I turned back to the bar.
Mark was staring at me, both hands flat on the bartop like he was trying not to levitate.
"She said she'll call," I said.
He made a sound that wasn't a word.
"Mark."
"I'm fine." He picked up his beer with slightly shaking hands. "I'm completely fine. That's Ellis Jones saying she'll call. I'm fine."
I laughed and it came out a little unsteady, because I wasn't entirely fine either. Ellis Jones had put her hand on my shoulder in a dive bar in New Mexico and told me she'd be in touch.
Daphne Wilder was going places.
I took a long sip and tried to sit inside that feeling without immediately worrying about what came next.
Rick leaned in from my right. He smelled like good cologne and an even better night. And the thing was—Rick Mercer was not a bad option. Objectively. Tall, dark-eyed, had spent the day being competent and physical and easy to work with. When he smiled at you he smiled like you were the only person in the room.
Under different circumstances I might have smiled back differently.
"Hell of a day," he said.
"Hell of a day," I agreed.
"You headed out tomorrow?"
"One more shot in the morning. Then I'm done."
"Shame." He turned toward me, unhurried. "You were incredible out there. Most actors tense up on the first take."
"Thank you." I meant it. Coming from Rick it wasn't a line—he'd been the one on the horse.
"I also want to formally apologize," he said, "for kidnapping you. And for the whole—dying thing."
I laughed. "You were very menacing."
"I've been told I have a menacing face." He didn't look menacing right now. Warm, a little hopeful, genuinely pleased with how the day had gone. "Look, I know you're leavingtomorrow, but—you want to get out of here? Find somewhere quieter?"
Straight. No games. I appreciated that.
I smiled at him. The real one, not the Daphne one.
"Rick," I said. "You were great today. Genuinely. But I'm good here."
He read it without flinching. Just nodded.
"Somebody else?" he asked.
I opened my mouth.
The door opened and a group from set spilled in, loud and sun-worn, and Sawyer was with them—hat gone, dark henley pushed up at the sleeves, the St. Christopher medal catching the bar light at his collar. His curls were close to his head, defined, the kind of hair that looked like it was taken care of rather than fussed over. He was talking to someone from Dale's crew, relaxed, not scanning the room.
Then he was.
His eyes found mine across the bar and he lifted his chin once.
"Maybe," I said to Rick.
