Page 39 of Out of the Gold

He sips his wine. “So tell me something, Goldie. What was it that drew you to costume design in the first place?”

His choice of topic relaxes me. I love design and can blabber on about it for ages. While removing a mussel from its shell, I reply, “It’s the fantasy of it, you know? Creating a feeling through fabrics that translate to the screen. The challenge of figuring out what conveys the best visible support to bring the writer’s words to life. Sometimes it’s subtle—like the Manipul8 Stitch inside your leggings—while other times it’s big, like a wedding dress.” I shove more stew into my mouth to stop myself from waxing too poetic.

He places his fork on his empty plate. “I never thought about it in those terms. It was always what do I have to wear so I can get on with delivering my lines.” He closes his eyes. “Now that you mention it, though, I can see exactly what you’re saying. About how wardrobe enhances the overall presentation. I mean, I always knew it was important—hell, there are Oscars for it—but I never truly understood how vital until you put it in those terms.” He reaches over and places his hand on top of mine. “Thank you.”

After a long pause, I remove my hand from under his by taking another bite. “That was why when your glove problem happened, we were all frantic. Of course, there was no excuse for the buckle getting caught in the actor’s hair, but so much planning went into every piece of the design. When that one part went sideways, we had to rethink everything on the fly.”

He nods. “I get it. Your solution is working well. No problems. And it looks good with the costume.”

I sigh. “I am really sorry that happened.”

“And I’m sorry for how I overreacted.” His kissable lips tip upward. “But it’s all fixed now. And it really was the only problem we’ve had.”

I rap on the table. “Knock on wood.” I take one final swallow and place my fork down onto the nearly empty plate. “Enough about me. What got you into acting in the first place, Mr. Hotshot?” No more use of “Movie Star,” even in jest. He’s so much more.

He glances sideways. “Well, you know I was into acting back in Chicago. I got my first role in middle school.”

“Emory Middle School?”

“Yeah.” He rubs his forehead. “I fell into it by accident, sort of. I didn’t set out to be in the drama club for acting. I was, ah, looking for a new identity.” His cheek hollows like he’s clenching it.

I cock my head. “What was wrong with your old identity?”

“He wasn’t someone I wanted to be.”

I sit back in my chair, mulling over his last statement. The waiter comes and clears our table, then asks if we want any dessert. I want to explore this conversation more with Charles, but the server seems to linger forever. When neither one of us orders anything—him because of his crazy diet and me because I’m way too full—the disgruntled waiter finally leaves us alone. And reappears within moments with our bill.

My hand reaches for the check so I can calculate my portion. Charles is too fast and holds out his credit card, which the waiter spirits away.

“Charles. Let me pay half.”

“No, Goldie. I never let a date pay for anything.”

I blink. Date? “I appreciate that, but . . .” How can I say this?

He interrupts my thought. “I like you. I like spending time with you. And for some reason, I’m willing to share way too much about myself with you.”

My heart rate accelerates. “Oh.” I place my napkin on top of the table, for want of something to do. “I, uhm. Well, I’m enjoying our time together, too.”

The waiter returns and Charles signs the receipt. Leaving it on the table, his face lights up as he gets to his feet. Walking behind me, he helps me stand then lets his hand slide down my arm until our fingers are intertwined. “Let me walk you back to your hotel.”

“Okay.” I don’t even recognize my own fog-filled voice. I clear my throat. “I’d like that.”

He squeezes my hand. The cleft in his chin winks at me, causing my stomach to flip. Once we’re back on the nighttime street, he turns his head. “Which way?”

I point down the road, back toward the ferry. “My hotel is down there, on the right-hand side.”

His blue eyes scan the horizon and land on my hotel. “Nice view.”

“I like it. Although, I’m sure it doesn’t compare with where you’re staying.”

He shrugs. “It’s a hotel.”

We walk in silence on the sidewalk, watching as tourists and Italians alike stop and gawk at my date. Mydate? My eyes stray down to our joined hands. “Do you always cause such a commotion?”

He rolls his eyes. “People are amazed that I walk on the street like a regular human being. I guess they think I live in a mansion filled with naked women who do my bidding at all times.” He chuckles, but it sounds sad to me.

I slant him a glance. “I’m sure you have plenty of naked bunnies running around.”

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