He nodded and glanced around, looking fully uncomfortable now. Or maybe curious? He’d slipped on a hat and glasses before we walked to a small bistro off set. Now we sat under dangling wisteria that mostly blocked us from the other patrons. Not that his fame mattered in LA. Pretty sure that was a reality TV star sitting a few tables away. And was that James Roe? I brought my focus back to Charlie.
“Meh. I’ve done plenty of blabbing today,” I said.
“Not really. Not about anything real. That was just”—he thumbed behind him, presumably referring to the studio—“for television.”
“Ah, I see how it is. You can give canned answers, but I have to share the juicy deets,” I teased.
“Tit for tat?” he asked, leaning back and crossing his arms, almost in challenge.
Was Charlie really proposing we share actual details about our lives? Did normal people do this? I had no frame of reference anymore.
“Like the interview, only we pick the questions,” I said, trying really hard to not think about the fact that this was happening.
“Deal,” he said.
“Excellent.” I mirrored his cocky posture. “I ask first,” I added quickly. “Since I already showed you mine.”
His square jaw clenched, and his eyes squinted as he watched me, like we were the final two players in a high-stakes round of poker. Finally, he tossed out his hands to the side as though he, Hollywood’s most reclusive former child star, was a totally open book. “Shoot.”
“Where do you live?” I asked. Then realized that was a little too personal. “Like, not your actual address. I swear I’m not going to show up and, break your leg or something. Just in what general area do you live?”
“Southwest England.” He watched my face closely. I wondered if I had a piece of lettuce in my teeth.
“Not London?” I had assumed he had a place in the city.
He shook his head. “My turn.” He drummed his fingertips on the table in thought. I sat hypnotized as his thick, deft fingers moved in a soft pattern. When he cleared his throat to speak, I blinked up at him. “Do you like living in Minnesota?” he asked.
I tilted my head. I hadn’t remembered telling him that.
“It was on the bio sheet Sally gave me before we met,” he said. The tips of his ears were red. Was he embarrassed that he remembered that detail? Because I had to say, I really,reallyliked that he knew anything about me at all.
I shrugged as I thought about the question. Did I? I liked the Twin Cities during the roughly three months it wasn’t freezing. “I like parts of it. I didn’t think I’d be there this long.”
“Where would you live if you could pick anywhere?” He watched me as he took another bite, his jaw working.
“I have a friend in England. He sends me pictures from time to time. It looks mild where he is. I like to envision living in a tiny cottage somewhere.” I closed my eyes to imagine it. “Me, writing away by a fireplace, with a little cup of tea. Surrounded by books. And snacks. Like a little hobbit.”
When I opened my eyes again, Charlie swallowed his last bite audibly and stared at me. Unblinkingly. This time, I was absolutely sure there had to be something in my teeth.
I ran my tongue over my teeth. Had I misstepped?
“Hey, wait a minute,” I said. He went still again, his eyes widening fractionally. He was watching me like … like I don’tknow. Like I understood something about him that I could hold over him?
Had he already said more than he was comfortable sharing? Because he hadn’t shared much. Also, he didn’t seem uncomfortable in the same way I’d seen him in countless interviews. He seemed far more relaxed. Like how he had been on the phone call, I not-so-accidentally overheard. But there was an undefinable tension that I couldn’t quite compute.
“That was two questions,” I finished.
He let out a sharp breath and laughed good-naturedly before pushing his plate away. “You caught me. You can ask two this time.”
“Mwahaha! I’m drunk on power.” I rubbed my hands together like an evil genius.
He coughed out a laugh. I swore if I could monetize GIFs of him with that smile and that gleam in his eyes, I would be set for life.
I tucked my hair behind my ears. “Why is it that you hate interviews so much?” I asked, feeling braver with his looseness.
It was no secret that he kept to himself and rarely left this home. Or that he hated giving interviews.
“Straight to the bone on that one, huh?” he said. He scraped a nail across the metal tabletop. “I’m rubbish at them, truth be told. Not like you, you were a bloody natural today.”
