14
With a sly grin, the entertainment reporter leaned forward in her chair. “As all your fans know, you two are close friends
as well as castmates. Those fans have posted popular compilations of your joint interviews on YouTube and created Twitter
gifs from moments when you’ve stared adoringly at one another. Not just on the show, but in real life too. You’ve even been
given a couple name: Marter, a combination of Maria and Peter.”
Ah, the lead-up to one of many inevitable press-junket questions. Peter knew it well.
Any moment now, the reporter would stop tap-dancing around the topic and just ask outright: Have you two ever dated?
It was a classic interview question, along with a few others: What did they admire most about each other? Would they enjoy
working together again? What was it like filming for so long in such an isolated place? Did they plan to return to the island
at some point? What were their favorite Cassia-Cyprian moments?
At this point, they had stock answers for almost every possible query. The tricky part was keeping those answers sounding
fresh and off-the-cuff, instead of prepackaged and tired.
Maria, unsurprisingly, was better at that than he was. He’d improved over time, though. And they’d both become experts in the fine art of entertaining themselves during interviews with relentless banter and over-the-top bickering.
Reporters might not get answers to all their questions, but they got good sound-bites. Not to mention lots and lots of visitors
to their various social media channels, because people fucking loved Peter and Maria’s joint interviews.
He kind of loved them too, though he’d never admit it. Just like he’d never admit to watching them on YouTube during lengthier
breaks in filming, when they’d been apart so long he literally ached to see her face and hear her voice.
She caught his eye and raised a brow, silently asking whether he wanted to handle the dating question. Subtly, he tilted his
head toward her in answer, and she returned her attention to the interviewer. Expression calm, she took a swig from her water
bottle and wiggled her phenomenal ass in a futile attempt to find a more comfortable position on the too-hard hotel love seat.
Still stiff from her long flight, no doubt.
Each time she wiggled—and she’d done it a lot; like, a lot —her soft, warm thigh rubbed against his. Her soft, warm, mostly bare thigh, since she’d chosen to wear a very short, swingy dress that day, in what he could only assume was a deliberate effort
to demolish his faltering sanity.
She’d donned that dress after rushing into their hotel suite and showering that morning, all while shouting from behind the
bathroom door about a late plane and heavy traffic. The hair and makeup artist and the rest of the crew had arrived while
she was still drying off, so there’d been no chance to even kiss before the first reporter arrived, much less fuck.
Her flight was originally scheduled to arrive late last night, and he’d had plans for her. Very detailed, very naked plans. None of which had come to fruition, clearly. So he’d already been stewing in stymied lust and frustration, and then—
Jesus H. Christ.
Wiggle. Wiggle. Wigglewigglewiggle.
Her dress slowly crept higher, revealing more of her pale, dimpled flesh, and he wanted to tear out his hair.
Holy shit, she needed to stop fucking wiggling .
All that squirming, and now he couldn’t find a comfortable position anywhere on their little couch either. Would it be too
obvious if he tugged a cushion over his crotch?
Yeah. Probably.
Good thing the camera had been positioned to film them from the waist up, because the two of them were quite a pair. At this
point, the camera op could probably see Paris, France, and Maria’s underpants, and Peter might as well be headlining an ad
campaign for Bulges “R” Us. Smothering a wince, he shifted in his seat, strategically placed his clasped hands over his lap,
and hoped like hell his jeans placket was up to its stern task.
A split second after he fidgeted, the corner of her wide, gloss-slick mouth twitched, and he suddenly knew.
She was doing it on purpose.
That gorgeous, amazing, diabolical Swedish bitch.
“Which brings me to my next question, and it’s one all our viewers are curious about.” The reporter’s gaze flicked from him
to Maria and back again. “Have you two ever dated?”
It wasn’t the reporter’s fault, really. Her viewers most likely were curious. But so were the viewers and readers of every other media outlet that covered Gods of the Gates , so he and Maria had been answering the same question every ten to fifteen minutes for several hours and counting.
Actually, to be accurate, they’d been answering that question for years now. Their response never varied, and—at least for
the time being—it was entirely honest.
They’d fucked, yes. They’d never dated.
“We haven’t,” Maria told the reporter with an easy, bright smile. “But as you said, we’ve been the best of friends for a long
time. Peter is very dear to me.”
