Page 43 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Marlowe backpedaled, even though it was cute that he blushed. “I’m not frantically plotting for you to meet my parents simply because you let me use your shower and laundry room. I was referring to the running. My mom’s a marathoner. She’s on number fortysomething now. I lost track years ago.”
“Easily done if she’s run that many.” He stood and stretched his arms over his head while she lingered by the top of the stairs, clinging to the newel post. The hem of his T-shirt rode up, revealing a peek of his impossibly smooth abs and hipbones, which she definitely did not notice. “You hungry? I snuck out to the market in case you wanted to stay for brunch. I bought lots of green things, knowing how much you love the color.”
“Kermit should’ve copyrighted it before anyone tried to make kale drinkable.”
“Leave it to a frog to neglect the legalities.” He smiled, subtle but easy, as though he was totally relaxed having her in his home and in his clothes while he planned to cook with her. She didn’t notice that, either. “Let me get you a sweater first. I have the A/C cranked.You look a little cold.” He mimicked her posture by hunching his shoulders. Then he disappeared down a hallway, leaving her to ease her way into the room.
She cleared her mind by perusing the packed bookshelves that divided the living room from the kitchen beyond. The shelves contained mostly paperbacks with a few scattered hardbacks in no particular order. Popular fiction, literary fiction, a few classics, some sci-fi and fantasy titles, philosophy, sociology, essay collections, humor. The spines were creased. The edges were worn. There were no carefully positioned Shakespeare or Dickens sets, bound in embossed leather like the ones her dad displayed, even though he hadn’t read any of them. Angus’s collection was eclectic and without pretense. Never once had Marlowe seen an article mention that he was an avid reader, giving even more weight to his comments about packaged celebrity. His sexually charged bad-boy image was a brand, a means of baiting audiences and followers. He didn’t spend all of his weekends out partying or luring supermodels into his trailer. He stayed home, alone, reading.
He returned with a mushy cable-knit cardigan Marlowe wanted to snuggle in forever, though she tried not to pet it while he was watching. After a bit of small talk, he led her into the kitchen. Like the living room, the kitchen had a high ceiling and open views to the surrounding hills. The cabinetry was finished in off-white brushstrokes, providing brightness and texture in a space that was otherwise punctuated with stainless steel and dark, sleek granite, perhaps in Angus’s favorite gray. The room felt like him: a blend of hard and soft Marlowe hadn’t fully worked out yet. She contemplated the matter while she parked herself at the island and watched him scan the contents of his fridge.
“How do you feel about omelets?” he asked.
“I feel great about omelets, though I haven’t had one in ages.”
“What do you usually eat for breakfast?”
“Coffee. Toast. With butter if I remember to get to the grocery store. I’ve also been known to eat handfuls of Cheerios from the box when I forget to pick up milk.”
He shook his head without looking at her. “Okay. Maybe I am a food snob. At least it’ll be easy to impress you.” He lined up tomatoes while she tried not to wonder if she wanted to be impressed. Probably not. Definitely not. But also… maybe?
“I have way too much cheese in here.” He drew out a shallow drawer and set it on the counter. “Pick one. Or two or three. I’m good with any of them.”
Marlowe studied the drawer with caution. Feeling out of her depth as someone who usually purchased cheese in individually wrapped slices with bright orange discount stickers, she dug around and held up something labeled in French.
“How about this one?” She faced the label toward him.
His eyes widened. “That one? Really? For an omelet?”
“Wow. Sorry.” She started to put it back.
“I’m kidding.” He laughed as he took it from her, setting it beside a growing pile of fresh herbs and vegetables. “I need to work on my comic timing.”
“Or I need to work on my sarcasm radar.”
“I suspect it’s pretty acute already. You wouldn’t tolerate me otherwise.”
“I don’t tolerate you. I’m only here for the free laundry.”
“Then we’d better cook fast.” He flashed her another smile, one that included a glint of mischief in his amber eyes, a glint she added to her growing list of things she didn’t notice. Also included: the way he tested the ripeness of each tomato with a gentle squeeze and brushed soil off mushroom caps with the edge of his thumb.Thatthumb.
Unable to control her wandering thoughts without an activity, Marlowe asked Angus to put her to work. He set her up chopping herbs while he cracked eggs. The task was perfect. Without it she’d be fidgeting nonstop. He’d ask her why she was nervous. She’d claim she wasn’t nervous. He’d tease her about being unlucky, flirting his way through her defenses until she accidentally blurted out that she came in his shower last night. For… reasons. Definitely better to chop herbs.
“I looked up that article this morning,” Angus said as he whisked a splash of fresh cream in with the eggs. “I should’ve seen it coming. I overestimated the darkness of the club and the density of the crowd. I’m sorry I put you in that situation.”
She shifted a shoulder. “Not much we can do about it now.”
He stopped scrambling. “It won’t be the only article. Your episodes won’t stream for another three months. Now that a story’s been planted, the PR department will run with it, use the time to build a ‘did they or didn’t they’ debate. I made an appointment to meet with my personal rep on Monday. We’ll find a way to pivot the narrative about Tan, and I’ve already deleted that shot of you and me, but I don’t have much control over what the studio puts out. They’ll use whatever will make people tune in.”
A tremor of anxiety rippled through Marlowe, prickling like pins and needles.
“In other words, I can expect more frozen beverages in my hair?”
“Hopefully not, but you can expect more speculation, and some of the people speculating will cast you as a villain.” He fluttered an apologetic smile. “I’ve been there. It’s hard to avoid. You’re either loved or hated. There’s very little in-between. While it’s all building, you might consider how you filter your media intake.”
“You mean leave the party?”
“I mean figure out how to attend in a way that works for you. Obviously easier said than done.” He retrieved a small metal bowl and helped Marlowe sweep chopped basil into it. “The gossip circus can be hard to take, especially if you haven’t figured out how to tune some of it out yet.” He took her hand, plucking off stray bits of basil and flicking them into the bowl. He didn’t seem to notice the physical contact, but she watched every flick of his fingers. “People are hungry for clickbait. Anything you’ve ever put online is now fair game. Personal pics, offhand comments that can be taken out of context, prior relationships, any possible evidence that you’re not perfect. People love a good love story, but they’ll tune in even faster for a total train wreck.”
