Page 19 of Ship Wrecked

For the first time, Darrell’s absurdly charming smile was directed at Peter, and it nearly blinded him. But in a good way.

Absently, he touched his belly. He hadn’t had any wine, so he couldn’t explain that odd sensation of warmth in his gut. It was pleasant, though.

When Jeanine captured the PA’s attention once more, Peter picked up his fork and prepared to address the delicious-looking apple crumble in front of him. Which was when Ramón nudged his arm.

The director stretched his neck to whisper near Peter’s ear. “Do you see what’s happening?”

That was vague, but Peter was pretty sure he knew what Ramón meant.

“Between Jeanine and Darrell?” When the other man nodded, Peter pressed his lips together, unsure what to say. “It’s their business, of course. I just . . . I just hope Darrell doesn’t get hurt. He’s so damnyoung.”

Because Jeanine was fantastic—why hadn’t he acknowledged that to himself before?—but she tended to like her men disposable. 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. Hedidlike 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 understoodeverything. 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 ofhim.

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.

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