Time (Laws of Physics #3)(66)

I understood his concern, and I wasn’t looking forward to the glimpses of hateful pomposity I’d get from my place on the periphery, but I wasn’t going to let Lisa be my stunt double, or my red herring.

Of note, as I inspected him, I sensed his worry, absolutely. But I was also picking up on some other vibes, like—despite his apprehension—he was relieved and happy I was opposed to Lisa’s suggestion. Weird.

Anyway, in the end, we turned down Lisa’s offer.

I then called my therapist’s office and scheduled a new appointment. Since I’d now fully committed to the idea, I decided to make a list of items I wanted to discuss. For example, the flinching, why did I do it with Abram sometimes? I loved it when he touched me, so why would I flinch away at odd intervals? Also, if I felt fear both times we’d made love, why did I feel shame after he was on top, but not when I was on top? That made no logical sense. This therapist was going to have her work cut out for her. FOR SURE.

And then, since I was in a list making mood, I navigated to a few websites looking for some tips on dirty talking. I’d never done it before, but after reading three lines of Abram’s sexy poetry and experiencing an electromagnetic burst of incalculable desire, the impulse was one I couldn’t ignore. Dirty talking was clearly an electromagnetic force.

Now, all four atomic fundamental forces had been identified: his body made me weak (weak force), the urge to smell him was always strong (strong force), my feelings for him impacted time (gravitational force), and Abram’s sexy poetry/his brain (electromagnetic).

While I composed my lists, Abram spent the next hour or so of the—early evening? What the heck time is it?—on the phone with his record label, and then his publicist, and then a conference call with his record label’s publicist. They all promised to hammer out a press release for our perusal by tomorrow morning.

At one point they wanted to know if my parents’ team needed to be brought in the loop. I shook my head, making a split decision based on the need for expediency.

Plus, my parents had a great committee of people looking out for their interests, and that was the problem. I wanted Abram’s interests to be the priority, not theirs. If they got ahold of the story, they’d spin it to their own benefit somehow. Therefore, no.

When he finally got off the phone and we were able to sit down properly with our Mexican feast, I discovered that he had procured enchiladas and I fell a little bit more in love with him.

Over dinner, or lunch maybe? Whatever. Over food, conversation flowed easily, as expected. Whenever we’d spoken on the phone over the last several months, time had run out too quickly, our conversations never seemed finished.

Presently, he was finishing up a story about how one of the roadies showed up for pre-show rehearsals in his bathrobe and nothing else.

“He’d used the hotel sauna—the hotel was across the street from the venue—and forgot his room key, locking himself out of his room.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. And when he went downstairs, the front desk wouldn’t give him another key without his ID, which was in the room.”

I laughed at this poor man’s misfortune though doing so made me feel like a jerk.

“So he waited in the lobby, in his bathrobe, until someone with the show happened to be walking by, which was me, but I was already running late for an interview. So we decided to go to the venue—I got him in no problem—and see if anyone had extra clothes he could wear until we could make it back to the hotel and sort out the key issue.”

“And?” I leaned forward, way too invested in the story.

“No one had any extra clothes. The poor guy had to do the sound checks in his bathrobe, and it was a windy day.” Abram lifted his eyebrows meaningfully.

I covered my mouth, feeling badly about my laughter.

“But he took it in stride. I ended up giving him my T-shirt and just wearing my jacket.”

My eyes widened, contemplating the kind of stir that must’ve caused. “How did that go over in the interview?”

Abram made a strange face, like he was trying to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “It was fine.” He pushed his rice around with his fork.

“Hmm. That sounds like a falsehood.”

Rolling his eyes, he released his utensils and leaned back in his seat, saying as though bored, “The interviewer asked if she could touch my stomach.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That’s gross.”

He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. And yet, something about his display of apathy felt off.

“How do you deal with it?”

“What’s that?” Abram leaned forward again, picking up his fork and spearing a piece of enchilada.

“All the attention. My parents love it. I think nothing thrills my dad more—at least when I was younger, and I saw him interact with fans—than when a strange woman tells him how sexy and handsome he is. He honestly eats it up. But every time you and I talk about this facet of your job, it seems like you—”

“Hate it?”

I nodded.

“I do.”

I frowned. “Except—and no judgment—why did you do those underwear ads?”

Abram’s chest expanded with a deep breath and his gaze lifted to the ceiling. “You have no idea how much I wish I hadn’t done those ads. It’s like, especially since I did them, people assume I’m brainless. Or, they don’t assume, they just don’t give a shit. We have a few PAs who seem nice, but they make me uncomfortable every time we’re in a room together. Always brushing against me when they walk by, even if there’s a mile of space around us. I no longer go to VIP ticket holder meet and greets after this one woman—uh . . .”