“Oh.” She eyes me like she knows I’m hiding something. “We sneak off set for a day, and suddenly you’re all notebook and pen?”
“I can take them back.” I reach for my notebook, but she steps away, holding it out of reach.
“No. I want them. Just next time, maybe type them up.” Her eyebrows crinkle as she skims the page. “Though the messy handwriting does fit the medieval vibe.”
“Don’t worry, next time I’ll use a quill. Heart-dotted I’s and everything.”
“That’s the extra effort I like to see.” She toys with her hair, studying my chicken scratch. “You know, your spelling’s not really all that bad—maybe my homework is helping.”
“It is. Plus, autocorrect is a lifesaver.”
She laughs easily. It’s so easy with her. Fuck.
Focus.
Maybe she hasn’t seen the article yet. I inspect her face, getting caught on the way she bites her lip.
“Gosh, yes, this footwork analysis! I’ve been researching techniques, thinking about those defensive positions you showed me. Robyn’s always three steps ahead, just like real combat.”
“Smart.”
“Excellent work, Mr. Hastings. Also…” She leans in close. “I think the little break worked. It helped me get into character better. I felt myself channeling Robyn.”
“You don’t say.”
“You were right. About getting out of my skin. I need to be more bold, more magnetic—”
“Like me?”
She pauses. “Honestly, yeah. Exactly like you!”
“Let’s document this praise.”
“Hush!” She waves her hand at me, then grins, stretching her arms over her head. “Actually, speaking of our outing.” My breath stills. “Did you see the article about us this morning?”
“Yeah, and—”
She cuts me off. “I’m so sorry about that.”
“Sorry?” I ask carefully.
“It’s impossible for me to go anywhere without the media catching on. Even though our set location was meant to be undisclosed, they found out. I still have no idea how. But I definitely didn’t want you to get roped into my tabloid nonsense.”
“You’re not upset?”
“Why would I be? It’s not like you sold them the pictures.” My jaw twitches. But she keeps going. “My publicist is handling it. Especially all the commentary about our age—that’s the mostridiculous part of it. Three years between us, and they’re acting like I’m robbing the cradle. I turned twenty-nine, and suddenly I’m vintage goods. ‘Still stunning,’ they say, like they’re shocked I haven’t crumbled to dust.”
“What the fuck? You’re—” But the words don’t exist for what she is.
“Oh, it’s not just this world. My Aunt Mabel married younger back home, and you’d think she’d committed treason. Meanwhile, Omar is dating someone half his age, and they’re calling it romance.” She shrugs, feigning lightness. “Different rules here. Men age like wine, women like milk, right?”
“That’s fucking stupid.”
“Well, regardless, I had fun yesterday.” Her voice is small, like she can’t believe she’s admitting it.
“Me too.”
“And I was thinking…” She tilts her head, studying me. “Maybe soon we could arrange another lesson off-grounds. Strictly professional, of course. For character research. Since it helped me so much. Robyn’s quite the bad girl, so it’s only right to follow in her footsteps.” She’s talking too fast, like she’s thought about this extensively.
