This was himself. This was himself holding Marcus LeGrand’s hand. This was himself walking into Marcus’s hotel room. Nate contemplated pinching himself. Couldn’t figure out a surreptitious way to do it.
He didn’t want to wake up. He wanted to be right here. With that shy pleased reserve cracking open enough to touch him, to be touched, to hold on and look at him with that exact look: startled by delight.
Marcus’s hotel room was much neater than Nate and Rosie’s shared one. Ruthless tidy lines. All clothing hung up and put away. Suitcase banished to a rack. Bed perfectly made. Even the pen and notepad were lined up straight, at the corner of the desk. An iPad, probably for email or signing digital contracts or writing another bestselling cookbook or enormous celebrity-baker-related busine
