Page 61 of Ship Wrecked

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 meanphysicallycarried, because as far as acting...” Hiking a thumb in Maria’s direction, he grimaced at the interviewer and moutheddelusional.

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 spotwhere 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 entireABBA Goldplaylist.”

“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 Löpblåsvädersson. I’m pretty sure Blond Pippi over here won’t be much help.”

“Shut it,skitstövel.” 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 acondemnation. 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 amongGods of the Gatesfans. 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.

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