The phone rings too early for it to be casual. That clunky cream-colored hotel phone with the tangled cord — the kind you’d expect to hear bad news through, not this.
You answer with a groggy, “Hello?”
“Hey,” his voice is smooth, unhurried, like he’s been lounging in it all morning. “It’s Marty Mauser. I’m up in the Royal Suite. Saw you in the lobby yesterday.”
There’s a pause where you can almost hear the smile in his tone.
“…Okay?” you say, because you’re not sure what else fits here.
“Well,” he continued, shifting — you could hear the faint creak of a mattress, picture him leaning back against the headboard in nothing but a pair of boxers and a morning robe hanging open. A silver tray with a teacup sat at the foot of the bed, untouched. “I’ve never talked to an actual movie star. You know, I’m something of a performer too.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah. You don’t believe me?”
“I—” you stuttered, unsure, the word catching in your throat.
“I, what? What?” His tone is soft but mocking, affectionate in a way that makes your stomach flip. “You have the Daily Mail in front of you?”
Your eyes drop, and sure enough — there it is. A grainy black-and-white photo. A man with a ping pong ball frozen midair between his fingers. The headline: The Chosen One.
“This is you?” you ask.
“That’s me,” he says easily. “Nice picture, right?”
He doesn’t wait for your answer. “Listen… if you’ve got five minutes, you should come up. I’ll even make you tea. Could show you a trick or two.”
“And why would I do that?” you ask, but your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.
“Because,” he says, and you can practically hear the grin stretching wider, “you’re curious. And I like curious people.”
There’s a beat of silence where you realize your heart is thudding harder than it should for a stranger in a bathrobe.
“Well?” he prompts, lazy but expectant.
And even though you can’t see him, you swear you can feel his grin through the line — warm, unhurried, a little dangerous. The kind of grin that promises you’ll be hearing from him again.