“Good night, Fake Boyfriend.”
“Sweet dreams,” he says, and then ends the call.
And I know for certain, all of my sweet dreams are going to be populated with Leo.Panting, sexy, sweaty Leo.
Eleven
The sweaty Leo from my dreams last night is five strides ahead of me, and I’m the one panting while trying to keep pace.
When Leo picked me up, I dropped two to-go cups of terrible coffee from the continental breakfast in the cupholders and asked, “Where are we going?” But he wouldn’t tell me.
That’s how I find myself on ahike. I went to school in Manhattan and moved to a bougie New York suburb where walking trails were sidewalks through garden parks. I expected to fake my way through a gym workout with long breaks between sets. This is way more intense than I anticipated.
We’re taking the Riverside Trail to Vista Viewpoint at Griffith Park. Leo thought burning calories on a less touristy hiking trail would force us to bond in a way no other LA activity could allow for.
Because I’m sweating so much even though it’s early and the sun has not even hit its peak, I slather myself in a second layer of SPF 1000 sunscreen. Nothing says “cut!” more than a pasty boy with a sunburn so bad he could be mistaken for a lobster. We need to look pristine for our audition—fit but not unattainably so, dressy but still a tad casual, and gay but not in a way that makes the conservative, prime-time TV watchers clutch their Rosary beads. It’s a fine line to walk in a matter of days, but I’m certain we can perfect it.
After parking on the street, we entered through a white gate bordered by stone walls and moved past fairways and picnic tables, coffee drinkers and joggers. The pavement was solid beneath my feet, reminding my body that it’s not a waste receptacle for poisons, yet rather a living, beating instrument that needs exercise to survive.
Now the pavement has given way to mulch and the even ground has become an incline toward a speckled water tower, and my lungs feel too small to live up to the task.
“Can we slow down?” I ask, out of breath.
“What? Those cardio dance classes you teach haven’t upped your stamina?” he asks.
“Grapevines don’t take that much energy!”
“Do you wear the headset with the microphone like some Britney Spears wannabe?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say like it should be obvious. “And, please, Britney wishes she had moves like me.” In a display of utter theatrics, I jump out, cross my legs, and do a spin.
“I think theMadcap Marketcasting directors will bereallyimpressed by that.” Leo laughs at me good-naturedly.
“Shut up!”
“Do you think we should choreograph a school talent show dance for them? We’ll do it to the theme song.” He starts humming it from memory, missing notes, but it doesn’t matter because he’s pumping his chest and rocking side to side. I can’t shake the idea that he belongs onstage. At least if we get cast onMadcap Market, he will be.
“We’d definitely stand out.”
“In a good way or a bad one?” he teases.
I catch up to him and give him a playful push. Our first intentional touch of the day zaps through my nervous system at lightning speed. My body sparks awake, last night’s energy bursting forth, filling my head with fantasies of what’s to come. How we might shower together to wash the morning sweat off our skin—getting clean while getting dirty.
To quiet my libido, I ask a question I pondered before falling asleep last night. “Okay, give it to me straight. What’s your dating deal? Are there any exes we need to get rid of? Any recent hookups who need to be paid hush money not to kill our plan?”
“Okay, calm yourself, Assassins Creed,” he huffs. “We’re in the clear.”
“Because your exes would believe you started an online relationship with me on aMadcap Marketfan forum?” I know looks can be deceiving and you aren’t supposed to judge a book by its cover, but Leo looks like he could be on the cover of a romance novel—all ripped and smooth and oiled. I want to know what’s hidden in his pages.
He’s quiet for a while. A too-long while. “I don’t have any exes.”
“You mean no recent exes?”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean no exes at all.”
“So, I take it you’re not the relationship type, then?” I ask, plugging his puzzle pieces together. He’s stalwart. “Hello? I need to know these things if we’re going to sell our story. I need to come up with a logical reason you’d abandon your single ways for me!”
“It’s not that I’m not the relationship type,” he says. “I’ve dated. I’ve just never been someone’s boyfriend or partner or whatever.”
