Everything was calm. There was nothing to do, really, except hang out with his minder. By all rights, he should be bored out of his goddamn skull.
It was fucking awesome.
Months and months ago, dimly aware he was nearing total physical and emotional exhaustion, he’d ignored his agent’s hectoring messages and refused to schedule new jobs for this odd stretch of time, the gap between the end of Gates’s filming and the press junket that would accompany the airing of the final season. More work awaited him after the series finale had come and gone, but for now: nothing.
He had no call times. No auditions. No need to set three separate alarms.
Mostly, he just slept and read and worked out and browbeat Lauren into binge-watching baking competition shows with him and eating all their meals together.
To his shock, it didn’t even take a lot of convincing.
Something had changed between them during that hotel-hallway confrontation. She talked more. Smiled more. Snapped at him more. She seemed present more.
And somewhere in that lazy stretch of time after the auction, she started laughing too. Not by accident. Not because the world became a significantly more amusing place over the course of a week or two.
No, she started laughing because he’d formulated a new goal to define his days: He wanted to make her laugh as often as he frustrated her. Which was to say, frequently.
Both outcomes were equally enjoyable. Very enjoyable.
When she laughed, it was loud, her face turned pink, and she covered that face with her hands as she made little snorty sounds through her crooked nose, and it was the best. Sometimes, watching her laugh made him laugh too, for no fucking reason.
Today, he intended to earn her laughter by showing her Ian’s photos. In fact, when he’d first received the pictures, he’d walked halfway to the stables before realizing it was after two in the morning, and Lauren might not appreciate his waking her up for updates on Ian.
She probably looked cute, though, all rumpled in bed.
“Hey, Lauren,” he said as she approached their normal breakfast spot outside. “Ian sent the cast all-new pics of his home reno efforts last night.”
No doubt spotting the glee in his expression, she plopped down into her usual chair and narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you do, Woodroe?”
“I might have mentioned something about my dungeon.”
Her brow crinkled. “You have a dungeon?”
He sent her a chiding look. “If I didn’t, how could it have been on the cover of Modern Dungeons Monthly for their annual ‘Most Beautiful Dungeons’ issue? Last year, it was only number thirty-three on their ‘100 Oubliettes to Watch’ list, so this is a real triumph for me. And so I told Ian, shortly before he decided to do some home renovations.”
At that point, she bent forward and preemptively covered her face. “Please say he didn’t.”
He scratched his bearded chin reflectively. “I might or might not have had someone mock up an issue of the magazine. My dungeon had vaulted ceilings.”
“Alex.”
Over the past couple of weeks, his fondness for that scandalized tone had markedly increased.
“Ian, by sheer coincidence, has recently decided to dig out a dungeon of his own.” He produced his cell phone. “You should take a look.”
“Oh, jeez,” she muttered, but she peeked through her fingers.
Then her mouth dropped open, and she scrolled to the next photo, and yes. Yes, that.
Pink cheeks. Hands on her face. Little snorts amid gales of laughter.
His morning was complete.
“Is that—” She giggled more, then tried again. “Does he have a wet bar in his dungeon?”
“Don’t forget the gold-plated shackles fastened to the wall of each marble-floored cell.” He snickered. “In our cast chat, I called the dungeon his Gilt Room of Pain and asked when Christian Grey planned to pop by for a visit. At that point, Ian had some very unflattering things to say about my character. I was hurt.”
She shook her head at him, but she was still smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You have no idea.”
He offered her the serving tray he’d brought out earlier, which he’d used to carry their drinks and two plates of bagels topped with cream cheese, lox, thin slices of red onion, and capers. Her fingers paused over the bagel with the most cream cheese, but she reached for the other plate, leaving him the bagel she’d silently deemed best. He managed not to roll his eyes, but it was a near thing.
He plucked her plate from her hands and claimed it for himself. “This bagel had the most salmon. Don’t be so selfish, you absolute shrew of a woman.”