I looked at the rest of the pile. All older movies—most in black and white. Arsenic and Old Lace, The Thin Man, Holiday, and My Man Godfrey.

“I’ve only seen one or two,” Gabe said. “But I have to watch them all before we start filming.”

I nodded.

“Is it good?” he asked.

“Is it good?” I looked down at the DVD, at the cozy threesome of Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, and Jimmy Stewart, all smiling up at me. “It’s only one of the best romantic comedies ever made. One of the best comedies ever made.” I knew most of it by heart.

“ ‘I don’t want to be worshipped. I want to be loved,’ ” Gabe repeated.

He had a good memory.

“Is there a difference?” he asked.

“I think so?” I said. “You can worship someone you don’t know, but you can’t love them.”

Gabe looked at me. I looked back.

I was a little startled by the sincerity of my words. If Gabe was too, well, he bypassed that awkwardness quickly.

“I think Ryan wants our Bond to be a combination of Cary Grant and William Powell,” he said.

I could see it. Could see the angle they wanted to take.

Because even though Gabe’s on-screen persona—and apparently his off-screen one—wasn’t necessarily known as sophisticated, he had shown a talent for humor. If Ryan Ulrich could channel that into the same cool, dry humor that Powell and Grant excelled at, then Gabe’s Bond could be something unique.

“That’s a good idea,” I said, more to myself.

Gabe came over to me, taking the DVD from my hand. Once again, our fingertips brushed against each other, and once again I did everything I could to ignore the tight, scratchy feeling the contact gave me.

“It’s good, huh?” he asked.

“It’s amazing,” I said.

I should have stopped there, but I didn’t.

“Except for one gross story line that almost wrecks it for me every time.”

Gabe raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to ruin it for you,” I said.

“My sister already told me the plot,” he said. “She was so outraged that I’d never seen it that she spoiled the ending for me. I already know who ends up with who. What’s the story line you hate?”

“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “Just some stuff that would never fly if they remade it now.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

“Like what?” Gabe asked.

Jeremy had once called my rants a “feminist monologue hurricane.” Once I got started, I could go on and on and on. Blowing hot wind, he said. Everyone should take cover.

He was such an asshole.

But he wasn’t wrong, because I opened my mouth and let the hurricane fly.