5 #2
At least, that was what he’d gathered from what she told Maria every morning in the hair and makeup trailer. And Peter knew
all too well exactly how it felt to have someone he cared about dispose of him without warning.
Even if he didn’t like Darrell, he wouldn’t wish that on the PA. But he did, so—
Peter frowned down at the crisp streusel atop the steaming tart-sweet apples.
Huh. He did like the kid. Not something he would have said before tonight.
“Don’t worry. Darrell knows exactly what he’s doing.” Ramón offered him a sly smile. “He’s been eyeing Jeanine for a while
now, ever since they worked together last season, and she loves music from the eighties and nineties. This new venture is
his big bid for her attention. And besides, he’s not actually that young.”
“Really?” Ducking his head, he tried to keep his voice as quiet as possible. “Because he looks like he’s in his midtwenties.
Thirty, tops.”
“Brace yourself.” The director looked smug.
Peter’s brows rose. “Consider me braced.”
“Darrell is forty-three years old, and Jeanine has no idea.” When Peter’s mouth dropped open, Ramón laughed. “Paul Rudd Syndrome,
dude. The man doesn’t age.”
“Wow.” Setting his fork back on the table, he contemplated the PA’s unlined countenance and reconsidered his skepticism about
sorcery. “That’s... impressive.”
“Like you said, it’s not really our business, but . . .” Ramón flicked a glance across the table to where Maria and Nava were snort-laughing at some private joke. “It’s hard to keep anything secret in a group this small.”
Did the crew know he and Maria had slept together?
Did they suspect how desperately he still wanted her? How often he dreamed about her?
Unwillingly, he glanced in her direction too, and there she was, watching him again. Offering him that pleased, beaming smile
again for reasons he didn’t understand.
“I’m glad to see you looking more comfortable with the group,” Ramón said, clapping him on the back. “Everyone would love
for you to have dinner with us more often, you know, instead of eating in your room. I thought you understood that, but Maria
said you probably didn’t, so I’m telling you now.”
Maria. Again.
And then—then he understood her smile. Mentally replaying their dinner together, he understood everything . What she’d discreetly done for him without seeming to do much at all. What she’d wanted to facilitate. What had her looking
so... proud, almost.
Of him. She looked proud of him .
No wonder he hadn’t recognized the expression. He hadn’t encountered it often in the last two decades, had he?
Ramón was still talking. “You’re not obligated to join us, obviously. It’s your choice. Whatever makes you happy, Peter.”
Eating in his room had never been about what made him happy. Just what felt bearable.
He swallowed hard. “If you want me at dinner, I’ll be at dinner.”
And not as an outsider, apparently. Not anymore. Not after Maria’s intervention.
“Good,” Ramón said firmly.
Peter smiled at him in gratitude.
It didn’t even feel like an effort.
When Maria’s phone buzzed, all five people with hotel suites—including Peter, who stood only centimeters away—were clustered
in the hall outside their rooms, chatting after what she considered an extremely successful dinner.
A candid photo of her older brother appeared on the cell’s screen, and one glance at the time told her why. Normally she called
him for their weekly FaceTime chat on the hour, but she’d run late, unwilling to end the evening’s festivities. Also, possibly,
slightly drunk.
He would understand. He always did.
Tapping the display, she stepped away from the group and answered the call.
“ Hej, Filip,” she said, then briefly apologized and asked if they could talk later. When he agreed with his typical amiability,
she ended the call and turned to rejoin the crew.
Only to come within a millimeter of bumping into Peter, who was, for some reason, right there . To her shame, she emitted a shrill little squeak of surprise.
His lips twitched once before returning to their customary severe line. “Who was that?”
“Filip, my older brother.” Not that it was any of his business, especially when he asked in such a gruff way. “I’m late for
our weekly chat.”
“Oh.” Peter seemed to—deflate somehow. Or at least become less loom-y. “He doesn’t... uh... never mind.”
And now he was back to looking ill at ease, poor thing.
She took pity on him. “He doesn’t look like me. I know. We’re both adopted, and so is my sister.”
