“Said the spider to the fly?” I asked as he dragged me—with surprising strength for his size—toward the stairs.
I looked to Wes for help, but he only shrugged and wiggled his eyebrows as he let Seth lead me away.
“Am I bartending?” he called up to Seth.
“I want a slow, comfortable screw,” Seth responded.
I blinked.
Wes burst into laughter.
“Andre would be so proud,” Wes called up, and I realized I was missing something. “Hayden?”
“Uh. I’m. Fine?” I said, hovering on the edge of a step as Seth stopped dead.
“You don’t sound all that sure,” Wes said.
“Because I make him nervous,” Seth said, gripping my hand tighter. “Get him a single malt, he’s a chef, he’ll appreciate it.”
Some part of me felt like I should object—or at least say something intelligent—but Seth was already tugging me forward again and Wes had disappeared.
“It’s a cocktail,” Seth said as he pushed open a paneled door that led into a room filled with sunlight and soft furnishings, in the same black, white, and gold sensibilities, but without the hard edges.
The bed itself looked like a fluffy cloud hovering inches off the floor.
“What?” I asked, too busy looking at the sheepskin rug by the bed to pay attention.
“The screw. It’s sloe gin, Southern Comfort, and orange juice. Like a screwdriver, but…”
“I get it. Sloe as in S-L-O-E.”
Now that I understood the name, itwasclever.
“Andre invented it,” Seth said. “Well, he probably didn’t invent it, but he brought it here from Louisiana.”
“You like him,” I said, and as I said it I felt like the last person to know.
“Trying to convince him into a threesome with me and Mark. Mark’s up for it, Andre’s heart is still broken.” Seth shrugged. “Enough about them. Let’s talk aboutyou,” he said, pushing me into a big black velvet armchair that made me feel like I was on a porn set from the seventies.
If I was a praying mantis, Seth was a hawk.
Or whatever ate mantises. I wasn’t clear on how that part of the food chain worked.
“Concealer,” Seth announced, confirming what Wes had said earlier. “And I’m prescribing you, like, a month of getting a full eight hours of sleep. Sleep deprivation is terrible for your skin.”
“I slept ten hours today,” I objected as Seth crossed to a dressing table and grabbed what I thought was probably a makeup box.
“That’s not how sleep debt works. Is your skin dry, or would you call it more normal?”
“I…”
“Don’t know, right,” Seth said. “Men are hopeless.”
“You’re a man,” I pointed out.
“Firstly, not always,” Seth said. “And secondly, I’m an exception.”
The bedroom door opening rescued me, Wes coming through with a tall glass in one hand, two fingers of whiskey in the other, and a bottle of water tucked under his arm.
