“I guess.”
“Frank, I spent most of yesterday being tortured by my dentist, and this morning trying and failing to get my car running properly. A visit to an animation studio is definitely a treat.”
This wasn’t at all how Frank had expected Carver Reed to behave. “Why don’t you take your car to a mechanic?”
“Because she’s a 1935 Duesenberg Model J, and she’s even prettier than I am, and she’s my baby. Nobody touches her but me.”
While Frank was still digesting that, Kenny the office boy came in pushing a wheeled cart. It contained a coffee pot, mugs, milk and sugar, and an assortment of sliced meats and fruits. “Miss Weaver says call her if you want anything else.” Kenny’s attention was firmly riveted on Carver, who’d stood to meet him.
“We’ll do just that, Kenny. Thank you.”
Apparently overcome by the fact that Reed had remembered his name, Kenny went bright red and looked as if he might faint. He recovered quickly, but only so that he could gaze at Reed with more doe-eyed adoration than any cartoon image had ever managed. “I’ll be happy to get you whatever you want, Mr. Reed.”
Oh God, Kenny was flirting with him. Blatantly, over-the-toply, as if he were the floozy in an Army social-hygiene film—some of which had been produced by this very studio, in fact.
Reed acted neither offended nor amused, instead giving Kenny a warm smile. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. And look, I know you probably get to meet a lot of celebrities, but would you let me autograph something for you? It’d make me feel important.”
“Oh gosh, would you?” Kenny looked around frantically.
When he seemed to be giving serious consideration to taking off his shirt and having Reed set pen to some part of his anatomy, Frank stepped in. “C’mere for a second, Kenny.”
Clearly reluctant to move away from the object of his affection, Kenny dragged himself to Frank, brightening when he saw that Frank was creating a hasty sketch of Kenny, the coffee cart, and Reed. It took only a couple of minutes to complete, and then Frank wordlessly tore the sheet from the pad and handed it over.
“Gee, Mr. Porter, thank you!” Kenny ran the paper over to Reed, who wrote something on it that made Kenny blush again. After which Reed managed to gently steer Kenny out of the room. “Coffee?” Reed asked after he was gone.
“I could get my own.”
“Yes, but this way you can carefully observe how the renowned thespian does it. Milk or sugar?”
“Black, thanks.”
“A plate of food?”
Frank had eaten very little that day, but his stomach was still too jumpy to risk it. “No, but help yourself.”
“I shouldn’t.” Reed patted his belly. “But I like to eat, and I don’t have any shirtless scenes in my immediate future, so….”
Ably balancing two cups and a plate, he handed Frank one cup and retook his chair. He gestured toward the door through which Kenny had left. “Ah, the boundless emotions of youth, huh? That was really nice of you to make the drawing for him.”
Was it? Frank had been thinking of it mostly as a way to efficiently move things along. “It wasn’t a big effort.”
“But a thoughtful one. He should have asked you to sign it too.”
“Kenny doesn’t find me remotely fascinating. Anyway, he sees me every day.”
“Lucky him.”
Frank blinked, certain he’d misheard. But Carver simply grinned as he held Frank’s gaze. And was that a mix of challenge and… something else in those blue eyes? It seemed awfully close to the way men looked at each other when visiting the Blue Fox. And the way they’d sometimes looked at each other during a rare private moment in the army.
Surely Frank was mistaken. Or perhaps this was an act Reed was putting on, a joke of some kind.
Frank swallowed thickly and used the excuse of drinking coffee to look away.
But he couldn’t look away for too long since his job was to watch this man. So he gave himself a mental shake, put the coffee mug on the floor, and opened the sketchbook. That, at least, restored his equilibrium a little. He always felt more like himself when he was drawing.
“How long have you worked for Rask Studios?” Carver popped a piece of sliced salami into his mouth.
Frank had to do a little math. “Almost seven years.” He added more details in case Carver was concerned about his qualifications. “Before the war I was in New York, in advertising. I worked for several big clients.”
