“Yes. A master perfumer, nicknamed the Hound for my extraordinary sense of smell.” After an exaggerated inhalation through his nose, he continued, “Which I then employed to hide from the authorities while locating my wife’s real killer.”
“As one does.” Her voice was as dry as the California hills in October. “And of course his wife’s murder served as his motivation. Of course.”
“Fridging at its most banal. Eventually, I discovered that my business rivals had formed a secret cabal, hired an assassin, and framed me in hopes of removing me from the perfume industry permanently.”
“Spoiler alert,” she chided him, lips quirked.
He huffed out a laugh. “My scenes mostly involved sniffing. Turns out, it’s hard to make sniffing attractive or interesting to an audience. Which is some explanation as to why the movie flopped.” God, the reviews. Those reviews. Not to mention the phone call from his parents after they’d seen one of the sparse local showings. “It did inspire an X-rated parody, though, from what my costars told me. One with a particularly clever name.”
As they walked, he waited, confident she could come up with it.
She bit her lip for a few moments, then brightened. “Pounded!”
“Brava, April.” Lifting their joined hands above their heads in triumph, he grinned at her. “That movie apparently involved a lot of sniffing as well. Among other activities. It also made more money than its inspiration. Probably featured better acting too.”
He’d wanted her to giggle, but she didn’t. Instead, for no reason he could fathom, her eyes had turned solemn, and he shifted his shoulders under the weight of her regard.
“You’re joking about it, but you must have learned a lot about perfumery for the role,” she finally said. “I may not know you well, but I can already tell you’re a professional. You care about your craft.”
Why that twisted his heart until it ached, he couldn’t have said.
“Uh, yeah, actually.” He squinted into the distance, where the water awaited them, blue and cool and comforting. “I visited a perfumery school in France. A world-class perfumer can identify over a thousand different scents, mostly by associating smells with specific memories. I worked on that a little. Learned about the history of perfume. Watched one woman grind ambergris with a mortar and pestle too, just for kicks.”
“What is ambergris?” she asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
He smirked at her. “Hardened whale feces that washes onshore.” “You set me up for that.” Her eyes narrowed, but her mouth was twitching. “Shame on you. Now I have to go through my perfumes and find out just how much whale poop I’ve been spraying on myself for dates.”
Her perfume today smelled primarily of roses. His nose wasn’t particularly sensitive, as he’d discovered during that idyllic week in France, but he could also detect a trace of musk. And . . . other stuff, which real perfumers could no doubt pinpoint in a flash.
Where exactly she’d sprayed that perfume, he shouldn’t consider in public.
“Anyway, so that was one memorable role. The absolute worst script I ever had was probably for 1 Wheel, 2 Real.” At her confused glance, he clarified. “The uplifting coming-of-age story of a troubled unicyclist. I think it got released directly to the DVR of one guy in Tulsa.”
When she laughed, she slowed down a fraction. “Holy shit. You can unicycle?”
“Of course,” he informed her loftily, nose in the air. “Like any serious thespian.”
Well-Groomed Golden Retriever Marcus would never use that term, of course. Even as himself, it sat oddly on his tongue. Too grand. Too lofty. A thespian, as opposed to an actor, demanded respect from the world at large, not simply others within the entertainment industry. A thespian possessed talent, not merely the capacity for hard work and a pretty face.
Pulling him to the edge of the sidewalk, she came to a dead halt. “But you are a serious thespian, Marcus.”
All that caffeine had clearly gone to her head. She sounded . . . angry, almost.
He lifted a shoulder, offering her a placating smile. “I’ve tried to be. I don’t know how successful I’ve been.”
“You’ve been up for a bunch of awards. You star in the most popular television program in the world. When you left Dido behind and spotted that damn funeral pyre from your ship, I nearly required medical intervention for my weeping-related dehydration issues.”
She spoke slowly, as if to a blockheaded child, and he bristled instinctively at that familiar tone. At least until the actual meaning of her words sank in. Then he flushed hot with embarrassment and kicked at a crack in the sidewalk.
“And all those nominations weren’t just for Gods of the Gates,” she added. “There was that Stoppard play too, and the astronaut role.”
Starshine. He’d played the only survivor of a catastrophic incident aboard the International Space Station. Maybe the indie film hadn’t done as well as he’d hoped in theaters, but yeah, for that red carpet, he’d probably strutted a bit, truth be told.
She stepped in closer, until they could communicate in near-whispers. Until she could study him up close, her attention sharp as the hero sword he’d never actually swung in his Gates battle scenes.
“But in all honesty, probably the most demanding and impressive role you’ve played isn’t any of those.” Her chin was firm, her tone still determined and confrontational for reasons he couldn’t fathom. “Is it?”
He frowned at her, lost.
Maybe that time he’d played Posthumus in an adaptation of Cymbeline, given the language issues, but—
“I’m not sure which role you mean,” he told her.
When she arched a fiery brow, he knew he was in trouble.
“It’s you. Marcus Caster-Rupp. The performance of a lifetime.” She laid her palm on his chest, over his heart, as if she were taking its measure. Maybe she was. “The vainest, dimmest actor on the planet, who’s actually neither. Seemingly shallow and shiny as a puddle, but deep as the Mariana Trench.”
Deep? Him?
What the actual fuck?
“Explain it to me, please.” She spoke politely, but it wasn’t a request. It was a demand. “Sooner or later, the paparazzi are going to find us again. Before I watch your next performance, I need to understand.”
That flaming hair should have warned him. Somehow, she was his crucible, burning away everything but the truth. Forcing him to speak it aloud and purify himself before her.
He opened his mouth. Closed it, unsure what to say or how to begin.
Her hand gave his sternum a gentle but firm pat. A warning. “Don’t bother pretending you don’t know what the Mariana Trench is, either. I streamed Sharkphoon, and those chompy bastards came rocketing up from that trench into the cyclone. You told the president about the danger in your white lab coat and safety glasses, to no avail.”
Stupidly, he couldn’t help wondering whether she’d watched the movie in 3-D, because the scene where the mother shark ate that cruise ship in three giant bites was really enhanced by—
Nope. Not the point right now.
He let out a slow breath. Closed his eyes.
Why had he ever imagined she might simply accept his change in demeanor without remarking on it? Without asking what it meant?