Heather leaves us with a small nod and the click of the suite door. The room settles into quiet, just the two of us at a table too modest for the space around it. Candles flicker between us, and the roses in the center are yellow, not red.
Knox pulls out a chair and waits. I sit, and he takes the seat across from me, not beside me. That feels deliberate.
"I should warn you," he says, unfolding a napkin, "I'm not very good at this."
"At dinner?"
"At talking to someone who isn't paid to be in the room."
I pick up my fork and turn it over once. "That makes two of us. Most of my conversations involve spreadsheets."
He laughs, a short sound that catches in his throat. "You said that earlier, you do that for fun. I thought you were joking."
"I don't joke about spreadsheets."
A server appears from somewhere behind me and pours still water. She offers wine but I decline. I watch the glass fill and wonder how many people are standing just out of sight, timing courses and watching for signals. Knox doesn't look at the server, he just accepts the whisky she hands him. His eyes stay on me, and I shift in my chair, adjusting my posture so my back doesn't touch the upholstery.
The first course arrives. Something green, with a name I don't catch. I eat because I'm hungry, and because it's easier than talking. Knox eats the same way, like the food is just something to do with his hands.
"Do you get recognized?" I ask. "Walking down the street?"
"Depends on the street. Edinburgh, sometimes. Glasgow, always. London's worse." He sets his fork down. "People don't see me. They see Roy. They want the character, not the person. I could be anyone underneath."
"Isn't that the point of acting?"
"The point of acting is to disappear into someone else. The point of fame is that you never get to disappear again." He picks up his whisky glass but doesn't drink. "They're not compatible."
I think about the screenplay, the one I sold for money I needed and never expected to hear again. I slide a stray wilted piece of lettuce to the edge of my plate.
"What about you?" he says. "Any secret talents?" He places the whisky glass back down on the table.
My thumb finds my index finger and rubs the nail. "I can tear open an apple with my bare hands".
"That's not a talent. That's a party trick." He slightly chuckles underneath his breath.
"I don't go to parties."
He smiles, and for a second, it's a genuine smile, not the one from the posters. "Neither do I. Not real ones. Just events where the Studio contracts me to."
The server clears our plates and replaces them with some kind of grilled fish covered in some kind of sauce. I watch Knox's hands as he picks up his fork. Calloused, like the character he plays. Working-class past. I wonder what he did before someone pointed a camera at him.
"Do you have friends?" I ask." Real ones."
The question lands differently than I intended. He stops chewing, and I watch him decide whether to answer.
"I have a brother," he says. "Jude. He's the only one who doesn't treat me like I'm made of glass or gold. Everyone else wants something. A photo, an introduction, a story they can sell." He sets his fork down again. "I haven't had a conversation like this in years. Where someone isn't performing."
"I'm not performing because I'm not trying to impress you."
"Aye. That's why I asked Heather to extend the hour."
I look up. "She didn't mention that."
"She doesn't know yet. I'll tell her when she comes back."
The fish is delicious. I eat more of it than I mean to. Outside the window, the castle glows gold against the darkening sky, and I realize I've stopped noticing the view.
"What do you do when you're not working?" he asks.
"Read, make tea and I live with my half-sister in a high-rise condo. She's a model. Very loud, very excited about everything." I pause. " You had a hunch earlier that she was the one who entered me in the contest."
"She wanted to win; she wants to marry you. She's already named your children."
Knox chokes on his whisky. I watch him cough and press a napkin to his mouth, and something in my chest loosens.
"I'm sorry," I say, not sorry at all. "Should I not have mentioned that?"
"No, it's..." He clears his throat. "It's refreshing. You're refreshing."
"I'm honest. There's a difference."
"Honesty is a rare gem now days." He leans back in his chair, and the space between us feels less like a negotiation. "Tell me about your sister. What's she like?"
"Sophia's twenty-five, we shared the same father. She changes her contact lenses more often than she changes her mind about what she wants to do with her life. Right now, it's a nail polish brand. Last month it was a clothing line for dogs." I set my fork down. "She means well. She just lives very loudly."
