“It’s fine. No need to apologize,” she finally said. “Marcus, I have a random question for you. Do you handle your own social media accounts, or do you have an assistant do that?”
Adeep line appeared between his handsomely arched brows. “I handle them myself. Badly, for the most part. Why?”
Sitting back in her cushioned chair, she tilted her head and studied her date.
I’d hoped you could control tonight’s narrative. Not something a man lacking the capacity for deep thought would generally say.
Interesting.
Disobligecould be a lucky choice of word. Even the most misguided squirrels occasionally located acorns.
The appearance thereofwas pushing the bounds of belief, but he could still be parroting someone else. His agent, a scriptwriter, a director,someone.
Control the narrative, though...
That was the third time he’d said something surprisingly incisive. At this point, she either had to conclude that someone had given him a Smart-Sounding Phrase of the Day calendar, or acknowledge that he wasn’t quite so dim after all. Not nearly as dim as he’d been pretending to be, anyway.
Time to dig deeper. Take more samples.
When their main course arrived moments later—yum—she smiled at him and picked up her fork and sharp-bladed knife. Her pair of chicken thighs lay in the middle of the plate, their skin crisp and browned and perfect. So perfect, in fact, a random observer might never realize there was something more than chicken beneath that surface.
With a precise cut, she halved a deboned thigh, exposing the stuffing beneath that pristine skin. Then she carved a slice and took the time to taste it thoroughly.
The dish was complex. Deeply savory, with tart and sweet notes and unexpected texture from those toasted pine nuts. Exactly what she’d wanted, although she’d had doubts about the wisdomof ordering something as unexceptional and boring as chicken thighs at such a fancy restaurant.
But she wasn’t bored. Not in the slightest. Not anymore.
“I would love for you to tell me more about your work onGods of the Gates.” As he winced apologetically, she held up a hand. “I know you can’t say anything about the final season, and I’m not asking. I’m more interested in behind-the-scenes stuff, anyway. Your daily routine and what your actual job has entailed all this time. How you train for sword fights, whether you already knew how to ride a horse when you joined the cast, things like that.”
This time, when he pushed his hair back from his forehead, the motion didn’t look quite so studied. Not paired with that crinkled brow.
“I’d bore you to tears, I’m afraid.” His smile was still bright, still genial, but now a wee bit tighter. “Why don’t we talk about my exercise routine instead? Or maybe I can tell you about working with Summer Diaz and Carah Brown?”
He’d addressed those topics numerous times, in countless articles and blog posts, and she didn’t care to discuss either one. The exercise stuff would, in fact, bore her to tears, and when it came to his costars, the man was a font of good-natured platitudes.
I’m lucky to work alongside such talented colleagues, and ones nearly as pretty as I am.
They’re true professionals, and as beautiful inside as outside. Like me!
The show couldn’t have found more lovely, gifted actors to play Lavinia and Dido. Or Aeneas, for that matter.
No, she wanted to tackle topics that didn’t allow for generic, surface-only answers.
“I won’t be bored, I promise.” Another neat slice of the chickenthigh, and she paused with her forkful of food just above her plate. “Did you ride horses before being cast on the show?”
“No. I didn’t.”
He was pushing a tiny cube of apricot around his plate with his own fork. Studying the circles it made with unusual focus as she chewed and waited for words that weren’t coming.
She swallowed before digging deeper. “Do you like riding?”
“Yes.” Instead of elaborating, he shoved a hasty bite of food into his mouth.
All right, no more yes or no questions. “What do you like about it?”
He pointed to his full mouth, and she nodded in understanding and waited. And waited. And waited.
His chewing had become extraordinarily thorough in the last minute or so. But if he was hoping she’d say something more or change the topic while he endlessly chewed his mouthful of polenta—polenta, which didn’t actually require chewing—he was doomed to disappointment.
