“I guess we should clean up,” Steve said reluctantly. “And maybe remake the bed.”
“Probably the first at least.” Drew shifted. “Okay, definitely the first. But the sheets in my room are fine.”
They wiped each other down with warm washcloths, and then Steve pulled Drew outside to the hot tub, where they traded lazy kisses and wandering hands that led nowhere until Steve felt so languid and indolent he worried he wouldn’t be able to get out if they stayed any longer. They curled against each other in the guest bedroom. Even after only one night, the sheets smelled like Drew. Or maybe that was the real thing pressed reassuringly against Steve’s back.
“You don’t care if I’m big spoon?” Drew murmured, clearly most of the way asleep.
As long as you’remybig spoon, Steve thought. “No.”
Drew snuggled closer to his shoulder. “’Kay,” he said, and Steve felt him drift off.
He closed his eyes and followed.
Chapter Fifteen
DREWwoke to a quiet whine and the sound of nails on hardwood. Next to him, Steve shifted and pressed a kiss to Drew’s hair.
Drew drifted for a moment or two, but then Rita whined louder and Steve sat up. Cool air seeped under the covers, and Drew grumbled.
“I’m gonna take Rita for a run,” Steve murmured. “You want to come with or sleep in?”
After a meal like yesterday’s, Drew should go. After last night, though, the idea of running didn’t particularly appeal. Drew felt good—and Steve had beenamazing—but he also ached.
Maybe he could convince Steve some more hot-tub time was in order today. “Sleep.” His voice was rough with disuse.
Steve chuckled. Drew soaked up the warmth of it and burrowed into the blankets.
When he woke up next, the sheets beside him were cool and the room was bright. Drew stretched, winced, then stretched again, reveling in the protests of well-used muscles. Then he swung his legs out of bed and went to investigate coffee.
The coffee maker itself was quiet and empty, but a blue Post-it on the front readJust push here. While the coffee brewed, Drew took another look around the house, thinking.
Pictures of Steve’s family brightened every room. Here in the kitchen, tucked in the window frame, an old picture of the people who must be Steve’s parents held a place of honor.
Looking at the faded photograph, Drew felt the pieces fall into place. The privacy. The house in the Hills. The way Steve seemed so at home on camera, or on set, or at a swanky Hollywood party. He probably wouldn’t even be fazed if Meryl Streep glided up to say hello.
Steve had inherited his mother’s coloring and his father’s build and face shape. The nose, Drew thought, probably came from his dad too, but it was difficult to tell because Steve’s had obviously been broken and set a little funny.
There were other reminders of a happy family life too, and Drew meandered out of the kitchen to examine them. Pictures of Steve at all ages, some with his parents, some without, adorned the hallway walls and the living room table. Age seven or so with a soccer ball, a toddler with a face full of spaghetti sauce, a teenager sitting with his mother on the deck of a boat. The nose incident obviously occurred after those were taken.
And then there were the awards: stashed away in the room that had served as Steve’s father’s office stood a case of trophies and certificates. The National Book Award was his father’s, and Drew recognized Steve’s mother’s name on some of the bronzed statues. But there was a soccer trophy withSteve Sopolengraved on the plaque, dated the year Steve would’ve been fourteen or so; and a certificate of completion for a young writers’ workshop; and a framed newspaper clipping with an accompanying picture that showed college-age Steve onstage in character as Oberon.
Being in this house, Drew almost felt like he’d been introduced to Steve’s family. Maybe Steve had invited him here in part so Drew would understand what they meant to him. Steve, being a writer, tookshow, don’t tellseriously.
Drew didn’t miss the subtext either.
The coffee maker beeped, and he padded out of the office back to the kitchen to pour himself a mug, thinking about his own family. He hadn’t been home in so long that he had no idea if his mother had framed pictures of him along with his sisters. Surely she had some from long-ago vacations, but did she display them? Did his dad keep a picture of Drew from his latest movie on his desk beside Brit and Sarah’s graduation pictures?
What would they make of Steve?
He hadn’t found any answers by the time he’d drunk halfway through the mug. But he did notice that something in the house was still beeping, and it wasn’t the coffee maker. Frowning, Drew set his mug down and went to investigate.
A moment later he found the source: his cell phone, still in the pocket of his pants from the night before, had nearly run out of battery and was beeping forlornly. Drew fished it out and glanced at the screen.
13 new text messages. 5 new voicemail messages.
Lately the high number wasn’t unusual. He was always getting texts about the movie, or prospective new parts, or updates from Leigh, or cat gifs and pupdates from his mom. But he’d had such a nice weekend that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He refilled his coffee mug. Something told him he’d need caffeineandhis phone charger to deal with this.
