Page 52 of After Midnight

She walks me through the kitchen and living room, then down a hallway, which has three doors.

“Bathroom’s there,” she says.

Her gaze flicks to mine quickly. Is she thinking about that bath too? I still haven’t been able to get it out of my head.

Moving on, she opens the second door and pushes it wide, stepping through. “This is my pole room.”

The evening light turns everything yellow and gold, and her chrome pole gleams in the center of the room. There’s a couch set up against one wall, and I try not to picture myself sitting on it, watching her dance. Though that sounds like a really fucking good time.

Remi turns and walks me back to the hallway, to the last closed door. Her hand rests on the doorknob, hesitating. Then she takes a breath, turns the knob, and pushes the door open. “And here’s my bedroom.”

I ease up behind her and peek inside. A queen-size bed sits against one wall, flanked by matching bedside tables, each holding a small potted cactus and a lamp. Her closet door is cracked, and through it, I can see rows of clothes and shoes. And out the window, the sky looms big and blue, with the earliest colors of sunset starting to paint the horizon, stretching out over the city nestled in the desert.

My gaze flicks back to the bed. I take another drink of my beer, trying not to stare.

“This is a nice place,” I say, and I mean it. It feels like her: organized, minimalist, disciplined, like she doesn’t want anything in her space to cause her to feel cluttered or claustrophobic.

“Thanks. I bought it myself, so I’ve got a lot of pride in it.”

“I can tell,” I say, easing back from the open bedroom door, trying not to make her feel any more nervous than she already does.

“Where do you live?” she asks. “In LA?”

I shake my head as we walk back to the kitchen. “No, the city is too much for me. I’ve got a place in Malibu, just off Big Rock Beach.”

She looks at me, one brow arching slowly. “You have a house in Malibu?”

I shrug and take another sip from my beer. “Yeah. Why?”

Remi lets out a small laugh as she sets her beer down and washes her hands in the sink. “Sometimes I forget you’re a big rock star.”

Leaning back against her kitchen counter, I say, “Most of the time, I don’t feel like a rock star. I’m just me.”

She looks over at me, a sort of softness finally starting to come over her features. “That’s what I like about you.”

For a moment, I don’t say anything. She starts to organize ingredients for the tacos, and I watch her, thinking of what she said.

I’m used to people wanting to be around me just because I’m in LGC, or because I have money and they’re drawn to it, like sharks to blood. In the past, I’ve tried to keep people around me through my money: paying for everything, buying gifts, hoping maybe that’ll be enough. But it never is.

Yet Remi hasn’t asked me for anything. She even bought me dinner at Secret Pizza when we went on our first date. It’s . . . different. She’s different.

“Well, you gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna help me?” One of her brows arches as she pulls her long black hair into a ponytail.

I grin and push off the counter. “Put me to work, baby.”

Her eyes flash at the pet name, and she tosses me the avocados, laughing when I almost spill my beer trying to catch them. “Mash those up. We’re making guacamole.”

“These are the best tacos I’ve ever eaten,” I say, then take another big bite.

We’re sitting on Remi’s porch, each in a wicker armchair, our plates on the low outdoor table between us. The air is still hot, but the sun is going down now, and watching the sun setting over the desert is definitely on my list of the top ten most beautiful things I’ve ever seen—though it doesn’t rank as high as Remi does.

She’s sitting cross-legged in her armchair, hair pulled back, a beer bottle pressed to her lips. The sunset makes her skin appear golden, the piercings in her ears glittering. Given how fucking gorgeous she is, I’m kind of shocked I’ve been able to focus on chewing and swallowing without choking.

But these tacos are out of this world.

I finish off the last two on my plate, then sit back in the armchair with a satisfied sigh. “Twelve out of ten,” I tell her. “How did you learn how to cook?”

She shrugs. “My dad taught me the basics when I was growing up. And when I started dancing, I realized how important it is to take care of my body, so I started learning how to meal prep and stuff. It’s something I enjoy.”