“Let’s play a game,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied, thinking Game? What game? I hate games. What’s wrong with him?
“Turner, Hiddleston, Fassbender?”
Oh, I thought, an insecurity game. An ego game. I see where this is headed.
I played along. “Fassbender.”
He looked mildly surprised. Like he thought I’d go Turner.
“Turner’s vapid. Hiddleston’s scrawny. Fassbender’s game.”
He pondered for a moment.
“Fassbender, Clooney, Firth?”
I didn’t have to think. “Firth.”
“Yes.” The finality in my tone stopped him asking any more questions about that choice.
I watched him, and saw the crafty look flicker across his face. Here we go, I thought. Here’s what he’s building up to. The momentous question. I sighed inwardly at his transparency. At least I’d played the second round right. At least he knew I could answer quickly and resolutely.
He smirked as he began the next trio of names.
I stopped him. “Which one?”
He blinked. “What do you mean, which one?”
“Louis, Justin, or Marcel?”
He frowned. Illiterate in the Theroux clan.
“Okay,” I said. “Continue.”
“Firth, Theroux,” he paused, “or me?”
I reached out a hand and gripped his wrist.
“Darling,” I said. “You, of course.”