He smirks. “Just condoms.”
“Damn. I wanted to hear how it ends. Do they get back together?”
He kisses the top of my head three quick times before releasing me. To my dismay, he leaves our love nest, but returns with supplies a few minutes later instead of forty-seven years. Both hands loaded down with snacks, a book tucked under his arm, and a warm washcloth draped over his forearm like a butler.
The washcloth passes between my thighs with tender care, Taio’s touch gentle as he tends to me. When he’s finished, he tucks the bag of chips by my side, before settling back down. We’re both still naked like it’s normal. Like our bodies were meant to be skin against skin at all times. He pulls me into his embrace and cracks open the pink-covered book.
I drift off before he finishes the chapter, his voice a low rumble against my ear. The story blurs into background noise as his heartbeat becomes my lullaby.
My dreams swirl with fragments of him and the hero in the story—dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughs, the unexpected sweetness of his toothpaste-flavored kissesmixing with his woodsy cologne. In that hazy space between consciousness and sleep, one thought anchors me…
This hero?
He chose to be mine.
chapter 25
Taio
Morning light hits the penthouse windows like a tactical assault, cutting sharp lines across the marble kitchen island where I’ve set up camp. The coffee maker gurgles behind me—some fancy European model with too many buttons that took me fifteen minutes to figure out—and my notepad is open, pen moving steadily across the page.
Charlie’s still in the shower. I can hear the water running through the walls, and every few minutes, the muffled sound of her singing drifts through the bathroom door. Something from her new album, I think. The melody is familiar now, constantly woven into the fabric of my days with her.
I turn back to my task: replenishing her paper hearts supply.
She has two back-to-back shows in Atlanta, and knowing Charlie, she probably didn’t pick just one. I bet she blew through all of the ones I snuck into her box before I left for New York. Time to restock the arsenal.
Tweety—
Remember: you’re not performing for them. You’re sharing yourself with them. There’s a difference.
I tear the note free, fold it into a small square, and add it to the growing pile beside my coffee mug. The next one comes easier:
The voice in your head that says you’re not enough? She’s a liar. Don’t trust her.
And another:
Black Cat and I are watching from the wings. Well, I’m watching. He’s probably napping. But we’re both proud of you.
I stare at that one for a moment, then add a small drawing in the corner—a terrible stick-figure cat with too-big eyes. Charlie will laugh. That’s the point.
Your mom would be proud of you.
I know I am.
The dancers have your back. Trust them to catch you—literally and figuratively.
My girlfriend is smokin’ hot… Sorry, that one was for me.
—Your Taio
I pause, tapping the pen against my lips. These notes hold so much weight—words to carry her through the moments when the lights are too bright and the crowd is too loud and the doubts start creeping in.
In my old life, I showed affection through physical presence. Through protection. Through the careful maintenance of boundaries between client and provider that somehow still allowed for genuine care. But with Charlie, I’ve discovered something different. Words matter to her. Written ones especially—maybe because of her mother’s paper hearts, maybe because she’s spent so long having her words twisted and misrepresented by tabloids.
When I write these notes, I’m giving her something no one can take away or misinterpret. Private truths, just for her.
The coffee maker beeps, announcing completion, and I pour myself a cup—black, no sugar, the way I’ve taken it since I was sixteen and trying to seem more adult than I was. The penthouse kitchen is absurdly well stocked; someone on Charlie’s team clearly called ahead. Fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter, pastries from some local bakery, enough snacks to feed an army.
