“No.” She took his hand again. “You don’t tell me a great deal with words.”

“I’m sorry.” He brought her hand to his lips.

“I don’t want you to be sorry.” She set down her snifter. “I don’t want you to be anything but what you are.”

“Strange.” He kept her hand close to his cheek. “There have been so many times recently when I’ve wished to be anything but what I am.”

“Don’t.” Her strength was what he needed at that moment. Somehow she knew it. “No regrets. There should never be any regrets from either of us for being what we are. Instead let’s enjoy.” Her thumb ran light and caressing under his jawline. “Just enjoy.”

“Eve.” He didn’t know what he could say to her, what should be said, what was best kept inside for a while longer. Her hand still in his, he started to set down his glass. “I nearly spoiled your papers.” He put the glass down beside them. “You work too hard.”

“There’s that pot and kettle again.”

He laughed. It was always easy to laugh when he was with her. “What is this? Another play?”

“It’s nothing.” She started to gather the papers up, but he put his finger down on them. “I don’t know this one. What is this title, Marking Time? This isn’t one of the alternates.”

“No.” Embarrassed, she tried to draw his attention away. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re already thinking of producing something else?” He thought about her leaving, going on with her life, her career. With an effort he tried to show interest rather than regret. “What sort of play is it?”

“It’s going to be—it’s a family drama of sorts. Why don’t we—”

“There’s so little of it here.” With his thumb he flipped through and estimated no more than twelve pages. Then it clicked, the way she’d been hunched over her computer, the matted balls of paper. With a quiet smile he looked back at her. “You’re writing it.”

Caught, she moved her shoulders and tried to draw away. “It’s just a hobby.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Of course I’m not. That’s ridiculous.” She picked up her brandy again and struggled to sound careless. “It’s just something I do in my spare time.” She swirled the brandy, then drank, and he thought how much he regretted never seeing her on stage.

“Chérie, in the past few weeks, I’ve seen firsthand how little spare time you have.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “You never told me you wanted to write.”

“When you’re only mediocre you don’t broadcast it.”

“Mediocre. I’d have to judge that myself.” He reached for the pages again, but she was quicker.

“It’s very rough. I haven’t done any polishing.”