“You are trouble.”
“I thought you knew that…”
“How would I? One of your many blogs? Tumblr?”
He laughed. “Oh, don’t read those, those are rubbish. Promise me you won’t read those.”
“I have no desire to,” I said. I should have added “again.” It would have been more truthful.
That first night after our lunch at the Hotel Bel-Air, while the boys were jumping around onstage across town at the Staples Center, I had locked myself in my bedroom and Googled “Hayes Campbell.” The search revealed thirty million matches, which did not seem fathomable to me. And so I hit refresh. Twice. And then over the next three hours consumed half a bottle of Shiraz while wading through site after site of all things Hayes: news items, photos, videos, blogs, fan fiction, odes to his hair.
The entire time, Isabelle had been just across the hall on the phone with her friend, oblivious to her mother going down the rabbit hole. Face-first.
But here, in the intimacy of a hotel bar, I didn’t feel any of the anxiety I had while searching the Internet. I did not feel as if I were sharing him with his twenty-two million Twitter followers. Here, tonight, in this space, he was mine. He’d made that clear.
“You’re not wearing your watch,” he said. We were two drinks in and the crowd had thinned somewhat. The music had mellowed, atmospheric trip-hop.
“I’m not.”
His hand had slipped down between the two of us and encircled my wrist. “Where is it?”
“Upstairs.”
“I’ve come to depend on your watch.”
“It’s not TAG Heuer.”
“No. It’s Hermès,” he said.
“Wow. You’re good.”
He smiled, his thumb stroking my pulse point. “I’ve gotten very good at watches lately.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. Just sat there, allowingmyself to be hypnotized by his touch. When his hand moved from my wrist to my thigh, I flinched. “Watches, huh?”
“Watches.”
“What else are you good at?”
His eyes widened then, and he let loose one of his sly smiles. “Is that a trick question? All right, I’ll have a go. Football, I mean soccer… Tennis… Downhill skiing… Chess… Foxhunting…”
At that, I laughed. “Foxhunting?”
“I was just seeing if you were paying attention.” His fingertips slipped beneath the hemline of my skirt, grazing my knee. I was paying attention, all right.
“Rowing … Squash … Badminton … Poetry … Breakdancing…”
“The worm?”
“The worm,” he laughed. “You remember that, do you? I think I won you over with that.” His fingers were moving over my skin, sensual.
“I don’t know. ‘Won me over’ sounds a little strong.” I uncrossed my legs and watched as his hand found its way between my knees. He had large, beautifully wrought hands, long fingers.
“You were interested.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re interested now.”
