Not now. Not yet.
“Okay, fun stuff first.” She was swinging their hands in a huge, swift, jerky arc, and yes, he could definitely tell she’d had more than her usual share of caffeine. It was fuckingadorable. “What’s the most memorable movie you’ve ever been part of?”
He snorted. “That’s a tougher question than you might think. I’vebeen acting for over twenty years now. There are lots of possibilities to consider.”
For some reason, the bad roles were so much easier to remember than the movies whose premieres he’d attended with sincere pride. Probably more entertaining to hear about too.
Her stride was becoming an uncharacteristic sort of half jog, half skip, her hair swinging around her shoulders with each hyperactive, bouncing step. “Then tell me all of them.”
“Since that could take weeks, I’ll choose a representative sampling.” Damn, he needed to hustle faster to keep up with her. “My worst film overall was probably, um...Hounded, I guess.”
Her brow crinkled as she thought. “You were a perfumer in that one, right? Wrongly accused of a terrible crime?”
“Yes. A master perfumer, nicknamed the Hound for my extraordinary sense of smell.” After an exaggerated inhalation through his nose, he continued, “Which I then employed to hide from the authorities while locating my wife’s real killer.”
“As one does.” Her voice was as dry as the California hills in October. “And of course his wife’s murder served as his motivation. Of course.”
“Fridging at its most banal. Eventually, I discovered that my business rivals had formed a secret cabal, hired an assassin, and framed me in hopes of removing me from the perfume industry permanently.”
“Spoiler alert,” she chided him, lips quirked.
He huffed out a laugh. “My scenes mostly involvedsniffing. Turns out, it’s hard to make sniffing attractive or interesting to an audience. Which is some explanation as to why the movie flopped.” God, the reviews. Thosereviews. Not to mention the phone call from his parents after they’d seen one of the sparse local showings. “Itdid inspire an X-rated parody, though, from what my costars told me. One with a particularly clever name.”
As they walked, he waited, confident she could come up with it.
She bit her lip for a few moments, then brightened. “Pounded!”
“Brava, April.” Lifting their joined hands above their heads in triumph, he grinned at her. “That movie apparently involved a lot of sniffing as well. Among other activities. It also made more money than its inspiration. Probably featured better acting too.”
He’d wanted her to giggle, but she didn’t. Instead, for no reason he could fathom, her eyes had turned solemn, and he shifted his shoulders under the weight of her regard.
“You’re joking about it, but you must have learned a lot about perfumery for the role,” she finally said. “I may not know you well, but I can already tell you’re a professional. You care about your craft.”
Why that twisted his heart until it ached, he couldn’t have said.
“Uh, yeah, actually.” He squinted into the distance, where the water awaited them, blue and cool and comforting. “I visited a perfumery school in France. A world-class perfumer can identify over a thousand different scents, mostly by associating smells with specific memories. I worked on that a little. Learned about the history of perfume. Watched one woman grind ambergris with a mortar and pestle too, just for kicks.”
“Whatisambergris?” she asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
He smirked at her. “Hardened whale feces that washes onshore.” “You set me up for that.” Her eyes narrowed, but her mouth was twitching. “Shame on you. Now I have to go through my perfumes and find out just how much whale poop I’ve been spraying on myself for dates.”
Her perfume today smelled primarily of roses. His nose wasn’t particularlysensitive, as he’d discovered during that idyllic week in France, but he could also detect a trace of musk. And... other stuff, which real perfumers could no doubt pinpoint in a flash.
Where exactly she’d sprayed that perfume, he shouldn’t consider in public.
“Anyway, so that was one memorable role. The absolute worst script I ever had was probably for1 Wheel, 2 Real.” At her confused glance, he clarified. “The uplifting coming-of-age story of a troubled unicyclist. I think it got released directly to the DVR of one guy in Tulsa.”
When she laughed, she slowed down a fraction. “Holy shit. You can unicycle?”
“Of course,” he informed her loftily, nose in the air. “Like any serious thespian.”
Well-Groomed Golden Retriever Marcus would never use that term, of course. Even as himself, it sat oddly on his tongue. Too grand. Too lofty. A thespian, as opposed to an actor, demanded respect from the world at large, not simply others within the entertainment industry. A thespian possessed talent, not merely the capacity for hard work and a pretty face.
Pulling him to the edge of the sidewalk, she came to a dead halt. “But youarea serious thespian, Marcus.”
All that caffeine had clearly gone to her head. She sounded... angry, almost.
He lifted a shoulder, offering her a placating smile. “I’ve tried to be. I don’t know how successful I’ve been.”
