“My darling swan,” he announced to Eddie, “arms out, chin up, try not to fall in love with me while I measure.”
Eddie obliged, stepping onto the platform, laughter already at the corners of his mouth.Up close he was the same impossible creature he’d always been—Paul Newman if Paul had learned Pilates and irony.The light loved him.It slid along his cheekbones, caught in his lashes, turned him into the most expensive thing in the room without him even trying.
“I’ve put on half a stone,” he confessed, grimacing, as Chris looped the tape around his ribcage.
“Where, your elbows?”Chris guffawed.“Breathe.In… and out… there we are.”
He swatted at Chris, laughing.“You’re vile.”
“Vile and accurate.”Chris squinted at the tape.“Thirty-eight and a whisper.Not a dram of drama.”
“Tell that to my wardrobe,” he said, rolling his eyes.“I’ve got the worst case of nerves in my career.I’ve never received a nomination before, and now I’m nominated for Best Actor.It’s obscene.”
“Obscene is the right word,” Chris said, sliding the tape to his waist.“Because it makes people misbehave.Thirty-two.Turn for me—hips.Lovely.Thirty-six and a smidge.Worst case of nerves, hmm?Have you tried champagne?”
“I tried a meditation app,” Eddie said.“It told me to unclench my jaw.I didn’t know I had a jaw.”
“You’ve got two,” Chris said.“One for the press, one for your exes.”
Eddie flicked a glance at me with a grin that said,caught.I busied myself with the clipboard, pretending to note numbers while actually noting the way his mouth tipped up more on the left.Old habits.
Chris, who loved gossip the way orchids love humidity, lowered his voice theatrically.“Is it true you’re dating Marcus Hale, then?Or shall I send a strongly worded letter to Hello!magazine?”
Eddie groaned.“Not anymore.Now I’ve only got eyes for my one true love—Percy.”
“The chihuahua?”I asked, because Percy had more followers on Instagram than most indie films.
“The very same.Men?Never again.Women?Not while they’re famous.”He cocked an eyebrow.“The dog, at least, doesn’t do an interview about it.”
“Arms down,” Chris said.“Shoulders back.You’re going to float, not walk.”He measured across his back, then down his spine to the small of it.“Nape to floor, glorious.And bicep, hold—mmm, fourteen.Perfect for a sleeve that says ‘award-winning’ without trying too hard.”
He stepped back, admiring Eddie like a sculptor approving a block he’d personally quarried.Then, breezy as a breeze, he tossed over his shoulder, “Speaking of dating, our Arthur is.”
Both Eddie and I said at exactly the same time, “Who?”
We caught each other’s eyes and laughed, the sound bouncing around the glass like a remembered kiss.Eddie’s smile softened, grew private, and for a moment I felt young again, brittle with possibility.
Chris waggled his eyebrows.“The American ambassador.Bryce Lewis.”
Eddie blinked, blank in that charming way actors are when you say anything not on a call sheet.“Should I know who that is?”
“No,” I blurted, feeling the heat in my cheeks and hating it.“We’ve only recently met, and nothing serious has come of it—”
“Yet,” Chris sang, cutting a flourish in the air with his tape.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—one decisive minor earthquake.Both of them looked at me as if I’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
“Well?”Eddie said, eyes bright.“Is that him?”
I pulled it out, thumb suddenly clumsy, and there it was, neat and heartbreakingly plain:
I had the day from hell.Can we meet tonight?I could really use the company.
My pulse skipped the way it does when a horse goes from trot to canter without asking permission.
“Read it out,” Eddie demanded.“Go on.”
“We are not teenagers,” I said, stuffing the phone back into my pocket.
