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“Hmm...must be hard to share the same surname.”
She got a glass and poure
d herself some water from the fridge’s water filter.
“Eight glasses a day?”
She glanced at him. “What do you think? It’s good for the complexion.”
“You’re very disciplined.”
She took a sip. “I have to be.”
“Because your father isn’t?”
“I don’t define myself relative to him.”
Rick’s lips twitched. “Okay, so you’re not your father.”
“Of course.”
“How old were you when he walked out?”
She put down the glass. “Nearly five. But even when he was there, he wasn’t really. He disappeared for stretches. Some of it was spent touring as a sax player with a band. Then he moved out for good a few days before my fifth birthday.”
“Must have been rough.”
“Not really. The party went on without him.” She remembered the pink heart piñata. Her first major role was putting on a smile for the photos when it was just her and her mother.
“Did he ever try coming back?”
“There were a few flyovers until I became a teenager.”
“Brief?”
“Very.” Either her parents would argue, or Michael Feran would quickly move on to his next big thing.
“Right.” Rick looked as if he’d drawn his own conclusions.
“Why are we talking about this?” she asked again, her voice sharp.
“I need to get the story straight so I’m not contradicting you when I speak.”
“Well, there’s nothing to tell.”
“That’s not what the press thinks.”
Yup, he had her there. Which was the crux of her problem. Straightening her shoulders, she grabbed her car keys from the kitchen counter. On second thought, she could have breakfast at the studio—there was always food around. “Well, I’m off. See you on set.”
“I’m coming with you,” Rick responded casually. “Or rather, you’re coming with me.”
She stopped and faced him. “Excuse me?”
“My car or yours?”
“Do you have an endless supply of pickup lines?”
“Do you want to find out?”
