“A breach of privacy,” he echoed bitterly. “If only that were enough to stop that shit.”
“Wait, this has happened to you?”
“Not that exact thing—no library card, remember? But plenty of other stuff. Besides, libraries are supposed to be peaceful. I get filmed at the grocery store.”
“I’m sure a library would let you in after hours.”
“Then it would no longer be apubliclibrary, would it? Which is counter to the concept.” She’d come within his reach. He held out a hand and she let him pull her up. There was something gentlemanly about it—Regency romance vibes. “I went to the Louvre once, in normal hours. I got asked to leave.”
“Why, what did you do?”
“Naively thought I could slip in unnoticed. This was a while back, when I was still in denial about what my life could and couldn’t be. This school group from Wichita started following me around, then others joined, and it got rowdy. Hard to get lost in art when you’re stuck in a flash mob and they’re pulling out your hair.”
“Pulling out yourhair?”
“It’s a thing.” He checked his “mirrors” and set off upward. “Women get it more than men, but my hair was longer back then. Plus, I was ruining the vibe for the people who’d paid for bucket-list quality time with theMona Lisa. The staff offered me a private tour after hours, but I wanted to be in among it, lost in a crowd, lost in art. Invisible. Stupid, right?”
“Not at all. That’s one of my favorite things to do in the world. I loathe being the center of attention.”
“Me too.”
“Huh?”
“Sure, it’s an occupational hazard, but I have this fantasy of walking down the street and no one recognizing me. No double takes, no calling ahead, no security vetting.”
“Yourfantasy? That’s never happened to you?”
“One of my earliest memories is of being in a clothing store with my mom, and every single person was looking at us. Faces, everywhere. It was years before I realized that didn’t happen to other people. I was so confused when Mom toldmenot to stare. Watch out for that tree root, it’s loose.”
The climbing was becoming automatic, a natural rhythm of lead and follow, though she didn’t dare look down. Much more pleasant to look up at him, his muscles and sinews shifting, to listen to his voice rather than her thoughts. She was scaling a gully, yet she hadn’t felt this calm in weeks.
“Is that why no one’s allowed to look at you on set?”
“During filming? Depends on what’s happening in the scene, whether the other actors are supposed to be noticing me or not.”
“I mean, all the time. On camera, off camera. The cardinal rule: No one looks at Griffin Hart.”
He halted, bracing against a granite alcove. “Are you trolling me?”
“No? I assumed it was your rule.”
“Nope. Wow. That explains why no one meets my eye. I was getting a complex. Who told you of this ‘rule’?”
“Several people. One said an extra got fired for looking at you.”
“The things people say! The things people believe. Did you believe it?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“But…?”
How did she phrase this diplomatically? Some of the other big-name actors were friendly with the extras, but not Griffin. He didn’t acknowledge they existed, in the way you didn’t acknowledge paint existed. “You do … keep to yourself. I thought I would be shown the door when I tried to ask you about the photo. And there’s the twenty-foot rule, and theMr.Hart rule.”
As she caught up to him, he moved off again. The angle of the incline was easing as they reached the sandstone layers. “Okay, yes, I do like to keep to myself so I can stay focused—but the extra who was walked off the set? She’s a stalker who’s convinced she’s my mother. She’s harmless enough—I think—but she’s not permitted to come within twenty feet of me, legally, so I’m guessing that’s what you mean by the ‘twenty feet rule’? Security looked after her until her son could pick her up.”
“Oh.”
“I have forty-seven active stalkers. As in, the ones my security detail keeps a file on. My manager has a filing cabinet of restraining orders, but even so, one or two usually hang around outside my street or follow my car. But what’s the ‘Mr. Hart rule?’”
