Souvenirs (17 page)

Ian—no,
Bennett
—recited the line she’d written, the one he’d fluffed so many times. Then he cocked an eyebrow, looked her in the eyes, and said it the way he wanted. And it was better his way. She nodded and picked up her script.

He put his large hand over the page, preventing her from working. “A few other items, if you please?”

“Yes, milord?”

He plucked the fabric around his neck. “Cravats are like leashes. I am constrained enough without voluntarily strangling myself in my own home.” He tugged his waistcoat. “And I don’t fancy this. Neither the fabric nor the color suit.”

“But it matches your eyes,” she blurted. Heat crept up her neck.

“Yes it does, but I’m not fond of people watching my eyes or recognizing my clothes. This needs to be mingy.”

“Mingy?”

“Ugly, sweet.” He winked at her. “One last item.”

“Sir?”

His face changed as he leaned closer. The angles became more pronounced, his eyes glittered. His muscles hardened.
Hello, Lord Weathermore.
“I don’t fancy a chit ordering me about like a houseboy,” he growled, “no matter how many freckles are on her nose.”

Grace resisted the urge to cover her nose and scoot away. Ian blinked, then blinked again, and Bennett reappeared. His posture eased as he flexed his jaw and his neck. The planes of his face softened.

“We have to share him, Grace. I promise I’ll take care of him, but you have to trust me.”

His words haunted her for the rest of the day as she stared at the script and then at the pages on her screen. They were
her
words. When she had nothing else, she could point to these pages. They were her friends, her real estate, her children.

I’m tired of trying.

They were her hiding place.

The next morning, she walked into the read-through and smiled at the group sitting around the table. Everyone was friendly, but for the first time there were more people sitting on Bennett’s side of the room.

She gave him his pages and whispered, “See if this is better.” Resisting the urge to hover, she took her seat across the table.

His gaze roved the page as he whispered the words. He looked up with a smile. “Thank you, Idgie.”

“Idgie?” The cast and crew parroted her nickname, laughing. Bennett joined in as she dropped her head to her folded arms.

“Sorry.” His stage whisper encouraged more teasing.

“Idgie? C’mon, tell us.” The coaxing grew to a chorus.

She sighed in resignation but lifted her head and enunciated the initials. “E.G. It’s a family nickname.” She rolled her eyes. “And Bennett is attached to it.”

After read-throughs, the wardrobe supervisor stopped Grace in the hall. The woman had a wide swath of orange silk over her shoulder and one extended arm. Gold dragons paraded across a background of red
fleur de lis
.

“What do you think for his dressing gown? I love the pattern. It’s correct for the time period, and the color is wonderful. He’d look—”

Grace put up her hand. “Bennett’s with the hairdresser. Take it to him and see what he thinks. Weathermore is his.”

“Do I have to? He’s been in a mood for days.”

“He should be better now.”

The woman walked away, and Grace closed her door. Safe in her office, she plugged in her iPod and put the buds in her ears. Playing with the volume, she finally found a level just above blaring.

Satisfied, she reviewed the required edits, but every line of Weathermore dialogue was uttered in Bennett’s voice and it overwhelmed even the deafening pop music. Gritting her teeth against the painful memories, she bent to her work.

Late in the afternoon, she unplugged and stretched her neck and shoulders. Using her stiff muscles as an excuse, she went in search of coffee she shouldn’t drink this late in the day.

She skidded to a stop inside the break room doorway. Bennett was sprawled across the sofa, where he’d fallen asleep while reading. She found a blanket in a nearby cabinet and watched for movement as she shut off the light and lifted the book from his chest. Even though she left his glasses, he stirred anyway, pulling them off and letting them dangle.

“Shh.” She left her hand on his chest until he quieted, then draped the blanket over him. As she brushed his hair from his forehead, her heart lurched at memories of watching him sleep all across Europe.

Better to have loved and lost.

She walked away.

That was, without a doubt, the dumbest expression she’d ever heard.

