Page 41 of Business or Pleasure

After a night of debauchery with his costars, Finn looks properly exhausted: hair disheveled, cheeks flushed, a soft slump to his shoulders. I wonder if it feels a bit like hanging out with friends from high school you haven’t seen in forever, or if there’s something deeper that bonds them after four years under the same microscope.

His hotel room is a mirror image of mine. Nondescript furniture, minimalist decor, a canvas print of a wheat field.

He reaches for a bottle of water on the nightstand, throat working as he swallows. “I feel too young to be this tired at ten o’clock,” he says, running a hand through the graying hair at his temples. “Especially because we’re an hour ahead of Arizona.”

“There’s really no order to these things, huh.” I slip out of my shoes and shut the door behind me. “You’re always just zigzagging across the country?”

“Pretty much.”

“Must be hell on your circadian rhythm.”

“Sometimes, but you get used to it.”

I try to imagine that, spending the majority of the year getting used to waking up in a different hotel, in a different city, going to a different convention center and greeting a different set of fans, all of them there to see you for the same reason.

Then something catches my eye. “My suitcase!” I rush over to where it’s propped up against an armchair, practically sparkling under the too-bright hotel room lights—as much as a beat-up suitcase with hippie stickers can sparkle. “Oh my god, she’s so beautiful. Was she always this beautiful, what with the zippers and the pockets and everything? How did you—?”

“They brought it over about ten minutes ago,” he says, trying to sound casual. “I had my manager make some calls. Turns out, one of the higher-ups at the airline is a big Nocturnals fan.”

I run a hand along the suitcase. “You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.”

He waves this off. “All I did was send a few texts.”

“Still. Between this and that jean jacket, I’m starting to think you’re the patron saint of missing clothes.”

He scratches at the back of his neck, which I’ve noticed he does when he’s anxious. “I just don’t want you to have a terrible time on the trip.” When he says it, he doesn’t quite meet my eyes.

You can say no, Chandler.

It’s clear he feels some sense of responsibility since he’s the one who begged me to write this book. And yet I can’t explain why the sudden softness in his voice pricks at something deep inside me. Something that makes me eager to change the subject.

“How was dinner?” I ask. I’m also aware the small talk is delaying the inevitable. Sure, it’s only the second time we’ve done this, but at some point, these clandestine meetings have to start feeling more natural, less “I’m here to writhe against you for a couple hours in an as-yet-undetermined state of undress.”

“Ethan can be a little much,” he says. “He insisted on a table in the front of the restaurant, even though the rest of us were hoping to go incognito. So naturally, it turned into the Ethan Underwood show.” A low chuckle to himself, one that indicates he doesn’t find it funny at all. “Haven’t had anything like that happen in a while. Guess I didn’t miss it.”

“I can imagine.” And I try to, picturing the four of them mobbed by adoring fans, Ethan shimmering in the spotlight the way only a leading man can. Again I wonder if Finn has ever wanted that for himself.

“Please tell me your evening was a little less self-indulgent?”

I shrug. “I video-chatted with my parents and read a bit.” And the first half of the advance hit my bank account, which prompted a celebratory slice of cheesecake via room service.

“And how are your parents?”

I lift my eyebrows at him, because somehow it sounds like he’s genuinely interested. “They’re good. I swear, they’ve picked up five new hobbies each year since they’ve been retired. My mom just joined a pinochle league, and my dad is getting really into birds. And they’re missing me desperately, of course, but they’ll survive.”

“Of course.” And he gives me this little half smile as he unbuttons his black canvas jacket, folding it over the back of a chair. Then, it’s as though he’s unsure what to do with his body. He glances over at the bed before he settles for standing, crossing one leg over the other. “You did great today. By the way.”

I exaggerate a groan. “Mood killer. If there was a mood left after talking about my parents.”

“I’m serious! It’s not easy to get up there and do that, especially if you haven’t been prepped. And League Loup-Garou—that was a secret French werewolf-hunting agency from season three— that’s a hard word.”

“I have a feeling hard-core Nocturnals fans might feel differently, but thank you.” I clear my throat, toying with a button on my cardigan. “So. Tonight’s lesson.”

“Ah yes. I see you called this one”—he pulls up his phone—“ ‘Intermediate Foreplay: Turn a Touch into a Tingle.’ ”

“I was trying to be creative.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins. “I’m just proud to be in the intermediate class.”

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