“You leave in a few weeks?”

“Yep,” he said.

The room itself was noisy and overwhelming, but over in our little corner booth, it was quiet. If I focused on Gabe, on my drink, the flower arrangement, and the candles burning at the center, it was a bit like being in our own world. So much so that whenever I did look up, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust and for the dark, moving blobs to become people.

“Your life is going to change,” I said.

I surprised him with that.

“Yes,” he finally said.

“You won’t just be Gabe Parker.” I spread my hands wide. “You’ll be Gabe. Parker.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

He was looking down at his glass, the ice clinking as he swirled the remaining whisky. I was certain a refill would be arriving momentarily. Somehow, I’d finished my own drink, and was nibbling on the pineapple, feeling loose and warm.

“I know all the reasons people think I shouldn’t play Bond,” Gabe said.

A role he didn’t deserve—or so he’d said to me yesterday.

He held up his hand, ticking off each reason by lifting a finger.

“I’m not a big enough star. I kissed a man in a play in college. I’m American. I’m not Oliver Matthias.” He looked at his hand, and raised a fifth finger. “I’m too dumb.”

“Too dumb?” I echoed, even though I knew exactly what he was talking about.

“You know,” he said, attention still focused on his extended fingers. “I’m only good at playing hunky, dim-witted characters that get killed off in the first thirty minutes.”

I didn’t say anything. I’d read the article.

As expected, another glass of whisky had appeared on the table, delivered from the shadowy place beyond our cozy circle of light. They’d brought me another drink as well.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I drank anyways.

“I don’t think you’re dumb,” I said finally.

Gabe looked at me over the rim of his glass, eyebrow raised.

“I barely made it out of high school,” he said. “Went to community college on a football scholarship.” He knocked his knuckles against his temple. “Probably lost whatever few brain cells I still had on the field before I got injured. Never read them big authors like Hemingway or Fitzgerald or Salinger.” His voice got real low and slow. “I cain’t even pronounce the name of the guy who wrote Lolita.”

“Nabokov,” I said without thinking.

Gabe gestured toward me as if I’d just proven his point.

“There are different kinds of intelligence,” I said, not exactly sure why I was stroking his ego right now.

“Oh, really?” Gabe asked, that suspicious eyebrow now permanently arched. “I’m pretty sure you’re either smart or you’re not.”

I shook my head.

“Emotional intelligence,” I said. “That’s a thing.”