“Is that right? And who is it that you write about again?” I asked, my voice low and rough in my tight throat.
Her eyes widened and her pupils blew out. Maybe I had grumbled the words more clearly than I intended to. Maybe they had sounded just a bit flirty.
I wanted to hear her say it. I wanted her to tell me about the delicious scenes she wrote.
Then I realized I was being a dirty flirt and she had a boyfriend. I was being the scoundrel who used to take home any TF groupies who threw themselves at me. I would be better than that, even if having her so close overloaded my rational brain.
“I—”
I saved her from answering. “There’s nothing bad about love. And writing love. Just because women tend to write the most of it. It’s misogyny.”
She blinked.
“There could be horrific violence but the second a woman is shown in pleasure, then it’s considered trash,” I added.
Her mouth was hanging open again. “Y-yes.” She was nodding emphatically. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
“Damn the patriarchy,” I started, and we both finished. Her eyes widened at our synchronization, and we laughed.
Our bodies were leaning closer toward each other. I’d never been a breath away from her like this. It was a gift to be able to note the freckles that filters usually blurred. To be able to see how her lips moved as she spoke. The slight scrunch to her eyes as she thought. All the things I never get in an email.
I needed time to catalog every one of her emotions and how they looked passing over her features. To think, I could have been looking at her face this whole time.
Distantly, I was aware that the set around us had quieted. It must have been time to start filming, but I wasn’t ready to break this connection. The time was going too fast. Soon she’d be an ocean away again. But wasn’t that what I wanted? For everything to go back to the way things were?
I grossly underestimated what meeting Kate in person would do to my willpower.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re a good writer,” I whispered to only her.
I wanted Kate to feel confident going into our interview. She shouldn’t disparage herself or downplay what she wrote. She was talented and she should own that.
Her mouth dropped open, and only years of training for interviews stopped me from flinching at my misstep.
“Wait. Have you—”
“Here are your glasses, Miss Dubois.” Viviana handed over the glasses and Kate slid them on.
“Thank you.” She was staring at me but thankfully, just then, the director, Sally, walked up.
“Okay, glad to see you two chatting,” Sally said. “Keep it up, you know, read the cards. Keep it casual. Just a friendly conversation.” She patted my shoulder and smiled at Kate.
“Sounds good,” I said.
“And alternate. You ask one question and then Charlie,” she instructed Kate. “Good luck,” she said and strode back briskly to her chair.
Kate, who had been looking at me, mouth still hanging open, glanced up and scanned the groups of people around us with growing horror. With every second, her color drained as she realized just how many people would be watching our “casual” conversation.
“Kate,” I said her name softly.
Her hands balled in her lap, the cards getting crushed. She sat ramrod straight, and the tiny pulse at the base of her slender neck thrummed out of control.
“Kate,” I said her name again but sharper. This time she turned to me. “Hi.”
She blinked, confused. “Hi?”
“It’s a conversation. Just you and me.”
She huffed. “That isn’t exactly as helpful as you think it is.”
