He should leave it be. “You ever tasted an alcoholic beverage?” So much for changing the subject. It was his damned curiosity—his strength and his kryptonite. “Or do you just reject the concept out of hand?”

“Of course not.” She looked at him, her expression inscrutable. Then she lifted her chin, her steady gaze unapologetic. “I’ve found alcohol doesn’t agree with me. I don’t like the taste.”

“Are you an alcoholic?”

“No.” She smoothed the napkin in her lap. “I just don’t like the way booze makes me feel.”

“You don’t like being out of control.”

“Who does?” She lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, but he could sense something beyond what she was saying.

“I do,” he replied. “Sometimes it’s fun to let loose, go wild, swing from the rafters, whether it be booze, hot sex, fast cars. I also find at the end of the day a drink or two can help soften the edges, make the world a more palatable place.”

“And I’ve found I need the sharp edges clearly visible and delineated so I can see where they are. I’d prefer not to cut myself on them and bleed out on the floor.” She said it like a joke, but he could feel the truth shimmering behind the statement.

“Ah . . .” he murmured. “How old were you when you quit?”

“Twenty.”

“Not even legal.”

“Legal enough.” A flicker of something flitted across her face, and then it was gone. “And I hate to break it to you, but from the copious amounts of empty bottles that were scattered around your house, I’d say you indulge in more than a drink or two.”

If she was expecting him to be offended, she was sorely mistaken, because he was enjoying the hell out of her tart rejoinders. Made him feel seen, human, with foibles and flaws, instead of this God-like persona that his box office successes had created. He didn’t know why people seemed to flock to his movies when there were so many films out there that were better crafted, more deserving. Mick had spent the last nine years on a wild roller-coaster ride that only seemed to climb higher and higher. Felt as if he couldn’t breathe sometimes, his breath held shallow in his chest, because he knew the safety bar was defective.

“It wasn’t just me who drank all of that. As you can probably ascertain, I’ve got a lot of . . . friends.” The devil in him made him lean on the word slightly, and sure enough, color rose in her face. Never mind that he was lying. He didn’t have a lot of friends. Not true ones. Hangers-on and sycophants—those were the sorts of “friends” that tumbled in and out of his house, drank all his booze, ate whatever food was in his fridge.