Page 119 of The Influencer

“You won’t hurt my feelings,” I assure him. I think.

“Oh, I don’t think this’ll hurt your feelings. Timothée Chalamet. You know—type-wise.”

“So, skinny and pretty.”

“Yeah. But like—nerdier.”

I huff. “Why nerdier?”

“Because I’m shy, and I figured I’d do better with skinny, awkward, and shy.”

“Asher…”

“What?” he asks, like he can’t believe I’m being argumentative about his “type.”

“You could totally get Timothée.”

“Is he gay?”

“Not that he admits,” I say. “But if anyone could get him to come out already, it’d be you.”

“Oh, please.”

“You doubt me.”

He grins. “I think you’re still so shocked you wound up fucking me, you’re trying to convince yourself that anyone would, which, I can assure you, is not the case,” Asher says definitively.

“Well, you haven’t been gay very long. Wait and see. I’m confident the next time you go to a gay club, you’ll be more popular than you can imagine.”

“I’ll keep you updated,” he says.

Damn. That one sentence hurts way too fucking much.

“Do you want to grab dinner?” he asks.

“I’m not really hungry. I can just have a snack when we get home. Unless you’re hungry.”

“I am,” he says.

“Then sure.”

“I’ll just drive through somewhere. Unless you have more roast beef.”

“I do,” I tell him. I’ve been sure to keep some on hand since it’s the only thing I know for sure he likes.

“That works.”

So, home it is. Home meaning my home—the place where Asher is crashing temporarily while he figures out how to finalize his breakup with his nearly ex-girlfriend. I’ve thought a lot about offering him the use of my condo while I’m on tour, but I can’t figure out how it would come across. I don’t want him thinking I’m asking him to permanently move in, but I don’t want him to feel like he’s subletting or house-sitting either. I have no idea what we are. Or even what I am to him, and that’s the thought that has me constantly on pins and needles.

When we get in, I immediately head for the shower, and he goes straight for the fridge. My stomach is in knots, all twisted with emotion and anxiety and a healthy tincture of lust just to keep things interesting.

After a thorough thirty minutes—because sand hides in the strangest places—my ears included—I enter the bedroom with a towel around my waist.

Asher is on my bed with his phone in one hand and one arm tucked behind his head. His hair is damp, and he’s shirtless. He’s clearly showered, too. Or at least rinsed off.

“Did you eat?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Can I make you something?”

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