‘What’s going through your mind right now?’ Beau asks. ‘Because what you’ve just played was exquisite.’
Was I playing?I didn’t even hear it.
He holds out his phone, and I get up from the piano. It’s a video he’s just taken, capturing music I don’t even remember. It’s like having an out-of-body experience, watching this. ‘How did you know to record that?’
‘The look on your face,’ he explains as I pass the phone back.
Thisis creative intimacy.
Actually, this is intimacy, full stop. Maybe not the scorching hot, light-up-the-sky stuff he’s used to. It’s not dazzling, in the way he described. But quiet power is still power, isn’t it?
‘Maybe you don’t need lightning bolts with this new character. Not every woman has to be dangerous,’ I suggest.
He pauses. ‘Not every woman has to be dangerous in the same way.’ Blue eyes flash on some stormy, far-off horizon. We’re no longer talking about the fiery woman his character was based on. We’re talking about someone else, and something much deeper.
‘Are you thinking about Lucinda?’ I ask, and he snaps his attention back to me, confused. He is ruffled now, cool Viper mask dissolving, ruptured heart on display. I think he’s trying to work out how I’ve read his mind.
‘Come on, Beau,’ I say, stepping closer to him. ‘No secrets here anymore. Now it’s the look onyourface. I don’t mean to pry. It’s just, she’s the only woman emblazoned across your chest. She clearly means a lot to you. Nobody else is, well …’ I glance at his shirt. ‘Inscribed on your body.’
‘Have you conducted an inventory?’ he asks.
Yes.
‘No! I just thought maybe she’s the answer to your writer’s block. All the others are with you inWho? Weekly. She’s written on you. Permanently.’
‘Physical inventories plus homework reading? You’re turning into quite a fangirl, Hepburn.’
Yes. I am. And now I’m burning with embarrassment, my mind going haywire in its attempt to shake off and lighten this line of discussion, for some reason landing on thederangedclapback: ‘Struggling not to take my bra off and throw it at you as we speak!’
He laughs. ‘Is that so?’
Of course it isn’t!My cheeks are on fire. ‘April forwarded the article, and several others, about you and Harlow, and you and the actress I can only assume is the woman behind this movie script derailment. And about you and Lucinda. April is the real fangirl. She has an encyclopaedic knowledge …’
‘And what conclusions has she drawn?’
I can see this conversation going very badly.
‘She thinks you’re obviously …’Smoking hot, I think were her exact words.His eyes, Audrey. Those pecs!‘Talented. She said your last movie was nominated for Best Original Screenplay.’
‘I co-wrote it,’ he clarifies.
‘I remember. With a writer named—’
He’s caught in the headlights now. ‘Lucinda Taylor.’
‘To whom you were engaged, according to April. And who inspired you to get inked.’Why am I interrogating him?
‘The ink was permanent,’ he clarifies. ‘The engagement was not.’
I try not to look too thrilled, rearranging my face intosupportive muse mode.
‘What’s with the inquisition, anyway?’ Frown lines furrow around his eyes as he leans into the curve of the piano, arms crossed on the lid. He needs to workshop this obstacle before it tears his project apart.
Swallowing, I push back the stool and rise to my feet. ‘Perhaps your current block is because you’re writing without your former partner, with whom you enjoyed great success, and you’re scared you can’t replicate that success without her?’
The room catches this and holds it for a beat. ‘Where did you read that?’
I round the piano as he straightens and turns to face me. ‘Here,’ I say, brushing the side of his face, restraining myself from threading my fingers through his hair and pulling him towards me. I’m so nervous, it’s as if I’ve summoned the nerve to touch a lion itself.
