Promise Me

He looks up at me, tired, and oddly vulnerable. “I was headed to your house,” he says quietly.

Oh. I sit down on the ground next to him, lift Snow off his lap, and put her on the other side of me. “Stay.” She huffs but drops to her belly, her little face atop her front paws. “What for?”

“For better company than another beer could provide.” He lays back, eyes to the sky, hands laced behind his head, his knees bent.

“I’m better company than twelve ounces of fermented hops?”

The question pulls a laugh out of him. “It was imported, if that helps.”

Now I laugh. “That makes all the difference.” I lie down beside him. The ground is a little cool, but the air is warm, a slight breeze upping the humidity and carrying the sce

nt of jasmine. The sky is overrun with stars hanging out with a half moon.

“Here.” He sits up, reaches behind his neck to pull off his shirt, then balls it up to tuck under my head as a pillow. Dead. I’m dead. His muscles flex as he resumes his position. I try not to stare at his ripped abs.

“Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

We stay like that, side by side in comfortable silence, for a minute or two. In the distance, I hear the faint sounds of traffic on Sunset.

“Can I trust you?” he finally says, like it’s taken Herculean effort to get the words out.

“You can.”

He doesn’t move or speak.

“I promise.”

“A story in Variety came out today about me being one of the people the America Rocks producers are considering to take over as host.”

“Oh my God!” I turn my face toward him. “That’s a really big deal. Congratulations.” America Rocks is my favorite reality show.

“It’s not mine yet, and according to Hollywood insiders the producers would be idiots to give me the gig.”

“Why?”

He lifts his hand to tick off the reasons. “Model-turned-host works only if it’s a fashion competition, I’m too young, I’ve got a not-totally-unearned reputation for partying, I don’t have the right experience, and…”

I turn onto my side to look at him. My cheek is on the soft cotton of his T-shirt, and it smells like man and spice and everything nice. He remains in profile. “And?”

“I’m a second-stringer, even in my own family. My sister was the true star. This is just an attempt by my manager-slash-father to reclaim some of her glory, and”—he takes a deep breath before continuing—“and I know I have to get used to haters if I’m going to continue in this business, because they’re part of the deal, but sometimes they hit really low.”

My heart immediately hurts for him. I want to tell him he’s a star no matter what happens with America Rocks. I want to ask about his sister, but I don’t think that’s what he needs right now. God, it sucks being picked apart like you don’t have any feelings and judged unworthy. I know firsthand, and I never want to go through the ordeal again. But when it happened to me, the thing I appreciated most was a change of subject.

“So, I ate fried chicken and waffles this week and I didn’t think anything could beat a New York City hot dog, but oh my God, was it good.”

He rolls onto his side, props his head in his hand. His smile is crooked and raises goosebumps on my arms. “You went to Roscoe’s.”

“I did. And guess what else?”

“What?”

“I got a side of gravy to go with it.”

His green-eyed gaze stops my breath for a second. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“How am I looking at you?”