“The money is—would be—really good.”
“I see.”
They were still holding hands, but somehow it felt like they had moved apart. Ellery gently squeezed Jack’s hand, which suddenly seemed less warm and less welcoming. “You seem …like maybe you don’t like the idea.”
Jack glanced over, and his expression in the moonlight was hard to read. “Doyoulike the idea? I thought you were finished with acting. Or at least with making movies.”
“I am. This would be a one-time—well, I guess a three-time—deal.”
“Threetimes?”
“It’s a three-film deal.”
Crickets. Well, not literally. It was too cold for crickets. But yeah. Crickets.
“I…well, that’s great.”
It was so obviouslynotgreat in Jack’s view that, in another time and place, it would have been funny.
“But if you don’t like the idea…”
Okay. Really? Was he really going to turn down the opportunity, that money, solely because Jack didn’t like the idea? It’s not like he and Jack were—
Right on cue, if a little crushingly, Jack said, “It’s not up to me. It’s none of my business.”
“No. Right. Well.” Ellery let go of Jack’s hand and walked a few steps ahead. He shrugged because he was abruptly out of anything to say. And if he didn’t pull himself together, he was going to trip over Watson or something equally embarrassing.
There was really no reason to be so hurt. Jack was right. This was Ellery’s decision. It felt important to Ellery to get Jack’s thoughts—he had a pretty good idea of those now—but it was clearly not important to Jack that Ellery have his input. Ellery was on his own in this—as he was always alone.
Because that was the truth. Yes, he and Jack had a nice, companionable, affectionate (occasionally it even felt loving) relationship. But Jack showed no signs of wanting anything more. Ellery was happy enough with the status quo. Mostly. He’d certainly thought so three and a half minutes ago.
The whole situation made him mad—at himself, yes, but also a bit at Jack, who really could be kind of a jerk sometimes—but mostly at himself for being sostupidand emotional—
“No,” Jack said, and caught him up, taking Ellery’s hand and drawing him to a stop. “Ellery, I didn’t mean… I don’t know what to say. But yes, it’s your decision, but also yes, of course it’s my business. We’re…”
Ellery waited, but it seemed that Jack still didn’t know what to say.
But he was trying. “Would you be on location somewhere? Would you be traveling a lot? Are you thinking of closing the bookshop? Of leaving Pirate’s Cove?”
“No. What? NO.”
“I’m not sure how to feel about this because I don’t know what it means.” Jack’s gaze was dark and earnest, his voice troubled. “My gut feeling? If I’m honest, I don’t like the idea. Partly because I don’t know what this means for us.” He offered a tentative smile. “I guess I’m one of those boring stick-in-the-muds who doesn’t like change.”
“I don’t know what it means either,” Ellery admitted. He wiped his wrist against his eyes.
Jack groaned, pulled him close, kissed his wet eyelids, the side of his nose, the corner of his mouth. “Ell, don’t. I’m sorry. If this is what you want, I’m glad for you. And more money…that house eats money like Cookie Monster gobbles sugar cookies. More money is always going to come in handy.”
“I don’t know if it’s what I want,” Ellery said. “I turned the part down at first, but then Ronny started quoting numbers, and it’s a lot of dough.”
“But you’ve got Brandon’s…what do you call it? Literary estate.”
“Yes. But that really nice payout I got last month was largely due to this movie deal. Brandon’s book sales went sky high after he died, but that’s not going to last forever. His publisher will repackage things and put out new audio and collections, but the demand for his work isn’t—he wasn’t a writer for the ages. In fairness, he didn’t want to be.”
“Okay. Well.”
“It would just be nice to have something for a rainy day again. To rebuild my savings. And if I turn this down, I’m not likely to get another chance. I’ll be closing that door for good.”
“But if you accept, does it end there? Will there be more movies?”