“You won’t just be Gabe Parker.” I spread my hands wide. “You’ll be Gabe. Parker.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
He was looking down at his glass, the ice clinking as he swirled the remaining whisky. I was certain a refill would be arriving momentarily. Somehow, I’d finished my own drink, and was nibbling on the pineapple, feeling loose and warm.
“I know all the reasons people think I shouldn’t play Bond,” Gabe said.
A role he didn’t deserve—or so he’d said to me yesterday.
He held up his hand, ticking off each reason by lifting a finger.
“I’m not a big enough star. I kissed a man in a play in college. I’m American. I’m not Oliver Matthias.” He looked at his hand, and raised a fifth finger. “I’m too dumb.”
“Too dumb?” I echoed, even though I knew exactly what he was talking about.
“You know,” he said, attention still focused on his extended fingers. “I’m only good at playing hunky, dim-witted characters that get killed off in the first thirty minutes.”
I didn’t say anything. I’d read the article.
As expected, another glass of whisky had appeared on the table, delivered from the shadowy place beyond our cozy circle of light. They’d brought me another drink as well.
I knew I shouldn’t, but I drank anyways.
“I don’t think you’re dumb,” I said finally.
Gabe looked at me over the rim of his glass, eyebrow raised.
“I barely made it out of high school,” he said. “Went to community college on a football scholarship.” He knocked his knuckles against his temple. “Probably lost whatever few brain cells I still had on the field before I got injured. Never read them big authors like Hemingway or Fitzgerald or Salinger.” His voice got real low and slow. “I cain’t even pronounce the name of the guy who wrote Lolita.”
“Nabokov,” I said without thinking.
Gabe gestured toward me as if I’d just proven his point.
“There are different kinds of intelligence,” I said, not exactly sure why I was stroking his ego right now.
“Oh, really?” Gabe asked, that suspicious eyebrow now permanently arched. “I’m pretty sure you’re either smart or you’re not.”
I shook my head.
“Emotional intelligence,” I said. “That’s a thing.”
“That’s like telling someone they have a good personality when they ask if they’re attractive.”
“I’m sure you have experience with that,” I countered. Sarcastically.
We looked at each other. He was annoyed. I was annoyed.
“The movie will prove them wrong,” I said, as if I knew anything.
I didn’t.
The truth was I wanted to believe I knew him. Because if I did, this little moment—this evening—was more than just the article. I could convince myself that something was happening between us. That the way he looked at me in my dress, the way he’d put his hand against my back, the way we were here in our dark little corner were all indications of something more.
Jacinda had appeared out of the crowd again, but this time she and Gabe were doing their level best to avoid eye contact. And I was doing my level best to pretend I didn’t see them ignoring each other.
I realized I was a little drunk.
It wasn’t unexpected—I’d had two enormous, boozy pineapple drinks and only two tiny, delicate, delicious crab cakes since we’d arrived at the after-party.
“I watched The Philadelphia Story,” Gabe said.
I sat up.
“And?” I asked. “What did you think?”
Gabe sighed.
“Oh,” I said.
Maybe this would be the thing that actually chipped away at my crush on him.
“It was amazing,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
“The timing, the dialogue, the chemistry.” Gabe threw up his hands. “How can any other comedy even begin to compare?”
I grinned, leaning forward.
“It is good, isn’t it?”
“Good?” Gabe shook his head. “It’s perfection.”
“Best comedy ever made,” I said, lifting my third pink pineapple drink.
I couldn’t remember when it had appeared.
My lips were buzzing, which was a telltale sign that I’d already had enough to drink, but I was thirsty and the cocktail was so good.
“I saw a list of the hundred best comedies and The Philadelphia Story was number thirty-eight! Thirty! Eight!” I said, pressing my finger on the table for emphasis.