As he knew from long experience, this was the part of the interview fans would dissect the most avidly. They’d post screenshots
of her face and his, claiming they’d caught a revealing microexpression in response to the question. They’d point out the
exact moment in the clip when one member of their OTP inadvertently displayed their true feelings for the other and whip up
some celebratory gifs. Then they’d write some very creative and extremely filthy fanfic about what he and Maria did immediately
after the interview ended.
Namely, each other.
“Although,” Maria added, fingertip lightly tapping her chin, “can you truly be dear friends with someone you’ve basically
carried for five entire seasons of a blockbuster television show? Sometimes I wonder.”
Minx.
“I assume you mean physically carried, because as far as acting...” Hiking a thumb in Maria’s direction, he grimaced at the interviewer and mouthed
delusional .
Oh, she was going to pay for that insult to his considerable acting prowess. Sooner rather than later.
The reporter chuckled. “Have you ever visited her in Sweden, Peter? Maybe watched one of her theater productions during your
off-season?”
“I haven’t, unfortunately.” As he settled back against the tufted love seat cushions, his elbow nudged Maria’s ribs, in the exact spot where he’d discovered she was most ticklish.
When she squeaked and jerked away, he pretended not to notice.
“But we’ll soon be traveling there for a few joint interviews and some bonus content for the final season. ”
The day after tomorrow, in fact. He’d like to say he wasn’t nervous about meeting her family, but that’d be a fucking lie.
“She’s told me about her homeland, of course,” he said, scratching at his beard reflectively. “I look forward to my ceremonial
trampling by a vindictive moose. Maria says that’s how they always welcome honored guests. And if I’m not mistaken, we’ll
end our visit by assembling various pieces of particleboard into slightly crooked home furnishings using only an Allen wrench,
all while singing the entire ABBA Gold playlist.”
“It’s the law.” Maria gave a solemn nod. “No Billy bookcase, no plane ticket home. Exceptions are only made if two witnesses
can certify that you sang ‘Fernando’ at top volume while drunk on aquavit.”
“And I don’t drink, so...” Spreading his hands, he heaved a dramatic sigh. “Wish me luck assembling my Lopbl?sv?dersson.
I’m pretty sure Blond Pippi over here won’t be much help.”
“Shut it, skitstovel .” When Maria pinched his arm, he cast her a wide-eyed look of astonished hurt. “Peter made up that word, Tonya. Ignore him,
please.”
The reporter snickered. “I’d translate what she just called him for our viewers, but I’d prefer not to be bleeped. If you’re
curious, a simple Google search will serve you well, since all true Marter fans know Maria’s preferred term of endearment
for Peter.”
“It’s not a term of endearment.” Amusement lit Maria’s warm brown eyes. “It’s a condemnation . I am hereby stating to you and the entire world that Peter Reedton is the type of man who would shit in a boot. Also, possibly,
in a blue cupboard.”
Scrubbing a hand over his mouth, he tried to disguise his grin.
“So much for not getting bleeped.” The reporter—Tonya, evidently—winced.
Maria lifted a shoulder in a desultory shrug. “I don’t mind being bleeped. Not if it helps spread the word about Peter’s rampant,
uncontrollable boot-shitting.”
The other woman rubbed at her temples for a moment. “One final question.”
He and Maria both knew what was coming. Discreetly, he lowered a hand to poke the side of that tempting, bare thigh, their
usual indication that he wanted her to answer. Only to jerk and cough a moment later as her surprisingly sharp elbow rammed
him in the gut.
That would be a refusal, then.
“I’m so sorry, Peter.” Her expression of innocent remorse should have won her an award. “My jet lag must be making me clumsy.”
She patted his forearm gently, then sat back to watch him suffer.
“You mentioned the final season.” Tonya paused for dramatic effect, and he bit back a sigh. “All those leaked scripts have
caused quite an uproar among Gods of the Gates fans. Can you comment on whether those are real episode scripts?”
Maria, apparently willing to address that part of the topic—i.e., the easy part—shook her head. “We can’t. I apologize.”
“In that case, can you tell me more about the final season and what happens to your characters?” The reporter waved a hand.
“I know you have to avoid spoilers, but maybe you can share your general reactions without giving specifics.”
However little he wanted to answer, it was probably better that he address this particular question. Despite her charm, Maria
was no diplomat. She hated bullshit, she could wield words like knives, and she loathed the showrunners and how their final-season
scripts decimated almost all the main character arcs.