Page 16 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“And I don’t want to shop with you.”
“How do you know you don’t want to do something you’ve never even tried?” His eyes danced as his smile widened. This time Marlowe felt no inclination to mirror it.
“Don’t flirt with me,” she said.
“Was I flirting?”
“Is that rhetorical?”
“Depends how loosely you define rhetoric.”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” She threw up her hands as she practically leapt off the car. “You strut around set like we should all feel privileged to breathe the same air as you, you show no consideration whatsoever for people who are working hard to makeyoulook good, and yet you seriously think all you have to do is smile at a girl and she’ll—”
“They’re going to call you. That’s what I wanted to talk about.” The amusement faded from his eyes as he watched her, all hint of flirtation gone.
A silence stretched out, heavy and muddled.
“You’re not kidding, are you?” Marlowe asked.
He shook his head, slowly, the way people do when they wish they were nodding.
“Wow,” she said. “Then I guess you’re coming with me after all.”
Chapter Seven
Angus poked at the louvers on the air vent, leaning forward to peer into them the way people in horror movies study dark spaces right before aliens leap onto their faces.
“You seriously don’t have air-conditioning?” he asked.
“I seriously don’t.” Marlowe eased onto the northbound highway, merging in with the slow trudge of L.A. traffic. She’d been in the car with Angus for fifteen minutes now and so far he’d remarked on the shabby vinyl upholstery, the unidentifiable stains on the dashboard, the strange device that manually rolled down the window, the cracked cup holder, the lack of leg room, and the odor he said smelled like his grandmother’s pot roast, a dish he clearly thought of without fondness.
“We should’ve taken my car,” he said.
“Do I want to know what you drive? Porsche? Ferrari? Corvette? Something low and shiny with doors that open up instead of sideways?”
“Tesla,” he said. “This city has enough smog.”
She snuck in a quick glance as the car crept forward. Angus was struggling to roll down his window. Despite his concerted efforts,the handle barely budged and the pane only shifted a couple of inches in its track. His concentration on the effort amused her, and also, okay, the environmentally conscious car choice was seriously decent.
“Why do you think they’ll call?” she asked.
“Why wouldn’t they?” He gave up on the window, leaving it open just enough for the draft to flutter his cowlicks. “The show’s on its last legs. Everyone knows that. Audiences are ready for something new but the producers are hoping to squeeze one more season out of us. They’ll try anything that might bring in more viewers. All that press is too good to waste. Besides, you nailed the read.”
She hit the brakes, jerking the car to a stop inches from hitting an expensive-looking Mercedes. She blinked at the too-close bumper, but the second she caught her breath, she whipped around to face Angus, certain she’d heard him wrong.
“I made up my own lines,” she said. “I stammered. I lost my place. I wept, for god’s sake, and I made you rush from the room so fast you probably got windburn.”
“Youdidn’t make me rush out. The situation did.”
“You mean being forced to read with someone who’s ‘not even an actress’?”
“Wow. No. I’m sorry you heard that. Let me explain.” He rotated to face her, wedging himself against the door and drawing a hand over his chin in a way that was already becoming familiar. “How did you feel on the day that hashtag broke?”
She flashed through tweets and video clips, each one burned into her memory.
“Weird, I guess? Judged. Dissected. Like I was desperate to defend myself to total strangers but I knew engaging would onlymake things worse. All those assumptions. The speculation. The jokes. I hated it. I felt”—she searched for the right word—“naked.”
“Now imagine feeling that way all the time.”