Chapter 17

“Oh, my God.” Susan’s laughter bounced through the hangar and reached the training floor.

“I know. Isn’t this horrible?” Grace’s squeal echoed from the rafters. “It’s a
good
horrible, Sally. This is more than I could have dreamed.”

Ben missed his mark in the fight choreography, and Max put him on his ass.

“Take a minute,” the trainer sighed as he knelt on the mat. “Get your head screwed on, dude.”

“What?” Ben asked, frowning.

Max rolled his eyes. “If she’s here, you stare at her. If she’s not, you look for her. If she laughs, you go completely stupid.”

As if on cue, Grace cackled with glee, and Ben turned toward the sound. He grimaced an apology when Max smacked him on the shoulder to get his attention.

“Repeat after me,” the trainer instructed. “Fuck it. We’ll figure it out.”

Ben shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Hell if it isn’t,” Max countered. “Sweep her off her feet.”

“But—”

“Look, I don’t know what happened, and I don’t want to know. But it’s pretty clear she’s giving up on dating you, and it’s just as clear you’re totally gone over her. Figure it out, but do it quick. Every day that passes, she’s putting you farther and farther into the friend zone. Besides,” he continued as he swept Ben’s hand out from under him and sent him back to the mat, “if you don’t get your head in the game, Susan’s gonna kick your posh British ass.”

Later in the week, Ben woke on the break room sofa under a blanket with his book in the floor. Grace’s office light splashed a bright rectangle across the opposite wall. It drew him forward.

She’d turned off her overhead fluorescent lights in favor of the ambient glow from her desk lamp, which highlighted the copper in her hair. Her iPod teetered on the edge of her desk while she worked at her computer.

“Damn and double damn. I don’t understand this,” she muttered.

Sweep her off her feet,
Max had said. Taking her dinner hadn’t done it. Maybe work would.

When he walked into the room, she did a double-take and yanked her earbuds free.

“I thought you’d left with everyone else.”

“Nope,” he drawled. “You don’t understand what?”

“This financial statement. There’s a reason I was an English major. Numbers make my eyes cross.”

He pulled a chair behind her and looked over her shoulder. “It’s just like your current account.”

“My bank statement doesn’t have this many numbers on it. Does yours?”

“No, but it’s the same principle. Are we broke?”

She shook her head. “We’re fine, but I’d be happy with a few more investors, and Paul wants me to give him a number to hit. It’s making my head hurt.”

“Can I help? You can print me a copy and I’ll look it over.” He smiled at her dubious expression, glad he could surprise her. “I went to business school as a fall back. After a certain age the tips fall off for struggling actors who wait tables.”

The light caught the curve of her pink lips. As the printer hummed in the background, he inhaled. Instead of vanilla, she smelled like jasmine and violets. The clean, feminine scent brought to mind sheets, lingerie, having a lie-in on a spring morning with the windows open. His skin tightened. “You’ve changed your perfume.”

Nodding, she reached for the printed pages. She and Paul had met with studio execs today, so she’d traded her normal t-shirts and jeans for silk paired with dress slacks. He’d watched her bum in those slacks all day. Now, as she moved, her white blouse glowed in the lamplight and he caught a glimpse of the lace edging her camisole.

When she turned back, the blouse stilled as her breath stopped. His mouth watered. He took the paperwork from her.

“I’ll walk you out,” he offered.

“I’ll be right behind you,” she assured him. “I have to pack up.”

He didn’t move.

“I don’t want to keep you,” she whispered.

Doll, keep me.

She shoved everything into random bags, and he reached for the handles. His fingers bumped hers, and the cool brush of her blouse sleeve tickled his arm. It was the first time he’d touched her in almost a year. He turned his head and their breaths mingled in a tormenting promise of a kiss, the first tentative step out of their past.

His body responded in its predictable, Pavlovian fashion at the memory of her. Of them. The handles of her bags bit into his palms and the financial report crumpled in his fist.

C’mon, Idgie. Ignore the T-Rex. Keep your eye on the bunny.

