“Only if you let me order for you, too. Steak for breakfast?”
“The rock star lifestyle is a burden, but I do my best to carry on.” I lean forward. “Fill me in on your tennis career. I don’t follow the sport. What do I need to know?”
“I’ll be nearing the number one rank in the world soon,” he says like it’s a fact, although he’s not acting cocky. “My career is just about to hit the start of its peak.”
I grin, liking the confident side of him. “Naturally. I wouldn’t marry a second-rate star.”
“I’m an offensive player,” he says. “I crowd the net, and I’m known for my serve. I’m right on the edge of breaking some record speeds. Wimbledon is my strong suit. The courts there fit me.”
“What do you like about it? Why tennis?”
“Why tennis?”
“Instead of some other sport.” I’m about to point out that his father is a hockey player, but I quickly remember that the man is a homophobic prick, so I bite back the mention of it, not wanting Spencer to have to think about that right now.
Spencer considers the question. “I like that it’s all on me,” he says. “Every point, every return, every match. Win or lose, it’s all on my shoulders. And there’s always another point to win.”
“Sounds intense.”
“Like going solo without a backing band?”
“Maybe we’re both brave.”
Spencer holds my eye. “You’ve been out of the closet since the beginning of your career. Just the thought of walking back through that crowd on the sidewalk with everyone knowing I’m gay makes me nauseous.”
I’m surprised by the shift in conversation, but glad he’s opening up to me more about this. “It’s not bravery,” I tell him. “I just am who I am.”
“And you’re not afraid to let the world know it. No matter who you are, that requires some backbone.”
He glances over his shoulder. Someone who works at the café is trying to get people to move away from the windows outside, but having little luck.
When he looks back, he scrunches his nose. “Why the hell hard rock, though? I swear, half of those songs sound like garbage cans being crushed.”
I laugh. “You have to keep listening. Eventually, you start to love the distortion.”
“That’s not a very convincing argument.” He nods backward, toward the window behind him. “How many photos do you think have been taken?”
“Quite a few,” I say. “We should really take advantage of moments like this. This is my specialty, actually.”
“Aren’t you constantly being caught off-guard by paparazzi?” he asks.
“No. I’m constantly seizing the opportunity and giving them a flattering morsel so they’ll leave me alone,” I correct him. “You remember that photo of me and Faith?”
He frowns. “With her hand on your ass? You call that a morsel?”
“Once we realized we were spotted, we decided to strike a pose. Made sure we’d look good in the magazines.”
Spencer puts his fork down. “You’re not grabbing my ass at brunch.”
I frown. “So much for dessert.”
He rolls his eyes, but can’t help but laugh, too. “Some tasteful touch is fine,” he says. “But I don’t want to accidentally slug you if you try to shove your tongue in my mouth.”
I rub my jaw. “That would be tricky to explain. The good news is, we can fake the kisses, too.”
“How so?”
“Like right now.” I lean forward more, and I see the heat flame in Spencer’s eyes. “With your back to the window, we can create the illusion that we’re kissing without even touching lips.”