Filip from an orphanage in South Korea, Astrid as a Swedish newborn, Maria following the death of her Swedish birth parents
and several failed attempts at finding her a permanent home. Her other older brother, Vincent, was Stina and Olle Ivarsson’s
biological child, but her adoptive parents had never treated him any differently from Maria or Filip or Astrid.
Her family was everything to her. Everything .
That was true in Stockholm, and it was just as true in LA or Ireland. Her siblings and her parents were the foundations upon
which she’d built her life, as solid and immovable as the granite boulders that studded the landscape around Stockholm, and
she missed them all terribly.
Over the past several weeks, though, she’d begun to think that she might be able to create a sort of family for herself here
on the island too, and she didn’t want to leave anyone out. Not even Peter. Especially not Peter, a man who already seemed far too accustomed to being an outsider.
“Oh,” he said again. “I didn’t realize.”
Of course he hadn’t realized. The night they’d met in LA, she’d been unwilling to share personal information, and since then,
he’d mostly been avoiding her. Although he seemed to be getting over that now, and she had high hopes for their future as
scene partners and—maybe even friends?
Ja , she’d definitely had more than her share of wine with dinner, because she heard herself declaring in a too-loud voice to
everyone in the hall, “I feel really lucky to have such a talented castmate and such an amazing crew on the island. I’m so
glad you’re my colleagues.”
“You should feel lucky.” Nava raised her chin high in feigned hauteur, even as her cheeks creased in a smile. “We’re fucking incredible.”
“So we are.” Ramón laughed. “And if you’d hated us all, it would have been pretty damn awkward.”
“But you’d still be stuck with us,” Peter noted with his usual cynicism. “So, yes, count your blessings.”
“Nope,” Maria cheerfully told him. “That’s not true.”
Now she was really feeling that final glass of wine, so she edged around Nava and drifted toward her suite. When she stumbled,
a strong hand grasped her elbow and kept her upright.
Peter, inevitably. Of course it was Peter.
Tall, strong, sexy Peter. Fy fan , he smelled good.
Face creased in confusion, he steadied her all the way to her door. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” Giggling, she patted him on the chest, then dug her key out of her dress pocket. “You
need to be more specific, Peter.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, probably in an effort to muster his patience.
When he spoke next, every word was slow and pristine in its pronunciation. “I said you’d still be stuck with us even if you
hated us all, and you said that wasn’t true. What did you mean by that?”
Their colleagues were calling out good nights and disappearing into their own suites, and she waved hard enough to wobble
in Peter’s hold. Then it was just the two of them, and she stretched up closer to his neck and inhaled deeply.
They were nowhere near that LA sauna. How he still smelled like cedar, she hadn’t the faintest idea.
Wait. Had he asked her a question?
“Oh. Yes. I remember.” The keys almost fell, but she managed to catch them. “That’s easy. I meant exactly what I said. If
I hated all of you, I wouldn’t be stuck. I’d leave.”
He went very still. “You’d just... quit?”
“Exactly.” She smiled at him, pleased that he understood her now. “I’d go home and get back to the theater. Or try to find
other film and television work. Or whatever.”
“You’d just quit,” he repeated quietly to himself.
When she waved a dismissive hand, she came very close to smacking him in the face. Luckily, he managed to dodge in time. “It’s
a job, Peter. Only a job. Not worth my happiness.”
It was past time to call Filip back, wash up, and get to bed, but the lock was being terribly uncooperative tonight. She gave
it a second attempt, then a third, before that same strong hand—gods above, she’d loved Peter’s hand between her legs—leaned her against the wall by the door and took her keys.
For some reason, the lock worked for him right away, which was very unfair. He swung open the door but didn’t move out of
her way for a long time.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she finally asked.
He shook his head, jaw stony. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Are—” She swallowed. “Are you mad at me? Again?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“Really?” Moving closer, she squinted at him. “Because you look kind of mad.”
“I’m not. I mean it.” His chest deflated as he let out a long, slow breath. “Drink some water before bed, Maria. I’ll see
you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she said. “Water. Got it.”
His smile twisted around the edges in a strange way. “Enjoy your talk with your brother.”
Gently but implacably, he steered her into her room. And before she could gather her thoughts enough to say her own good night,
he was gone, the door firmly closed behind him.