All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(8)

He made that breathy, smug sound again. Ahhhhhhh.

His near-purr raised goose bumps on her arms.

“You asked me a question just now. You realize that, right?” Setting his elbows on the cloth-covered table, he leaned forward and studied her face intently. “Does it hurt anywhere? Do you require medical intervention to fix the damage to your psyche?”

“Yes, I realize I asked a question.” Her middle finger was itching to make an appearance. “Don’t make me regret it.”

For once, he decided not to push his luck.

“There were too many of us to stay in one place, so Ron and R.J. split us up. Cast members in this hotel, crew in other hotels a bit farther away from the set,” he explained, idly scratching at his beard. “And I’m one of the few actors remaining, like I said. Asha, the woman who plays Psyche, is staying with her pop star boyfriend in a local mansion.”

Oh, yeah. Lauren had seen the two canoodling on the front pages of various American tabloids. In those photos, both were generally topless, cavorting aboard a sleek, spacious yacht, and laughing in each other’s arms.

Alex continued ticking off the names of the remaining cast. “Mackenzie, the woman who plays Venus, even though she’s actually ten years younger than me and immortality can only explain so much—”

“Goddammit, Ron,” Lauren muttered beneath her breath.

“—refused to be parted from her cat, and the hotel doesn’t allow pets. So she rented a cottage nearby.” His sly smile split his beard. “Whiskers considers the furniture rustic but comfortable and the living space more than adequate.”

Lauren blinked at him. “Her cat considers the furniture … rustic? How—how does …”

“How does Whiskers issue such nuanced statements about interior design? Good question. Gooooood question.” He waited a moment before continuing, no doubt to build anticipation. “As you’ll learn via an upcoming memoir, Here and Meow: A Cat’s Life, Mackenzie says they can speak to one another. Telepathically.”

Here and Meow: A Cat’s Life.

“The memoir isn’t hers,” Lauren said slowly. “It’s the cat’s.”

“Correct. Written using Mackenzie as his medium.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Over the years, I’ve found that Whiskers shares essentially all of Mackenzie’s opinions, other than those concerning cat food.” He paused. “At least, I hope that’s an exception.”

Alex’s upper body had begun to droop down toward the table as he rested more and more weight on his elbows, and no wonder. He’d had an exceedingly long day, and another loomed ahead of him tomorrow.

“The only other main cast member left is Ian, the guy who plays Jupiter. But he’s probably off mainlining tuna somewhere. Besides, he’s a prick.” Alex pointed a forefinger at her. “I’d stay out of his way, if I were you. All that lean protein might have helped his muscles, but it hasn’t helped his mood. Or his smell, for that matter.”

Unless she was mistaken, that was a warning. Because he—the man who’d called her a ridiculous bird-woman—didn’t want either her feelings or her sense of smell to suffer.

Setting her own elbows on the table, she rubbed her forehead and considered what to do. What he and Ron both needed from her, and what they both deserved. What was right, not simply what was convenient and safest.

He rapped his knuckles against the tabletop. “Hey, Nanny Clegg. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she told the crimson cloth covering the heavy wood surface. “Thank you.”

All day, she’d assumed his quest to fill any possible silences with endless verbiage was a strategic choice. An attempt to drive her to quit, despite Ron’s warnings. A ploy to gather information he could later use against her. A tactic to relax her guard.

And maybe it was all those things.

Or maybe it was a genuine attempt to be friendly.

Maybe he really was a delightful asshole, one who’d found himself injured and in trouble and virtually without friends in a foreign country. If so, no wonder he wanted her company. Until he returned to California, he didn’t have many other options available to him.

She raised her head, lowered her hands, and surrendered to the inevitable. “I propose a truce.”

His eyes were half lidded and hazy with exhaustion, the dark shadows under the left nearly a match for the bruises under the right. Still, he managed a cheeky smirk. “If you’re proposing a truce, that means I was winning the war, right?”

She nodded gravely. “Your anecdote about Whiskers turned the tide.”

“Carah Brown calls me a gossipy bitch.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, stifling a yawn. “But this gossipy bitch gets results.”

“Evidently.” She raised her hand to signal the server. “So here are my peace terms: If I promise to be more chatty, you promise to give me a few minutes of silence when I tell you I need quiet time. Also, no deliberate attempts to break Ron’s rules, because I really, really don’t want to call him.”

“No desire to talk to your cousin, huh?” When the server laid their check on the table, Alex wrote his room number on the slip and left a substantial tip. “If it’s any consolation, any right-thinking human would feel the same way.”