Even if I don’t get the part, I know I did good work. I understand the material. I’m fully prepared.
And my mother would be proud.
A sound rises from the floor, interrupting my dreams of success. Clairee stares at me from the doorway, her meow full-throated and insistent.
“Ready to go out?” She’s getting a little too comfortable, but I don’t mind. I’m growing attached to her little face and her gentle purrs. And honestly, I feel less alone in this giant apartment.
I fold the tripod and follow her to the door. I need a break. Some food. Time to recharge before I review the videos, a grueling process of elimination that might take hours.
She trails behind me down the stairs to the front door. We’ve developed something of a routine, and she rubs my calf as she passes. “See you later.”
I grin after her, pleased with my productive morning and the sunny day.
“Good morning.” Noah stands on the walkway, watching me.
And the cat scampering down my steps.
“I . . . hey,” I say, fumbling my words. I’m sure pets are forbidden, especially with velvet sofas and teak tables, all begging to become scratching posts. I gesture to the bushes where Clairee disappeared. “She just showed up the other night. And it was so rainy and cold and…”
Embarrassed, I falter, tugging on the hem of my shirt.
His chuckle surprises me. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
He slides his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “All of your secrets. BrookeSummers.”
My face goes slack. “How did you find out my name?”
“I talked to my aunt last night.” He indicates the building. “This is her place. She told me not to bother the actress staying here, because she wanted to keep a low profile.”
He gives me a sheepish grin. “After that, I couldn’t help searching for actresses named Brooke.”
I lick my lips. “Does anyone else know?”
“I haven’t told them. And I won’t,” he says, giving me a look of camaraderie and shared secrets.
“Okay. Thank you.” I relax in a way I didn’t expect. His knowing my secret should be upsetting, but it’s not. Maybe because he’s American. Or maybe it’s all the ways he’s different from the other Marteaus. And the fact they exclude him.
“I thought you might like to join me for coffee,” he says. “I also have croissants,” he adds, before I can reply. “Fresh from the bakery.” His voice lifts, teasing, as if he’s offering something I can’t refuse.
And he’s right, because I’m starving.
“You picked the perfect morning, because I haven’t eaten yet.” My shoes sit by the door, so I slip them on and grab the keys to lock up.
I join him on the walk, and we make small talk as we cross the courtyard. Safe subjects only, like the cat and the weather and if I take coffee or tea.
The layout of his apartment is different from mine, a less conspicuous set of stairs climbing one wall. The décor is stylish but more modern, dark-gray walls and sleek furniture. We pass a sitting room on one side, and an office on the other, windows framing a view of the courtyard.
“I’ve set up in the kitchen,” he says, walking slightly ahead of me, not leading as much as guiding.
In the kitchen, Noah points to a high stool at the island. “Have a seat, and I’ll pour your coffee.” The granite is covered with dishes—meats, cheeses, fruits, jams, and of course, the famous croissants.
Did he lay this out for himself? Or did he go to all this trouble on the chance I’d join him? The effort strikes me as more than a neighborly gesture, and a strange warmth settles in my chest.
I’m suddenly glad I filmed this morning, that I put on makeup and wore real clothes. Not my usual yoga pants and T-shirt.
He sets a cup in front of me, along with cream and sugar. “How did it go the other night?”
I blink. “Sorry?”
