“Stop,” I plead, holding up my hands in case it’s true and Booker’s words only can be contained by physical efforts. It’s unnecessary, though, because Deiss surprises us all by letting out a bark of laughter.
“Can your next role be a cleaner?” Deiss asks. “Because I don’t want to stick around until the show’s over.”
“No problem, boss,” Mia says quickly, despite the fact that Deiss was clearly speaking to Booker. “We’ll take care of this.”
“Yes,” Booker says, showing the first signs of wisdom he’s displayed since we got upstairs. “We’re on top of it. You go.”
Deiss nods and backs up, his hand reaching for my arm.
“Will you come with me?” His eyes are strangely vulnerable when they meet mine. “Or do you want to catch the end?”
“Of course I’m coming with you,” I say without hesitation.
My answer makes him smile, and my heart begins to hammer when he slides his fingers through mine.
“You’re going to let her get out of cleaning?” Booker asks.
Deiss’s head snaps toward him, but before he can say anything, Mia beats him to it.
“He’s told you a hundred times that Olivia doesn’t work here!” Her hands fist at her sides. “She’s here because he wants her here, and now they want to leave. So, shut your stupid mouth, get your lazy ass downstairs, and find something to clean!”
Booker tucks tail, fleeing down the stairs.
“I’m really sorry about the ambush,” Mia says to Deiss miserably. “I swear to you it’ll never happen again.”
“It’s fine.” Deiss steps toward her without letting go of my hand and pulls her into a one-armed hug. “Consider it forgotten.”
We leave her looking slightly less despairing, the door dinging cheerfully at our exit. Outside, the wind has kicked up, bringing a chill to the air. The street has that Saturday night energy, peppered with groups and couples talking to each other instead of hiding beneath their headphones. The car lights bounce off the storefront windows.
“Are you all right?” I ask as we start down the sidewalk.
He shrugs. “It’s fine.”
It’s the same thing he’s just said to Mia, only this time, I don’t believe him.
“It’s not fine,” I say firmly. “You just had an audience full of camera phones pointed at you, after you spent ten years in hiding to regain your anonymity. At the very least, it’s unfortunate.”
He looks at me in surprise, but his mouth curls in a way that makes me think I’ve said the right thing.
“It is unfortunate, isn’t it?” he says, letting out a wry laugh. “Realistically, I know those videos and pictures will get buried beneath everything else that happened tonight. Very few will make it onto social media, and the only people who will care about those are the posters themselves. But still. It doesn’t feel good. If just one wrong person recognizes me, I go from being the guy who owns a record shop to a feature in one of those Where are they now? articles.”
“Is that really so bad?” I’m not just trying to relieve his anxiety. It’s a genuine question. “It’s not like you’re living in your parents’ basement, selling bathtub gin to the neighborhood kids. You own your own successful business.”
“Why would I be embarrassed of bathtub gin, Liv?” He fakes a grin, clearly hoping to distract me. “Sure, it doesn’t sound like the most sanitary of beverages, but there’s something to be said for creating something with your own hands.”
“I’m being serious, Deiss.”
“I know.” He sighs. “But do you really think I’m worried about being perceived as unsuccessful? The problem isn’t where I ended up. It’s the way people treat you when they’ve grown up with you onscreen. There’s this insatiable curiosity about you, this feeling of ownership. The studio still forwards Brendan Davis’s fan mail to me. Obviously, there’s less of it these days. But you’d be surprised. Since Family Fun became available on streaming, there’s a whole new audience of people who want me to say Funnnnn-tastic! on their voicemail or give them a ride on my private jet.”
“You know,” I say, feigning coquettishness, “I’m supposed to go back home to Brantley tomorrow for tea with my mother. A private jet would come in handy. It’s a very long drive.”
He rolls his eyes, but his relief at the change in tone is obvious. “No longer than my drive to and from the airport when you crashed our South Africa trip.”