Page 21 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
They raised their tacos in a sort of toast. As they ate, he told her more about his family and she related a few stories about her own. His childhood was full of noise and competition for attention. Hers was defined by a quiet undertone of disapproval. They discovered they’d both had hamsters, neither of whom had lived long and both of whom received elaborate backyard funerals. Angus had visited every continent. Marlowe had only left North America twice. He ran thirty to forty miles a week. She stuck to single digits. They both grew up near a coast, though she hadn’t seen the Pacific Ocean until she abandoned her theater career for a shot in the film and TV industry (aka a place to hide from critics and angry exes). To her surprise, he displayed no judgment about anything she shared. He listened as if he was interested. She didn’t know how long their truce would last, but for almost half an hour, he was no longer Angus Gordon, untouchable TV star who looked down on “peoplelike her.” He was a guy she was having lunch with. After so many months of always eating alone, she was grateful for the company.
Four more hours of shoe shopping later, Marlowe finally parked at the Hardwired Jeans store. Hardwired was Angus’s favorite brand and the one Babs most often used to dress him, discounting anything custom made. The styles drew on Old West influences, though the cuts were distinctly modern and the high prices created a sense of exclusivity.
Marlowe unfastened her seatbelt, letting it bunch up on the floor when the retraction mechanism failed. Beside her, Angus faced similar challenges, but with the effort of an aquanaut escaping a giant squid, he eventually untangled the straps.
“We’re tight on time,” she said as they got out of the car. “Let’s grab three or four pairs that might work. Then you can assure Babs we couldn’t possibly make a decision without her input since I don’t know a mid-wash from a vintage finish.”
Angus’s brows inched up above his aviators. “I’m guessing that’s a lie?”
“Better not to ask or I’ll regale you with a lecture on the differences between a tint, a treatment, a wash, and a finish. You don’t need to hear it and Babs doesn’t need to know that I know. Oh, and also, please don’t mention we had lunch together.”
“So we shopped all day without eating?”
“Fasting’s big in L.A., right?”
“Juice fasts, maybe.”
“Works for me. Shoes, jeans, and juice. That’s all. Agreed?” She held out a hand.
He took it in his own and gave it a firm shake. “Agreed, as longas I can make fun of the disgusting green goo you sucked down as though it was water.”
“I happen to adore green goo.”
“I suspected as much by your enthusiastic spinach intake.”
“And I question your excessive garnish demands.”
“One can never have too many serrated strawberries.”
“So I’ve heard.”
They swapped a brief smile before releasing their handshake. It was amicable, straightforward, and precisely what it should’ve been, but as the two of them headed inside the store, Marlowe felt an unexpected wave of sadness wash over her. In other circumstances—like if he wasn’t rich and famous with a gorgeous girlfriend, and she wasn’t… herself—their agreement might be the start of a new private language. Next time they got together, she’d order something green. He’d pile on serrated strawberries. They might even laugh about her absurd napkin-to-food ratio or his random fascination with shoe construction. Instead, the moments were only moments. Nothing more.
She glanced down to realize she was twisting at her ring finger again. She seriously had to quit that habit. She’d find someone who’d share more than moments with her. Someone who wasn’t her ex. Someone who wouldn’t make her feel small.
Ten minutes later, Marlowe was parked in a chair by a trio of fitting rooms while Angus hauled in an armload of jeans, unwilling to grab a few pairs and go. Since he’d been kind enough to warn her about the potential downsides of the acting gig, and since she was too tired to argue, she humored him. His head and shoulders poked out above the saloon-style doors while his feet and calves protruded below. As he changed, she passed the time by trying yet again to describe his hair. Russet? Too brown. Burnt sienna? Tooorange. Pumpkin? Squash? Carrot? Yam? Something that didn’t come from a garden?
She was still debating the matter when he stepped out in a pair of dark-wash jeans, holding up his T-shirt hem to examine the fit, and also probably to show off his abs. Marlowe found the instinct humorous but she didn’t totally despise it.
“What do you think?” He twisted away from her.
She stifled a laugh. “Are you asking me to check out your ass?”
“Someone has to make sure it’s camera ready.”
“I believe that’s your job.”
“Just tell me what you think of the jeans.” He did a slow turn.
Marlowe stood and took a closer look. “They’re a size too big in the waist, the color’s too cold against your complexion, the rise is off, your legs would look longer in a boot cut, and that pocket detail’s in the wrong place for your proportions.”
“So youwerelooking at my ass.”
“Occupational hazard. Try another pair.”
Angus stepped back into the fitting room and flung the dark-wash jeans over the door. Marlowe made a Herculean effort at studying a gaslight-inspired lamp on the table beside her, but her gaze soon traveled back to the fitting room. This time it didn’t land on Angus’s hair. It lingered on his bare lower legs. His calves tensed as he adjusted his weight, revealing the sharp outline of each well-toned muscle. She’d always envied people with great legs, mainly because she was such a lousy runner. She had legs like broomsticks. Angus had legs like freaking Atlas. And he was on the other side of the saloon doors, shuffling pairs of jeans that were totally not on his body right now. Which meant he was only wearing—
“Can I ask you a question?” he called as he shifted behind the doors.