She leaned backward.
Away from him.

Welcome to the friend zone.

Standing, he slung her bags over his shoulder and left her with her purse. “Let’s go.”

They followed the makeshift maze of hallways past mats, mannequins, and boxes the size of his car. The security lights showed them the safest way, but it made the shadows loom above them. The echoes of their steps bounced from every wall.

“This is kind of creepy,” she whispered. “It makes me think of all those horror movies we watched in high school.”

“The ones where the killer lurked behind every tree, and you watched through his eyes as he targeted his victims?” Ben played along.

“And heard him wheezing like he smoked three packs a day.” She imitated the noise. “It’s a wonder he could catch anyone.”

Ben laughed as he pushed the door open. He had one foot out the door before he saw the flash and heard the telltale whirr. He shoved Grace back into the building as the doorknob pounded into his spine.

“Paps,” he spat.

“Photographers?” She frowned. “But the set is closed.”

“They found a way in.” He dropped her bags and stood on a bench to peer out the window. “There’s only one, but he’s near the cars. Even if we left through another door, we wouldn’t get far.”

“We were having a business meeting,” she offered. “About script changes.”

“Me and E.G. Donnelley? A woman. Who looks a lot like the
bird
splashed across the front page of
The
Sun
.”

“But he doesn’t know I’m E.G. Donnelley.”

“Someone let him in,” he reasoned, “and everyone on the lot has the contact sheet. The bastard will piece it together,” he sighed. “They always do.”

She sagged against the wall. “Our whole trip would have been like this.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s as much me as you. If he did get the contact sheet, he knows E.G.’s on set.”

“Yeah, but you were able to avoid it until now.” He stared across the room. “How were you able to do that?”

“Writers are used to pseudonyms. Fantasy authors love to pretend. Spy novelists enjoy a scheme.” She shrugged. “Most of them shun publicity.”

“And actors are magnets for it,” he grumbled.

Her smile almost made Ben forget their predicament. For a moment, he hoped they’d be trapped all night.

“Magnets,” she whispered as she pulled her phone from her purse and dialed.

“Debbie? It’s Grace. Bennett and I are being held prisoner by a paparazzo at the studio. No, don’t come down. Do you still have that bartender friend? Twitter?”

With the last question, she looked at him for confirmation. Ben nodded.

“I’m either hitting someone or hitting
on
someone,” he advised. “They never ignore those.”

She moved her phone and put it on speaker.

“What’s your handle?” Debbie’s question crackled into the open air.

“B Oliver. Fe runs it. Use the hashtag NNM. It’s code. Without it, she’ll start a cyber-war to prove I’m
not
misbehaving.”

“Got it.”

“Thanks, Deb,” he and Grace spoken in unison.

She hung up and they moved closer to the window to watch their captor.

Grace explained the plot for their rescue. “Deb has this friend who’s friends with a bartender in the hottest club in town, and
his
sister is the assistant to some pop diva whose name I can’t remember. And
she
has a friend who looks like you—at least the back of his head. And he’s about the right height.”

“The back of his head?”

Grace’s Twitter notifications began, and she held up the picture. “Yep. If he turns around, the nose gives him away.”

Ben watched the tweets rack up. His phone rang.

“Yeah, Fe. It’s me. Grace and I are baiting the paps so we can leave the studio. Gotta run, muppet.”

Outside, the photographer stared at his phone, his face ghostly in the blue light from the screen.

Grace recited updates. “Apparently you’re trying to pick up the diva. So, what’s NNM?”

The trespasser ran, and Ben held his breath until headlights arced across the asphalt and gravel scattered in the car’s wake. He scooped up Grace’s bags as she trotted toward the door.

“Nobby No Mates. Fe’s called me that for years.”

They sprinted for their cars, and Ben flung everything into her passenger seat.

“What’s it mean?” she asked as he slammed the door.

He loped to his car and grinned at her across the roof. “A dick with no friends. See you tomorrow, Idgie. Hire a new car before you come in.”

