. Plus, given the subject we’re discussing, I don’t think it would weigh in my favor.
“Did you play in college too?”
I nod reluctantly. “A lot of people play sports,” I defend, and he gives me a patient look.
“And I’ll bet you were in a fraternity.”
Am I supposed to feel bad about this? I played sports and I was in a fraternity, and people liked me. So were a lot of other people.
“Look, Trav, I don’t—”
“I was bullied. A lot. By the popular jocks at my high school and college. Most of them were in fraternities too.”
I close my mouth. I never bullied anyone, but I’m ashamed to say I knew some of my friends did. Not when I was around, because I made it pretty clear how I felt about it—my parents had strong opinions that they passed on to me—but I probably could have done more to make sure it wasn’t happening.
“I’m not saying you’re a bully,” he tells me earnestly. I can see embarrassment and something else—shame, maybe?—on his face. He can’t meet my gaze. “But you have a lot in common with the people who did. I sometimes find it hard to deal with people who have a certain charm and charisma. That’s my problem, not yours, and I’m really sorry I took it out on you yesterday. But I hope this helps you understand why I did.”
I just stand there like a lump. The truth is, my looks and charisma have opened a lot of doors for me over the years. I’ve worked damn hard to keep those doors open and to develop the opportunities they gave me, but I’m not stupid—I know people with less charm and who aren’t as good-looking sometimes don’t get the same welcome I do. The world can be a shallow place, for all we protest that it isn’t.
The silence draws out as we stand awkwardly in the hallway.
Trav swallows. “So… uh, I’m glad I got to explain. I, uh, I’ll see you around.” He turns away and continues toward the stage door.
What am I doing? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this guy for the last thirty-six hours. Am I really going to let him walk away just because my feelings are bruised—over something he’s apologized for and I don’t really even have a right to be upset about?
“Trav!” I jog after him. Luckily he hasn’t gotten far, and he stops to wait for me. “Have you eaten?”
He looks surprised. “Uh… no. I usually have a light snack before the show and then supper after.”
“Great. Come and have supper with me.” I can still feel the exhaustion of the day dragging at my body, but my mind is energized, and I’m willing to sacrifice sleep for a little longer.
“Are you sure?” He seems wary, and I get it. He probably wasn’t expecting me to react to his confession with a request for a date.
“Yes.” I make my voice firm, and then flash my megawatt smile. He takes a step back, and I tone it down. “Sorry. Force of habit. Yes, I’m sure. I really want to go out for a meal with you.”
He’s still a little suspicious. “You’re not offended by what I said?”
“I’d be lying if I said my ego isn’t a little dented,” I admit. “But you’re entitled to your feelings. Things happened to you to make you feel that way, and I can’t expect all that to disappear like that.” I snap my fingers for emphasis. “I can only hope to show you that I’m not like the people who bullied you.”
He studies me for a second more, then nods slowly. “You’re right. Derek, I’d love to have supper with you.”