Page 58 of I Think They Love You

“That’s harsh.”

Braylon swipes back one photo. “The maroon. Not as flashy as everyone expects the Carters’ Golden Boy”—he ignores Denz’s offended gasp—“to look, but I like it.”

“You do?”

Braylon never answers. A cacophony of voices comes through the front door. Five teens in scarves and hats and heavy coats. They toss garments around like this is home. Conversations abruptly change directions, one after another, until eyes fall on Braylon and Denz.

“Holy sh—” A Black girl with lavender knotless braids cuts herself off. “Is that hashtag notthatdenzel?”

“Kennedi,” a freckle-faced white boy with multicolored braces hisses. “There’s no way Denz Carter is—”

Denz grins, waving.

“Patrick, it’s him,” Kennedi squeals. She smacks the shoulder of a lanky brown-skinned boy next to her. “Malik, weren’t you just watching that video of him talking to LeBron and—”

“Quite the scene you’ve caused,” Braylon whispers to Denz.

Denz doesn’t go rigid at the ghost of warm breath against his ear. His stomach doesn’t knot, and his cock certainly doesn’t plump up just a little. He’s a twenty-five-year-old adult with self-control.

“Denzel Carter,” Braylon announces, edging away, “please meet some of the teens I work with: Kennedi, Patrick, Quinn, Malik, and Rowan. They’re in a work-study program, which is why they’re not in class.”

Denz slips on his most charming, effervescent smile.

“Hello.”

Instantly, a dozen questions are launched at him. Things like: How much is he paid for ads? What free stuff does he receive? What equipment does he use? Is he related to Jay-Z and, therefore, Beyoncé?

He laughs, answering one at a time.

When Rowan, a short nonbinary teen, asks, “How do you know Mr. Adams?” Denz hesitates. In his periphery, Braylon’s frozen.

“College,” Denz says.

“We have—” Braylon rubs his jaw. “—history.”

“That means sex,” Quinn stage-whispers.

The group giggles, waggling their eyebrows. Braylon face-palms. Denz fights off a snort, absently moving an inch to his left.

Closer to Braylon.

He doesn’t notice it at first. Braylon’s arm sliding around his waist. But as more questions pour in, he inhales notes of cardamom, feels protective fingers on his hip, hears the rasp of laughter somewhere above him.

“That’s quite enough,” Braylon says, stepping back.

Is it?Denz thinks, until he realizes Braylon’s talking to the teens.

“You lot have work to do, correct?”

“Okay, Mr. A,” Malik concedes. His gaze shifts to Denz. “You’ll come back, right?”

Denz glances up. He forgets to be angry about the height difference between him and Braylon, too caught on the question in those brown eyes.

Will you come back?

“Uh, yeah,” Denz stammers. “Definitely.”

Several texts are awaiting Denz when he’s outside. All from Eric ranting about a Real Housewife who’s furious she was left off the mayor’s invite list. As if anyone’s forgotten themarried politicianshe drunkenly flirted with at the last party she attended.

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