Method

circles the island and puts his chin on my shoulder. “Did you do it to make me happy?”

I nod.

“Then it’s an occasion for cake.”

“I’m selfish. I just want you to be okay. A cake won’t help that.”

“You’re appreciated, Dame.” He slides his arms around me and squeezes before stepping away to grab some water from the fridge. The oven sounds letting me know it’s pre-heated just as I pour the batter into the waiting pan. “How did it go?”

“Good, we’re on the same page. I see what he sees.” He pokes his head out from behind the stainless-steel door. “Did you read it?”

I tense because I haven’t. A part of me doesn’t want to and thinks I’m better off not knowing. In the past, I’d been intrigued as he got into character. Slowly and subtly while he immersed himself, I began to pick up on the tics, the new habits, the character change, and was fascinated by his brilliance.

“Not yet.” Pulling the oven open, I slide the cake in.

When we first got together, I had no idea what to expect daily. I assumed we’d live our lives jet-setting, and some of the time, we did. I didn’t care much for it because I’d already been to most of the places on my bucket list. But our life as of late has been a lot of the opposite. Lucas said one of his biggest turn-ons about me was that I cooked and that I was a homebody. He enjoyed the routine of having a dinnertime when he wasn’t filming and loved eating on our patio overlooking the ocean. And I know I’m right to assume it’s because he never had that kind of family atmosphere growing up. We do attend the necessary parties—the Oscars, the Globes, and the film festivals. For the most part, we have a pretty mundane home life that I’m more comfortable with and that he seems to thrive in. Often, his work can be grueling, his schedule exasperating which at times made us threadbare. I stopped working three years after we got married only taking local odd jobs to be at his side, knowing I could resume it at any point when I got bored, and I was getting there. My sense of self could never come second to his career and I’ve made that clear, but I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed the extended vacation.

He gestures toward the bottle on the counter as I take a sip of the wine.

“It’s Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Grand Cru,” I say, swirling it around, “1990, and it’s also an invitation. I got a call from a man who’s opening a new bistro near the promenade and wants to use me for the pairing. He’s a Michelin star chef. It’s quite an offer.”

This gets his attention.

“You’re going back to work?”

I shrug. “It’s local, so why not?” I worked for years to get my reputation as a sommelier. The longer I stay absent, the less credible I am.

He pauses at the counter before he takes a sip of the wine and nods. “Good.”

“$16,000 a bottle, good?”

His eyes bulge and then narrow. “What asshole sends a $16,000 bottle of wine to a married woman?” He’s a little jealous which I find adorable. Even as one of the highest paid actors in Hollywood, Lucas would never pay that much for anything that isn’t an investment. It’s one of the reasons I love him. For a millionaire, he’s as cheap as they come. “I’m sure that’s not what he paid for it, you don’t just give a bottle like this away.”

Tension fills the silence.

“When do you start?”

He studies me, his expression unreadable. “We have the read through in three weeks.”

“You’re kidding.” He gazes at me, and I swallow hard. “How heavy is this?” Depending on schedule, Lucas usually has at least a month or more to prep. He reads my mind. “I won it by default. Will Hart had to drop out.”

I nod. “I know, I know. Okay. I’m with you. I’ll read it tonight.” He gives me a smile that for the first time in a week reaches his eyes. “Thanks, baby.”

Attempting to stay upbeat, I put a voice to it. “I think it will be good for both of us to be working, but I’ll be here for you for whatever you need.”

I’m not sure either of us believes it.

“Yeah, sure,” he says with a nod. “If that’s what you want.”

He reads the surprise on my face and frowns. “I’m not a fucking Neanderthal, babe. It’s been two years, and it’s been incredible having you with me, but I thought…” He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

This time I’m frowning. “You thought what?”

“I thought you quit working so we could have a baby.”

“Wow,” I say, widening my eyes. “Now that’s caveman.”

“Is it?” he says, closing in on me. “Can’t exactly drink daily with a baby coming.” He towers above me at six foot two to my five-five. Looking up, I see the contempt I was looking for when I announced I wanted to go back to work.