He hadn’t been this excited and sick to his stomach at the same time since the scout from the university had come to watch him play back at his old West Texas high school. His phone buzzed in his back pocket, right before Justin shouted through the closed bathroom door, “I just texted you the map.”
He wiped his face and pulled his shirt from his waistband, then squeezed himself out of the bathroom. Justin was perched on the end of his bed, tapping at his phone screen.
“Okay, if we start in Montmartre, we can go to the Sacré-Coeur, and then to Saint-Ouen for the market on rue des Rosiers. They say Chez Louisette is where to eat while we’re there.”
Wes’s stomach cramped. He’d scarfed down two crepes after their morning run, but he was still hungry. Without the meal plan from the university and extra protein shakes throughout the day, he wasn’t getting the ten-thousand-plus calories he needed. But he couldn’t afford more than what he was buying. “How much is the restaurant?”
Justin kept scrolling. “I’ll buy lunch. You can buy dinner.”
Not an answer. But Wes let it go. He stared out the window as he tugged his shirt over his head. He’d like to take Justin out to dinner, someplace real nice with white tablecloths and more than one fork. He’d only ever seen that kind of restaurant on TV. Where he used to go with his dad, it was either a chipped plastic table or, at best, a red-and-white-checked plastic cover.
He’d also like to take Justin out to the ranch, bring him on horseback to his favorite camping spot. Bring down a deer or snare a rabbit and cook a country dinner for him over the open fire, beneath the stars. He’d like to cuddle close in the same sleeping bag, whisper the constellations to him, bury his nose in Justin’s neck. Run his hands over that flat stomach, the tautness of his hips.
He’d probably end up buying a couple slices of pizza, or crepes again, from a food truck. It was the cheapest food he’d found so far.
“How do you feel about museums?”
There was a small country museum attached to the gas station two towns over from where he’d grown up. It was a converted Taco Bell, and it was a tourist trap. Its claim to fame was that James Brown “Killer” Miller had blown through town on one of his outlaw sprees. Wes used to wander the two narrow aisles when his dad was buying gas, chewing on sour gummy worms as he stared at the sepia photos taped to the fake wood walls. “Don’t think I’ve ever been to a real one.”
Justin pursed his lips. “Thoughts on modern art?”
“Isn’t that like gluing a bolt to a Styrofoam cup and calling it a mediation on life? Or painting a white canvas white?”
Justin grinned. “Yes, but that was a mediation on consumerism and the circle of consumption. And white canvases are incredibly popular. The Paris Museum of Modern Art is free. Want to see it this afternoon?”
“Sure. You can educate me.” Wes winked. “Or you can try.”
Justin rolled his eyes, but he smiled, and he bit his lip as he folded his legs beneath him and pecked at his phone again. “We’ll be close to the Eiffel Tower if we spend the afternoon there. Do you want to head over after? Eat dinner on the way? See the park and watch the lights?”
There was probably a food truck or two by the Eiffel Tower. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
Justin tapped out a few more notes, dropped a few more pins, and then updated the map he’d sent to Wes. He dropped his phone in his lap and beamed. “All right. Whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.”
Justin’s gaze flicked down Wes’s body, taking in the university T-shirt tucked into his Wranglers, his Ropers, and then panning back up to his cowboy hat. It was the same basic outfit Wes had worn every day. Justin had a parade of outfits, from oversized plaid shirts to tight polos to trim-fit button-downs. He had a new look every day, from sultry to preppy to clean-cut upper-crust Dallas. Each time, he seemed to look better than the day before. Today, he was back to his skinny jeans, combat boots, and buttoned-up plaid, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was sky high, combed into a straight-back swoosh that showed off his shaved sides. Gel held the