Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Brendan just…dripped with an easy, effortless sex appeal that reminded Cillian painfully of what he’d come here for tonight.
He still felt like he’d been sideswiped by a truck, and his senses hadn’t quite fully returned.
How had he ended up like this?
…staring. Right. Cillian dropped down to sit at the edge of the entryway, working at the laces of his boots so he’d stop fumbling and fidgeting—and taking the chance to look at the apartment space without being too obvious. The entire massive residence was a single room, taking up this entire floor of the building; on three sides the walls were completely glass, looking out over the glitter of Los Angeles, the street lights tossed down like a scattering of winking jewels. Erratic white square columns spaced throughout the apartment created illusions of liminal spaces transitioning in and out of each other, tiny fragments of different realities pinned to the cream-colored, cozy seating arrangements scattered across the dark gray laminated concrete floor.
The lights had been turned down low throughout most of the apartment, leaving the eat-in kitchen beneath its own spotlight, and as Cillian eased out of his boots and stood, scrubbing his hands on his thighs, Brendan set out two slender, fine-spun glass wine flutes before popping the cork on a bottle with a single hard twist of powerful hands.
“I’ve a red on ice,” he said, looking up at Cillian, and raised the bottle. “But white really works better with the fish.”
“White’s fine,” Cillian said, then scrubbed his hands on his thighs, swallowing.
This…wasn’t a date…right?
Brendan finished pouring, corked the wine, and slid it into an ice bucket on the counter—then scooped up the thick stack of pages next to it and hefted himself onto one of the two tall, slender black low-backed stools at the table. Bowing his head, he started flipping through the pages, and flicked his fingers toward the other seat.
“Sit. Eat. I don’t really stand on ceremony,” Brendan murmured, and Cillian felt like he suddenly wasn’t even in the room.
…nope. Definitely not a date.
Strictly business.
Sighing at himself, he relaxed, rolling his shoulders and stepping up onto the main floor in his stocking feet. As he lifted himself up onto the second stool, he pulled his own script from under his arm and nudged it onto the table next to his plate.
“What part are you looking at?”
“The first time our characters speak,” Brendan said, and reached unseeingly for his fork, his attention wholly focused on the page. “Just…have you really thought about the power dynamics at play here? It’s more than just that you’re facing down the disapproving father of the girl you’re wanting to court.” Instead of taking a bite of his food, Brendan pointed his fork at Cillian. “Your character, Richard Kerrington, is a Duke. Mine, Landon Cheng, is just a lowly Earl. But. Cheng has age, seniority, the respect of Cheng’s peers, which closes the gap in station between them. Especially when Kerrington’s not the Duke yet. He’s displaced, worried about his ailing father and taking up the title, plagued with money troubles, and suddenly in love—but he’s determined, and he outranks the man who would stand in his way.”
Cillian frowned, picking up his own fork and starting to cut his tilapia into neat bites as he flipped through to those pages. “So what are you saying?”
“When you read with me, you’re reading as if you’re speaking in deference. As if I, as Landon Cheng, outrank you. But we’re on even footing, and you have love driving you. So you should be willing to look me in the eye and smile as if you know you’ll win. Not tiptoe around me as if I could crush you. Pretend you’re royalty, and I’m a peasant.”
Cillian had started to take a bite of the tilapia.
And promptly choked on it.
Coughing, he pressed one hand over his mouth, thumped the other against his chest. Brendan looked up, eyes keen.
“Are you all right? Did I miss a bone?”
“I’m fine,” Cillian wheezed, swallowing and clearing his throat “Clumsy. Swallowed down the wrong pipe. Act like royalty. I can do that. Go on.”
Brendan gave him an odd look, but then shrugged. Cillian reached for his wine, took a quick and desperate sip.
Pretend you’re royalty.
Ha.
What if I want to forget?
But Brendan was still talking—completely no-nonsense. Focused utterly on the script. Cillian found himself caught between eating, asking questions, pausing to savor that the food was really quite good…and just watching Brendan. The way his attention honed in so intently on what had his focus; the way he didn’t even try to hide what a workaholic he was, devoted so completely to getting this right that he had no qualms, clearly, about dragging Cillian in his wake.
But Cillian was glad to be dragged, honestly. The way Brendan thought about characters was fascinating, and Cillian wondered if he could do that; if he could take this idea of a character put down on the page and start to weave something delicate and nuanced strand by strand himself, instead of relying on the director’s interpretations as he always had.