He suppressed the urge to say,you’re welcomeand point out that it was at least real music, not the musical equivalent of the jaws of life tearing through metal. Instead, he said, ‘Sorry, motivational music for Pavarotti,’ and reached for the remote to flick it off.
Pavarotti took that as a sign to stop his exercise, slowing right down until the wheel came to a standstill. Keeping up his end of the bargain, Oliver pushed three grapes through the bars of the cage. Leaping off the structure in a surprisingly agile manner for such a cumbersome creature, Pavarotti scurried over to his gastronomic treasure and proceeded to gobble his way through the reward.
Oliver tipped his chin at the mugs. ‘What do you have there?’
‘I had a hankering for hot chocolate. Thought you might like one?’
Trying not to think about the kind of mess that awaited him in the kitchen – spilt milk, chocolate powder, scattered sugar granules – Oliver nodded. ‘Thanks.’
She set the mugs down, pushing the remote control out of its usual position with her left hand and accidentally over tipping the drink with her right. His eye twitched at the asymmetry of the remote controls and the milky splash on the sleek glass table. But his irritation didn’t last long as she sat beside him, her limey freshness filling his nostrils.
Like a margarita. Christ, the woman was turning him into an alcoholic.
Picking her mug up, she eyed the laptop. ‘So, you’re not just watching TV down here all day,’ she said, blowing on the surface of her drink. ‘You write scripts?’
Closing the lid, he placed the computer on the table and picked up his mug. ‘I… dabble,’ he admitted.
‘Pretty inspirational room to do it in.’ Her gaze lifted to the top shelf where all his father’s awards sat beneath their individual spotlights. ‘Or intimidating, I guess.’
Oliver eyed the golden glow of the Oscar. Hell, ifthatwasn’t accurate…
‘How’s it going?’
He grimaced. ‘I’m kinda stuck, actually.’
‘Being the son of a famous actor doesn’t make it come any easier?’
Oliver realised this was the first time she’d mentioned his father directly in the whole time she’d been under his roof. He was so used to his father being the number one topic of conversation between him and people he didn’t really know that it had been refreshing to learn the world actually didn’t revolve around his father’s career. ‘God no. If only. Hell, I studied at USC?—’
‘USC?’
‘University of Southern California. They have a big film campus there and I studied script writing. And even that doesn’t make it any easier.’
‘Are you blocked?’
Oliver blinked at the question. What would Paige know about that? ‘No. More… stymied by expectation.’
‘Oh?’ She tilted her head a little as she regarded him. ‘Yours or someone else’s?’
His. Ernie’s. His professors at USC. People who knew his parents. The whole fucking entirety of La La Land. He gave a half laugh. ‘Both?’
A brief flash of… something crossed her features before she schooled them – impatience? Her lips pressed together as if to stop her from saying what she was thinking.
‘Am I allowed to know what type of film you’re working on?’ she asked instead.
Oliver had always been very private about what he’d written because of the expectation that came with the Prendergast name. He’d even hated having lecturers reading what he wrote. And so it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to mind her own damn business because it was personalandbad.
But perversely because she was, to all intents and purposes, a stranger and hadn’t shown any inkling of interest in movie land – or his father – he felt he could talk to Paige. Even maybewantedto.
‘It’s an action adventure.’
Bending her knees, she slid her feet onto the edge of the table, her toes curling around the smoothed glass edge. They were painted green. Bright lime green. And suddenly he was thinking about day drinking again.
‘Ah. That explains why you were watchingDie Hardin January.’
No. It did not. ‘I watchDie Hardat least once a month.’ And sadly, Zac Woodbury was no John McClane.
‘I get that. I watch episode seven, season one ofOutlanderjust about every month.’
