Charlie scrunches up his face. “I want to work,” he says. “It’s not about the money. It’s about the work. I’m good at the work.”
Dev can relate to the rush that comes with being damn good at something. “So you need me to help you look hirable, then?”
Charlie nods slowly.
“I can definitely do that,” Dev says, “but for my work, I need to write your love story, and if I’m going to help you with your reputation, you’ve got to help me, too. I need you to try to make it work with the women. And I need you to be on. Cologne Charles, whenever the cameras are rolling.”
Charlie takes exactly three breaths again. “Being on is really hard for me. It drains me emotionally, and sometimes I’ll need time. To recalibrate my mind. Or else I’ll, um… I’m not sure… does that make sense?”
Now Dev is the one who stumbles over his words. “Uh, yeah, actually. It makes perfect sense.”
Dev can really relate. When they’re filming, Dev can throw himself into it completely, feeding off the energy of it all, giving his busy brain the perfect outlet for all its extra. For nine weeks, he flies through twelve-hour days on a steady diet of coffee and cookies and feels no need to ever stop moving. But invariably, after they film the Final Tiara Ceremony, he crashes. The energy bottoms out, creating a vacuum inside his head. He climbs into bed and stays there for a week until he can recalibrate.
It’s how he’s always worked. In college, it would come in huge bursts of creative energy. He would spend two weeks writing a script—open up his heart and pour it all onto the page—and then, out of nowhere, he would sort of wake up, realize every word was shit, climb into bed, and watch The Office until he could face the real world again.
For some inexplicable reason, he almost tells Charlie Winshaw about the coffee and cookies and dabbling with depression, about his busy brain and his too-big heart. The urge to confide in him makes no sense, except he feels like he’s been living this night for years—like he’s stuck in a very unfunny Groundhog Day of his own personal hell, haunted by cute boys who don’t believe in love.
Dev swallows down the confession rising in his throat. “It sounds like we have a deal.”
He reaches for Charlie’s hand.
“Deal,” Charlie echoes, and his enormous hand squeezes Dev’s. Charlie doesn’t pull away immediately, so they remain with their hands frozen between them for a beat too long. Dev ignores the way his skin hums at the touch, because they’re finally making progress, and Dev isn’t going to screw that up because a pretty man with a weak understanding of socially appropriate handshake lengths is touching him.
When it becomes clear Charlie is never going to let go of his hand, Dev pulls away first.
“It’s probably been ten minutes. Should we assess the damage?”
They lower the ice packs, and somehow, Charlie makes a nose injury look exquisite, his cheeks a crisp pink from the cold compresses and his large gray eyes circled in light purple.
“Yikes,” Dev says.
“Is it bad?”
“You might as well scrap this face completely and start over from scratch.”
“Ah, well, no great loss. People don’t like me for my face. They generally prefer my sparkling personality.”
Dev laughs again. Charlie’s kind of funny when you can get him to speak without stammering. Dev shakes out three Tylenol and reaches for Charlie’s water bottle. “So you’re not going to quit on us? You’ll stick it out as our Prince Charming?”
Charlie swallows the pills. “If… if you really think I can do this?”
“We can do this.”
Charlie stares up at him, a question twisting the corner of his mouth. “You,” he tries, eyebrows bunched together, “you think you can make me actually fall in love with one of these women, don’t you?”