Page 15 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“Why don’t I go with you?” Angus offered.
Marlowe froze. Cherry gaped. Babs forced a pained smile.
“The last thing you need to do is spend your day off running errands with a PA.” Babs laughed lightly as she set a hand on his shoulder, stealing an admiring glance when his eyes were averted. “Surely you have better ways to spend your time.”
“Nothing vital,” he said. “And it’ll save you having to fit me in next week.”
“Not if I have to make the selection. I’m still the designer.”
“True, but I’m sure—what was it, Margot? Marley?—knows your aesthetic by now.” He tucked his sunglasses into his neckline, cleverly dislodging Babs’s hand as he wedged them into place. “You’re always so generous about training the people who work for you, imparting your wisdom, making sure your assistants learn from the best.”
Cherry choked on a laugh, hiding it with a fake sneeze. Marlowe grabbed the upright pole at the end of the nearest rack, bracing for Babs to bust a gasket, but Babs remained calm, in an annoyed hostess kind of way. All smiles and la-di-da flicks of a wrist, she explained that despite her exhaustive mentoring efforts, a PA was hardly an artistic authority. Angus countered with well-orchestrated flattery, outmaneuvering her at every step.
Ten minutes later, after a quick stop in Elaine’s office, Marlowe found herself heading out the door with Angus while poor Cherry was left behind to tend to Babs. As soon as they were outside the building, Marlowe spun on Angus.
“What are you doing?” she asked with more force than she’d intended.
He stumbled back a step. “You don’t think I need jeans?”
“I don’t think you need them in the next twelve hours.” She studied him, searching for evidence of ulterior motives, finding none. He just stood there, looking impenetrably serious. As usual. “You knew Babs would be busy today, didn’t you?”
He shifted a shoulder. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Not that badly if you don’t even remember my name.”
“You said we didn’t know each other. I was playing along.”
She scrambled for a retort but couldn’t find one, so she pursed her lips and headed toward her car with Angus following a step behind.
“Mar-loh.” He leaned toward her, watching for her reaction, as though the simple recollection of her name would impress her. “Like that actress from the sixties?”
“Like the detective. My mom’s a Raymond Chandler fan.” This time she watched for his reaction. He simply nodded, giving her no indication of whether or not he knew who Raymond Chandler was. It hardly mattered, but she wondered what he did like to read, a thought that irritated her to no end. “Let me guess. You’re named after the beef?”
He smiled, something she’d rarely seen him do in person, only on screens or in a fake way for fans. His smile made her want to smile back but she restrained herself, not wanting to resemble one of those fans, going gooey at a glimpse of his perfect teeth.
“Angus is a family name,” he said. “My family’s big on tradition. Long line of Scots. We have a tartan but no cattle, and therefore no beef.”
Marlowe considered asking him what his tartan looked like, but then she’d picture him in a kilt and her mind would wanderin a direction she didn’t want it to go. So the two of them crossed the parking lot without further conversation, stopping when they reached her rusted, flaking hatchback. Rather than find her keys, she sat back against the hood. He stood nearby, taking in the glorious splendor of her vehicle while raking a hand through the reddish hair she still couldn’t accurately describe.
“You don’t have to come with me,” she said.
“I know, but I want to.”
“In this?” She patted the corroded hood, then brushed grit off her fingertips.
He peered in, shielding his eyes. “It’ll be an adventure.”
“It’ll be about as adventurous as individually peeling the skin off a bag of peas.” She felt a scowl settle onto her face. She tried to dial it down from intense irritation to mild displeasure but it proved remarkably hard to soften. She kept picturing Angus flying out of the room yesterday, irate that he’d been forced to read with her. “Whatever you wanted to say, say it here and we can both carry on with our lives.”
“What about the jeans?”
“I know your size. I’ll pick some up. Babs can fit you here next week.”
“What about the coffee I was going to buy you?” His smile inched up again.
She locked her arms across her chest. “I can buy my own coffee.”
“I never said you couldn’t.”