She winked and nodded. “G’night, Nobby.”

Ben sped home, his brain still whizzing while he tried to watch the road and the rear view mirror at the same time. He parked behind a nearby outbuilding Max had pointed out as a perfect hiding spot and leapt the fence. Sand muffled his footfalls, and he removed his shoes and socks to walk home through the cold sand.

Once inside, he stayed in the dark and pulled the drapes. The condo now resembled a cavern instead of a home.

“Fuck it,” he snarled and yanked open the curtains. He might wander around naked just for the hell of it.
Let them get a picture of that.
Maybe it would remind Grace of what she was missing.

The distance between them ached. His lungs hurt from holding his breath to avoid her scent, his hands hurt from restraint, and his heart was tired of pounding whenever she was close. His brain sheared in two every time he remembered them together.

Ben stopped pacing and stared at his reflection in the glass. That’s what she’d said about biscuits. They hurt.

He closed his eyes and let the memory play. They’d been in Paris, eating pastries.
“These are scrummy,”
she’d said, laughing while trying to juggle her food, her coffee, and her bags.
“I don’t think I’ll ever eat anything sweet again without thinking of that word.”

“Oh God, Idgie.”

His gut twisted, but he couldn’t stop his smile. She wouldn’t hurt if she didn’t feel something, would she?

The whitecaps glowed in the moonlight, chasing each other to shore only to lose the battle and begin again. He was tired of waiting and hoping, of holding his breath. He knew what he wanted. Who he wanted.

He was getting himself out of the friend zone.

By the time he climbed from the shower, he had the kernel of an idea. He draped a towel around his hips and padded into the kitchen for a beer and then to his phone.

“Mum. How are you?” He tried to relax into the conversation, but his thoughts were now spinning in earnest.

“I can hear your fingers drumming, Bennett. What do you need?” Her humor diluted any hurt he might have suspected.

“It’s noth—”

“What time is it there?”

He blinked at the clock. He’d woken his mother at three in the morning. “Bloody hell. I’m sorry.”

Her laugh pealed across the line. “It’s a hazard of the job, son. But don’t tell me it’s nothing. What do you need?”

“There’s a box in my bedroom closet with Grace’s name on it. Can you post it? Express, please.”

“Of course. I’ll do it this morning, after I have a bit of a lie-in.”

After a longer visit, he rang off, changed into his jim-jams, and sat outside with another beer and a notepad. He finished late in the night and slept better than he had in months.

The next morning, he slipped into the studio and stopped at Debbie’s desk to deliver a bouquet from the market.

“Thanks for your help last night,” he whispered.

Her eyes twinkled as her mouth dropped open. Sensing an impending squeal, he put his fingers to his lips and held up the envelope as he snuck into Grace’s office. Then he sprinted for the morning read-through.

Taking his seat, he looked across the table. For the first time in months, Grace wasn’t focused on her notes. She was looking at him and smiling like they shared a secret. He waggled his eyebrows as he lifted his pages and went to work.

Across the table, Grace forgot about staying up too late and reliving every moment from the night before. The events of the evening and the hassle of exchanging rental cars faded as her characters came to life before her eyes and ears.

As he’d done in the park, Bennett now channeled Ian in every read-through. His freedom had encouraged Susan to fully inhabit Zadie. Better, the tension Grace had sensed in Susan had evaporated. She and Bennett had undeniable chemistry, and they were developing the banter necessary to bring the characters to the screen.

She gauged the success by the growing audience of crewmembers during read-throughs and rehearsals. Technicians had begun stopping by her office to ask where the story went from here. They were handing the second book around.

The thrill was only partly creative. Bennett was the same guy she’d been attracted to in Vienna; intelligent and confident, shy with a goofy sense of humor. He was kind to everyone, although he kept his distance with the girls in wardrobe. But now she saw his work ethic and his talent. He’d become the center of the movie’s makeshift family. She loved it, even though it cut her heart to ribbons.