Funny You Should Ask(10)

Madison blushed beautifully. “You just holler, okay?”

“The burgers are great,” Gabe said once she’d gone. “But if you get one, you have to get a beer. That’s the rule.”

I knew it was unprofessional to drink on the job, but I could handle a beer. I needed a beer. Because so far this interview had consisted of me ranting about both the intrinsic sexism of The Philadelphia Story and presumptive stereotypes about Los Angeles. It had not consisted of me doing the actual job I was hired to do.

“What’s their best sour beer?” I asked.

Gabe’s eyebrows went up and he met my gaze.

“Sour beer, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, like I was issuing a challenge. “Any suggestions?”

The grin returned, and with it, my improper tingly feelings.

“Why don’t I order for us? Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” I said.

He looked down at the menu with the childish glee of a kid on the night of Hanukkah when you actually got real gifts, not socks or chocolate gelt.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “You’re gonna love this one.”

Madison returned and he gestured for her to lean toward him. He held up the menu between us, his gaze alternating between what he was pointing at and back at me. As he did, the puppy sauntered over, nudging her wet nose against my hand. I reached down and gave her a scratch, which was apparently an invitation for her to flop onto her back, showing me her stomach. I rubbed that, reveling in the velvety softness of her skin.

“She likes you,” Gabe said after Madison left with our orders.

“Puppies like everyone.”

He shook his head. “Not this one—she’s afraid of her shadow, the birds in the backyard, and paper bags.”

“Me too,” I said.

Gabe laughed. I liked making him laugh.

The puppy’s tongue was out; that pink ribbon—bright against her black fur—seemed almost too long to fit back in her mouth.

“Should I be worried?” I asked. “About what you ordered?”

“I don’t know.” Gabe leaned back, linking his hands behind his head. “Are you someone who likes to take risks?”

I stared at that startlingly intimate line of muscle running from his biceps to under his arm, disappearing into his shirt.

“No,” I said.

He laughed.

“Then maybe you should be worried.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “But just a little.”

Was he…flirting?

Of course, he was flirting. The same way he had flirted with Madison. It wasn’t personal. He probably didn’t know how to talk to a woman without flirting in some way. Madison and I were just people in his orbit and therefore we were going to be charmed by his very existence.

That was the nature of celebrities. Of fame.

There were times that I imagined what it might be like to be famous. That I might like to be famous. When I craved the attention and the interest that the spotlight afforded. When I longed for the validation that fame implied.

Gabe was probably good at being charming the way I was good at observing. They were skills that both of us had a natural inclination for but had no doubt honed over the years as they were required for us to do our jobs.

It was a good reminder that the only reason I was here right now, sitting across from Gabe Parker, trying not to stare at his gorgeous armpit, was because it was my job. A job I desperately needed to do well.

I took out my tape recorder.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” I asked, placing it on the table.

He froze for a second, for a blink, his whole body going so still that it felt like a glitch in the matrix. Then, as if he was rebooting, he smiled at me. A shallow, empty kind of smile.

I wasn’t expecting that.

“Of course,” he said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

It almost sounded like he had forgotten.

But just as quickly as that apparent glitch had appeared, it was gone.

“Okay.” Gabe cracked his knuckles. “Hit me.”

I looked down at my notebook.

I’d spent all of yesterday preparing. I’d read existing profile pieces, I’d watched old interviews.

But I realized, sitting here, in front of Gabe, looking down at my notes, that what I’d really done was research him.

My questions—painstakingly written out—were ones that I could answer.

I stared down at my notebook, dread sitting heavy in my stomach.

Gabe cleared his throat.

“Or we could just talk,” he said.

I couldn’t tell if he was being nice or condescending. Either way, it indicated that he didn’t think I could do my job.

It was going to be okay, I told myself. When I’d interviewed Jennifer Evans, I’d started the interview asking about her hometown and she’d ended up talking nonstop for almost twenty minutes.

“Cooper, Montana,” I said.

Gabe raised an eyebrow. “That’s where I’m from, yes.”

“Good place to grow up.”

“Yep,” he said.

“You went to college there.”

“Yep,” he said.

“Did theatre. At JRSC.”

“Yep,” he said.