Page 34 of Business or Pleasure

“What made it worth it for you?”

“I had a pretty meat-and-potatoes childhood,” he says, sounding as though he’s choosing his words carefully. He gives the veggies a stir. “Traditional. Or at least, my dad was, which didn’t match up with how I felt about the world, and my mom just wanted to keep the peace. He moved out when I was sixteen, sent my mom divorce papers in the mail. All the fighting between them—in a strange way, that was how I got into acting. I wound up in a drama elective in middle school, thinking I’d hate it at first, but I got obsessed. It felt like I could escape into a different world, become someone else for a while. And even better if that someone else wasn’t human, or lived on a different planet.”

“I can understand that,” I say softly. I try to imagine a teenage Finn, losing himself in theater because the reality of his home life was just too bleak.

“That was why I’d fallen in love with Lord of the Rings when I was a kid. Only I couldn’t exactly live in Middle-earth, no matter how badly I used to want to, but I could act, and suddenly, that was all I wanted to do. So I commuted to LA from Reno for a while, and then when I turned eighteen, I moved out there on my own.” He flashes me a goofy grin. “And then I became ridiculously, disgustingly famous. Can’t even check my mail without getting attacked by paparazzi.”

I laugh at this, but what I’m trying to figure out how to ask—without actually asking—is whether he’s still chasing that high from when The Nocturnals was on the air, if he’s eager to be relevant again.

And if that’s even such a bad thing to want.

When we sit down to eat, the whole house smells heavenly.

“This is delicious,” I say between bites. “I’ve never had tempeh like this.” He’s marinated and baked it, cooked it in a peanut sauce and served it with a zucchini-and-carrot salad.

“Ah, you thought I was just one of those Hollywood types with a private chef?” he says. “Well, one, I probably couldn’t afford one. And two, I like cooking. It’s soothing. My dad didn’t really get being a vegetarian, so I had to learn how to cook for myself pretty early on. And... it’s easier when I can control everything.”

I’m deeply curious about his family, but it doesn’t quite feel like the right time to ask.

“I can assemble, but I can’t cook,” I say. “I bet you’d never guess what I can do with a tortilla and a bag of shredded cheese.”

Finn saws off a sliver of tempeh. Even with about a thousand fans going, his sideburns are damp, the neckline of his gray T-shirt a shade darker than the rest of the fabric. “I could teach you some basics. If you want. You’re already doing so much for me.” Then his eyes grow wide. “Not that this needs to be transactional. Unless that’s what you want?”

I almost don’t want to cut him off, just let him keep babbling while his cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink. It’s the first real acknowledgment of our agreement all day, and it’s almost a relief that he’s the first to bring it up.

“I think I’m still deciding what I want.”

He chews slowly. Thoughtfully. “Are you thinking of backing out?” he asks. “Because it’s okay if you are. It’s absolutely okay.”

“No. Are you?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. “Not one bit.”

When heat floods my cheeks, I’m not certain if it’s the lack of AC or something else entirely.

It occurs to me that we still barely know each other—and that I’m getting paid to know him, and not the other way around. I take a bite of salad, the cool vinegar doing little to combat my rising body temperature. “Maybe it would be less weird if we talked about the logistics first?”

“Nothing sexier than logistics.” When I lift my eyebrows at him, he backtracks, motioning with his fork. “Sorry. Please continue.”

“No one can find out,” I say as he nods vigorously. If we’re really going to do this, I need to make sure we both know what to expect. And that means establishing all of this up front. “The book has to come first, of course. And I’m sure we’ll be done before then, but when the trip is over, we are, too. We go our separate ways and never tell anyone.” I swirl my fork through the extra peanut sauce. “Protection is nonnegotiable. And consent, obviously.”

“No arguments from me there.”

“If one of us ever wants to call the whole thing off, for any reason, they can,” I continue. “And it’s not going to happen every night. In fact, it’s probably better if it doesn’t, since the book needs to be our top priority. If one of us doesn’t want to, that’s it—they don’t have to defend it or make excuses.”

“Frankly, I’m not sure I could, uh, perform every single night,” he says. “So that’s a relief.” Then he adds: “We should be able to feel like we can say something. If one of us is ever uncomfortable.”

“A safe word?” I ask, and he nods. Glances down at his plate.

“How about ‘tempeh’?”

I crack a smile. “Sure. Tempeh it is. And we should sleep in our own rooms. Just to keep it from becoming... complicated.” I’m not sure it’s the right word until it leaves my mouth. If I really am a Relationship Girl, having sex and waking up with someone I’m not in a relationship with is probably the kind of thing that would confuse my heart, make me get overly attached. So I’ll simply prevent that from happening.

Finn looks pensive, as though he hadn’t considered this. “Okay,” he says. “Makes sense.”

I stare down at my hands, picking at my nail polish, the burnt orange hanging on by a few stubborn flecks. It’s just casual sex. People do this all time. I’ve done this, with this exact person.

“One more thing,” I say. “I sort of made an outline? For the lessons? On the plane?”

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