“Thank you,” I say, accepting the towel. I dry my feet with it immediately.
“So you’re a filmmaker?” he asks, leaning against the frame of the top bunk.
I nod. It sounds better than whatever nonsense about weddings that I told Adam.
“That’s cool. I thought about becoming a photographer when I was younger. That or an artist.”
Sweeping the towel around the back of my neck, I frown. “Why don’t you?”
He laughs. “Kinda got this whole band thing going on.”
“You could still do it as a hobby,” I suggest, trying not to be distracted by his boyish half-grin.
“No time for hobbies under MCM.” His grin falters when he notices my flinch as the towel brushes my palm. “Show me?”
I haven’t even looked at it myself... just hoped it would go away on its own. Slowly, I open my hand out to him. The fleshy part of my palm is bright pink and shiny. He whistles low.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you sorted.”
He leads me to the kitchen again and gestures at me to sit on one of the tall stools. I do so, having to clamber up on them slightly because of how high they’re adjusted.
“You were hungry, right?”
I nod.
“Well, for reasons unmentionable by us, we no longer have access to a working toaster—”
Flushing, I try to block the whole toaster incident from my mind. Which is hard to do, with my feet still feeling muddy from the outdoors.
“—but you can have bread? It’s like baby toast.”
I snort as he starts to open up cupboards. “Or there’s probably a hundred and one other unhealthy things you can have instead.” I spot about ten varieties of cereal, huge multi-packs of chips, nachos, popcorn — a carb-lover’s haven.
“I’ll just have the baby toast, thanks.”
He quickly butters a slice and pours me a glass of water. Placing it down before me, he says with a wink, “Bread and water. The true MCM prisoner experience.”
It might be the staple food of prisoners, but to me it looks like a seven-course feast. I pick up my soft brown bread and savor each nibble. The butter is creamy with a touch of salt, and it might just be the best thing I’ve ever tasted. It’s hard not to stuff it into my face.
I watch as my rescuer soaks a cloth under the cold running tap.
“Yeah, MCM are pretty strict,” he tells me. “It’s, what, three in the morning? Curfew was nine.”
He smirks at me, proud of his rebellion.
“You have curfew?” I frown. The idea of telling a bunch of young men to go to bed early seems absurd — as does the idea that they have to take orders from others. As Seth-or-Leon approaches me with the wet cloth, I tell him, “I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”
“Please,” he scoffs. He gently holds my palm open and wraps the soaked cloth around it. “I think this is worth it.” The chill is soothing, balm for my burn. He lightly presses it into my skin. I watch, captivated by the look of utter concentration on his face.
Maybe he wouldn’t be in art history. Maybe he’d be a doctor...
The silence is thick between us, with only our breaths over the constant rumble of the wheels beneath us. As he focuses on adjusting the cloth, I desperately try to determine if he looks more like a Seth or a Leon.
I scratch around in my brain. Adam — well, everyone knows Adam. Conor is the cute redheaded one. Tarek is the fuckboy believed to have a tender side, though exclusive video footage has yet to reveal this. Leon is the other fuckboy who also has sex with models. Seth is the quiet type everyone forgets about.
Fuckboy or quiet type?
Is tying my hand in a wet bandage a fuckboy’s seduction technique?
Because damn, I think it might be working.
I shiver as he peels off the cloth and goes to the sink to resoak it. He glances at me over his shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice catching in my throat as I stifle a yawn. “Aren’t you tired?”
He shrugs as he returns. “I don’t sleep much. Haven’t, really, since joining the band.”
“Why?”
With a small smile, he says, “It’s hard to catch Zs when you’re touring most days.”
I sense there is more to it than MCM’s crazy schedule, but I leave it.
When he places the cloth back on my hand, I jump from how cold it is. “Sorry,” I mumble as he laughs. “Why are you doing this?”
He sighs, looking at me hard. “You’ve kinda got all the guys in a panic,” he says slowly. “They see you as a bit of an interloper. But you’re just here to do a job, right?”
He blinks up at me with those gorgeous blue eyes, as if to double-check my intentions are pure.
I frown at him. “Why, what else would I be?”
He shrugs. “A spy for MCM.”
I wonder briefly if he can hear himself. Maybe he does, because he looks at my bewildered expression and expands, “It’s difficult to trust people when you get to our level,” he says cagily. “It’s sad but everyone’s out to get us. Even our own management, but apparently that’s a conspiracy theory.”
Shaking my head, I tell him, “I’m just here to make a film.”
“Good, I thought so,” he whispers, his hand leaving mine. I feel bereft of his touch, craving it back. As his chair scrapes backward, he tells me, “You should get some sleep, camgirl.”
Flushing a little at this nickname, I tell him, “So should you.”
“One day,” he answers, though his smile is sad.
I have this intense desire to make him happy, especially after he’s looked after me so well. So, without thinking, I lean close and kiss him on the cheek.
He freezes to the spot.
“I, uh—” I start babbling, not sure what exactly propelled me to do such a reckless thing. Part starstruck, part infatuation? I don’t know. I feel this raging connection to him. Where has my common sense gone?
But Seth-or-Leon turns his head to look at me, his nose grazing my cheek. And then he takes me by the shoulders and whispers, a query in his eyes, “Can I kiss you?”
I melt at these four words, at the heat of his gaze.
This isn’t how I imagined my first kiss would be.
“Yes,” I find myself saying instantly, intrigued by the prospect of kissing someone so famous.
His arms wind around my body until I’m pressed against him — a reliable sturdiness that makes me feel protected.
Softly, he kisses me, his lips moving gently over mine. It’s chaste and sweet and kind, the sort of kiss a young girl dreams of receiving from a prince. As I lean into him, he holds me tight.
“I don’t think I’d mind if you turned out to be a spy,” he says in a wry tone. “I’m not very good at keeping secrets, anyway.”
I gaze up at him, at the tender expression on his face. “I’m not a spy.”
He looks down at me, his analytical eyes softening. “I know,” he says again. “I believe spies exploit weakness wherever possible.”
“Oh?” I ask, at a loss.
His lips twist in wry amusement. “We kissed and you didn’t pounce. You didn’t pounce when, right now, I am so stupidly weak for a woman’s touch.” He looks at me again as I loosen from his arms. “You backed off. A spy wouldn’t do that.”