Funny You Should Ask(39)

I barely resisted putting my face in my hands. Who knew what Oliver thought about the director? Maybe he had worked with him or wanted to work with him in the future. Maybe he knew him. Or admired him. Most people loved him—or at least, they loved his work and ignored all the other stuff.

“Oh,” Oliver said.

There was a long, long pause.

“He is a piece of shit, isn’t he?”

I stared at him. It seemed I’d gone from dangerous dirtbag to trash-talking confidante with dizzying speed. Not that I was complaining.

“Shove over,” he said to Gabe, who did as requested.

After all, this was Oliver’s night.

We shifted to make room, Oliver sliding into the booth until he was directly across from me, Gabe’s knee pushing up against mine. I resisted the urge to wrap my leg around his like a vine.

“What did it for you?” Oliver asked. “His overrated movies or the faux timidity he calls a personality?”

“Both?”

Oliver laughed, slapping a hand down on the table.

When people turned to stare, he leaned forward, putting a finger to his lips as if I had been the one making the noise.

We all leaned forward, closer to the candle, as if we were conducting a secret meeting. If someone had told my teen self that the thing that would endear me to Oliver Matthias, the Darcy of my dreams, would be how much I hated Woody Allen, I would have thought they were insane.

As it was, I still wasn’t sure this whole thing wasn’t a drawn-out fever dream brought on by staring at shirtless pictures of Gabe before going to bed each night.

“We should keep that on the down low, though,” Oliver said, looking around conspiratorially. “You never know when the Woody fans will attack with their battle cry of ‘separate the art from the artist.’?” He looked a bit sour at that. “Of course, people only care about defending terrible people making terrible art.”

“Chani thinks Angels in America is a great play,” Gabe interjected.

It seemed like a complete non sequitur, but Oliver responded with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“And she thinks people who have an issue with the fact that I kissed a man onstage in college have bigger personal problems to deal with.”

The two of them were having another conversation, completely independent of our other discussion.

“I see,” Oliver said.

“Yep.” Gabe took a sip of his drink and leaned back against the booth.

Oliver turned his attention to me, and smiled. A real smile.

“He told me you were smart,” he said.

“I am,” I said, the alcohol making me bold and flushed.

Or maybe the flush came from knowing that Gabe had spoken to Oliver about me. That I had been the topic of conversation between two of the hottest, most-sought-after men in Hollywood.

And the conversation had been flattering.

I actually pinched myself. Just to double-check that all this was truly happening. I pinched hard enough to give myself a bruise.

“We like smart women,” Oliver said, giving Gabe a knowing look.

I nearly choked on my drink.

Had I completely imagined the suggestive nature of that comment? Or was this one step away from revealing the kind of unexpected, secret sexual proclivities that Jo had warned me about?

I was full-on staring at Gabe and Oliver now, trying to figure out if part of their covert conversation had been sussing out whether or not I’d be down for a threesome.

While I was trying to figure out if I would be down for a threesome.

“Speaking of smart women…” Gabe glanced around. “Where’s your date?”

Or a foursome.

After all, Isabella Barris was stunningly beautiful. Agreeing to be in a foursome with someone like me would be akin to charity work for her.

Oliver waved a hand. “I sent her home,” he said. “She did her part and she is now released from her responsibilities.”

It was subtle, but Oliver’s demeanor had changed. Like the missing vest and the undone tie, I sensed that something was loosening. Relaxing.

Considering I’d thought him completely at ease when he arrived at our table, I found myself even more impressed by his acting skills.

“Where’s your drink?” Gabe asked, gesturing into the dark before Oliver could respond.

“I should stop,” I said, but another cocktail was in front of me before I could resist too much.

“To Shared Hearts,” Gabe said.

We all raised our glasses.

“Did you like it?” Oliver asked after everyone had taken a sip.

“Like it?” Gabe put a hand on his chest. “Mate, you’re an icon. They should bronze you and install you in front of Grauman’s.”

“The accent is coming along nicely,” Oliver said. “Cheers.”

“Say the word,” Gabe said.

“Stop it.” Oliver waved his hand.

I was confused.

Even in the dim light of the restaurant, I could see that Oliver looked tired. Not physically tired, but a deeper, more emotional exhaustion seemed to be at play. With every minute he sat with us, I could see the vestiges of his performance begin to fade.

Gabe reached over and clasped him on the shoulder.

“The movie is great,” he said.