“Ah, so that’s how it’s gonna be. No pressure to finish it. I’m perfectly capable of polishing it off myself,” I say.
“A tiny thing like you?”
“When it comes to dessert, there’s never enough.”
I keep eating, now feeling a little self-conscious about the way he’s watching me. “Just kidding when I said I’d eat your dessert. I’m not that greedy.”
He pushes the plate toward me. “Have at it. I enjoy watching you savor something delicious.”
The double entendre is not lost on me. My cheeks flush, and I feel a burst of happiness at his words.
Here's a man who enjoys watching me with my dessert. And not just a man—an incredibly gorgeous rock star every woman wants.
“You’re my kind of guy,” I say, lifting the fork again.
As I relish my treat, I notice Slayer focused on Oscar. “What’s with you?” I tease. “Some plush turtle obsession?”
“No, it’s not that,” he says, getting up from the table and returning with his guitar. When he sits down, he strums tentatively.
“What are you doing?”
Slayer doesn’t answer. Instead, his fingers glide over the strings, slow and steady. “I’m just thinking about this morning on the hillside. Seeing Oscar. Watching him cross the road, adapting to whatever comes his way.”
“Even if it’s a couple of Saint-Tropez tourists bearing croissants?”
“Especially that,” he says, grinning up at me before continuing to work out the melody of a song.
After a moment, he sings.
I put down my fork, watching with quiet amazement. I shouldn’t be surprised at how quickly he put together the rhythm and melody of the song. Nor the words.
I do it myself all the time.
But Slayer has a different process. And though the words he sings sound simple, the concept behind them is not.
Then his phone buzzes. The song stops abruptly as he pauses to take a look. “Sorry, it’s Rafe. I need to take this,” he says. He walks out to the terrace and closes the sliding door behind him.
As I clear the plates from the table, I think about Slayer’s turtle song, the words he used to describe what we experienced. He wasn’t just singing about a turtle.
The song seemed to reflect a view on life he’s just now discovering.
And I'm discovering a new view on life, too. Not because of Oscar. But because of Slayer. Living with him these past two days. Seeing the private man vs. the public figure.
Seeing the small things that inspire his music.
Like Oscar.
After straightening up the suite, I notice his bedroom door is open. Attracted by the spicy scent of incense wafting out, I step inside.
Our rooms are identical, but mine’s spotless. I’ve organized all my things in drawers and closets.
Slayer, despite his private nature, has laid out a few objects on the dresser. Odd items. A black mirror with markings I don’t recognize. Another ancient-looking book with pungent leather binding. A wooden box with Asian characters carved into the lid.
I open it. Inside are colorful scarves and ropes and bands.
Curious. They’re not for braiding hair, unless he’s got a five-year-old girl aesthetic. What gives?
I turn my attention to the book.Oh my God.
