The first time he met one of the industry’s most powerful producers, said producer was so high he fell asleep in his salad, woke up, and pretended nothing had happened. He finished the meeting with shredded carrots in his hair and a smear of French dressing along the entire left side of his face. The movie they were discussing went on to win four Academy Awards and two Golden Globes, and made nearly a billion worldwide.

After some more stories, it’s midnight, the outdoor bar has closed, and my wineglass is empty. A passing server offers to find me a refill, but it’s a perfect excuse to mosey to the bar inside, where it’s quiet and warm, and get a few minutes to myself.

The bartender comes over and leans on the bar expectantly. “What’ll it be, gorgeous?”

“Whatever your best red wine is,” I tell him, reading his name tag. Woody. “I was drinking the pinot outside, but I think they ran out a while ago.”

Woody smiles, revealing a top row of perfectly white, even teeth . . . with one front tooth completely missing. It’s such an odd paradox, I am instantly fascinated. Was it pulled? If so, why? How could one tooth be so bad when the others are perfect?

These are the things that take up brain space that should be used to come up with snappy comebacks when Brad calls me kiddo or sport and insists that being a team player means I pass someone else my commission.

“I’ll give you the Ravenswood zin then,” he says, rapping his knuckles against the bar. “Not much to choose from, but that one is pretty decent.”

Woody leaves to go grab a bottle, and I lean more heavily against the bar, wondering for a beat if I could just lay my head down here and take a little nap.

Oh, wine makes me sleepy.

And amorous, apparently, because tonight Carter is looking pretty—

“How’s it going over here?”

Straightening, I look over my shoulder as the man himself approaches and pulls out the barstool next to me.

It’s a struggle to keep my tipsy attention focused on his face and not stare at the smooth, exposed collarbone. “I’m wiped. And tipsy. I just want to head to bed.”

“Me too.” Glancing to the doors he’s just come in through, he adds, “But I fear they’re just getting started.”

I find myself leaning into him, laughing into the shoulder of his jacket. God, he smells good. “Crazy kids. I guess we can’t just disappear. Being the hosts and all.”

He laughs. “How the fuck did we manage to get this gig?”

“No idea.”

He looks down, running the tip of his index finger back and forth over a pattern in the wood bar top. “Brad is still treating you like his assistant.”

“I know.” I bite my lip, looking to the side.

“Evie,” he says, “I’m so sorry. I contributed by ignoring it. I don’t want to do that anymore.”

His words make my windpipe feel tight, make my thoughts turn defensive.

Everything’s fine.

You’re just new to this, Carter.

I’ve dealt with Brad for years, I know his game.

Cut the shit, Evie.

Letting out a tiny steam whistle of vulnerability, I admit, “It always makes me mad, but now it’s making me anxious. I have this strange itch in the back of my brain, this persistent worry that he’s really trying to push me out.”

He nods. “I see it. I see it, and I don’t know what to do.”

My chest, it aches. “I hate feeling helpless.”

I didn’t expect this to be our crescendo moment. In the movies, these admissions either soften someone up or harden them further, but they rarely come out as quietly as I’ve said it and still make a huge impact.

But somehow, this one does.

Carter leans down and slides his hand along my jaw, and then bends, kissing me in a way I’ve been dreaming about almost nonstop since that night in my apartment. It’s different from the frantic kisses in the mixing room, rough and hurried. Those felt like secret, semiviolent betrayals of our better instincts.

But this. This is a stream of tiny tastes and pecks, little pieces of dialogue. They go from I’m sorry to what are we doing to how do we do this deeper and all night and I don’t even notice when Woody has to place my drink on the bar because Carter has my back pressed to it.

I do notice when Carter pulls away to hand him a twenty.

My hand comes up, pressing to my mouth as if holding the sensation there. “You don’t have to pay for my wine.”

“I’m invested in getting this tab settled so we can leave.”

“I thought we couldn’t leave our party.”

“Fuck this party.”

The giggle that escapes me is high, and girlish, and very excited at the prospect of us leaving, together.

“What did you say?” I ask, mock scandalized.

“You heard me.”

Drunken roars reach us from outside, and are followed by the unmistakable splashing of water.

“Skinny-dipping!” Kylie yells, and in the background rises a chorus of male cheers.

Carter is still looking at my mouth. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

His smile droops. “I have two full-size beds in my room.”

My eyes shine, my smile goes wide. “Well, that’s just fine. Because I have a king.”

• • •

We trip through the doorway, laughing and breathless over having raced into the gift shop for condoms and throwing way too much money at the bewildered teenager working the night shift. I feel like I’m full of tiny bubbles or brilliant stars: inside, everything is alive.

Somehow, despite how many months it’s been and all the games we’ve played between us, awkwardness never descends. It’s us alone, smiling into kisses, pulling off clothes with the comfort of a couple long together and the excitement of two virgins. I swear his body is unreal and I can’t stop touching it, memorizing it like my hands are scanning it into some memory database. I give my brain permission to overwrite anything it wants—take away my ability to ride a bike or crochet; the planes and dips of Carter’s abdomen are way more important.

“Is this too fast?” he asks, barely pausing as he flings my bra behind him somewhere.

I laugh. “Hell no.”

He leads us both farther into the room and then I’m lying down, the sheets cool along the back of my body and Carter pressed along the front.