“Hey, Daphne, I was wondering,” Megan says as she stomps over in a dress clearly inspired by Maleficent. The wardrobe department is not subtle. “Are you going to ask Charlie to dance at the ball, or are you hoping Angie asks you instead?”
Daphne turns the same color pink as her Sleeping Beauty gown, and Angie throws a French fry at Megan. “Fuck off, you homophobic twat.”
Megan wheels around to Dev. “Did you hear what she just said to me?”
Dev points to his ear, like someone is shouting in his headset, so he doesn’t have to openly acknowledge her casual homophobia. Then someone actually is shouting in his headset. It’s Ryan. “Dev, get over here. We have a problem.”
As out of shape as he is, it only takes thirty seconds for him to sprint across the hotel to Charlie’s wardrobe room. Still, in those thirty seconds, Dev imagines dozens of horrible scenarios involving Charlie. What he finds is worse than anything he could’ve envisioned.
Charlie is standing in the middle of the room wearing nothing but his plastic crown and the smallest pair of black boxer briefs. He is basically naked, the muscles of his abdomen all funneling down to a V pointing toward his crotch like a neon flashing arrow. The sight is, in a word, pornographic.
Dev shouldn’t look but he does. At all of Charlie. So much tan skin, strong thighs, faint freckles along his collarbone, muscles reduplicating down his abdomen, and still, those big gray eyes, so innocent and sweet and contradictory to everything else.
Ryan conveniently steps in between Dev and his view of Charlie’s obliques. “He’s refusing to wear the Prince Charming suit!” Ryan screams, as if Charlie isn’t there to explain himself.
Charlie chokes. “I’m sorry. I’m so… so sorry.”
“If you’re sorry, put on the suit!”
“It’s wool. I’m sorry, but I just can’t… I don’t wear wool.”
Charlie’s deep into a spiral about this, and Dev pushes aside his thoughts about the nakedness so he can tap out Morse code against Charlie’s bare shoulder. Then he turns his attention back to Ryan. “It sounds like you need to get Charlie a new suit.”
“We’re filming in thirty minutes. How the fuck do you propose I get a new suit that quickly?”
Dev shrugs. “You’re the supervising producer on set. You’ll figure it out. It’s in Charlie’s file that he doesn’t wear wool. It’s also June.”
Ryan grinds his teeth and violently grabs his walkie-talkie. “We need a new suit, pronto,” he snaps as he storms out of the wardrobe room with a PA on his heels.
Then they’re alone in the dressing room, and Dev realizes he hasn’t really been alone with Charlie since the 3 a.m. conversation.
“Thank you,” Charlie manages, his eyes on the ground. “For sticking up for me.”
“You never have to thank me, Charlie. This is my job.”
“Your job,” Charlie echoes slowly. Dev wants to push. He wants to poke and prod. He wants to grab Charlie by both shoulders. Come back to me, he would scream. Don’t lock yourself up again.
Skylar bursts into the room, and Dev takes a step back. “What is this about a new— Son of a bitch.” Skylar stops short when she sees Charlie. “Jesus Christ. Can someone please get this man a robe?”
A different PA materializes out of thin air with a plush hotel robe, and Charlie sticks his arms inside but doesn’t tie it at the waist, like he thinks the robe is to keep him warm. It hangs open, his body still on display. Dev adopts a comical, vaguely British accent, because surely laughing about this will make it easier for Dev to stop staring at Charlie’s body. “Oh, love”—Dev fastens the front of the robe himself—“you clearly don’t know what you look like.”