"And you live quietly."
"I prefer it that way."
He nods, and I think he understands something I didn't say out loud. The silence between us settles, not uncomfortable, just present. A server appears to check in on us as I watch the candle flame bend toward me when she walks past.
"This is the part where I'm supposed to ask about your work," I say. "The show. The character. But as you know, I haven't watched much."
"You're the first person I've met in three years who hasn't asked me about Roy." He says the name like it tastes corrupt. "It's a relief, honestly."
"I'm not a fan. I'm just someone who won a contest she didn't enter."
He laughs again, and this time it's easier. "You're very determined not to enjoy this."
"I'm enjoying the food. The company's acceptable."
"Acceptable." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "I'll take it."
The main course disappears, replaced by a warm custard like dessert topped with crisp caramelized sugar. I eat it in four bites without catching a breath. Knox watches me with in awe.
"So how does it work after tonight?" I ask.
"You go back to Miami. I go back to filming." He turns his water glass. "This is a one-time thing. That's how these promotions work."
"I know."
"I just don't want you to think otherwise, I don't want to lead you on".
"I don't think anything." I push my plate away. "I came for the vacation. The dinner was a bonus."
"A bonus."
"The food was good."
He smiles, and it's the third real smile I've seen tonight. I count them without meaning to.
The door opens behind me. Heather's heels click across the floor, and I straighten in my chair before I realize I'm doing it.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she says, in a tone that means she's not sorry at all. "Mr. Mackay, your car is waiting."
Knox stands. I stand too, because it feels wrong to stay seated while everyone else is on their feet. He reaches across the table and warmly takes my hand.
" Well, it seems the extended hour is not going to happen, thank you," he says. "For the conversation. It was what I really needed right now."
"You expected me to ask for an autograph, didn't you."
"I expected you to be someone else." He releases my hand. "I'm relieved you weren't."
Heather escorts him to the door, and I hear her voice in the hallway, crisp and efficient, arranging the next thing. I stand alone at the table with the candles burning low and the castle still glowing through the window.
I walk back to my room alone. The hallway carpet swallows my footsteps, and I count the doors until I reach mine. Inside, the bed is turned down, and a fancy velvet chocolate truffle sits on the pillow. I ignore it.
The Edinburgh Castle brochure is on the nightstand where I left it. I pick it up and run my thumb along the edge. The paper is glossy, the photographs too perfect, the kind of thing designed to make you feel like you're missing something by not being there. I tuck it into the side pocket of my suitcase, so I don't forget it when I leave.
I don't know why I'm keeping it. It's just a brochure.
I brush my teeth and wash my face and climb into a bed that's too grand for one person. The sheets are drafty; I lie still until the castle lights switch off outside my window and the room goes dark.
On the morning of check out, Heather meets me in the lobby. Her Bluetooth earpiece is in place, and she's holding a tablet.
"Your flight leaves in approximately four hours," she says. "The car will take you to the airport. Do you need anything before you go?"
"No."
"The studio appreciates your participation. We hope you enjoyed your stay."
"I did."
She smiles, and it's the same smile she gave me when I arrived. Practiced. Perfect. "Safe travels, Ms. Deeds."
The car is black and quiet. I watch Edinburgh slide past the window and try to memorize it. The stone buildings, the grey sky, the way the light hits the castle at a different angle than it did yesterday. I won't come back. That's not self-pity. It's reality
The airport is bustling. I find my gate and sit with my suitcase between my knees, and I rehearse what I'll tell Sophia. The dinner was fine. He was nice. No, nothing happened. Yes, he's attractive in person. No, I didn't get his number.
I repeat myself three times, like lines in a play.
The private charter flight is turbulent, yet somehow, I sleep for most of it. Usually, I can't sleep on planes. When I wake, the pilot is announcing our descent into Miami.
Sophia is waiting at arrivals in a yellow sun dress that's too short for the air conditioning. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back, and she's wearing fantasy green contacts today. I can tell even from a distance.
"Darla!" She waves both arms like she's flagging down a ship. "Over here!"
I wheel my suitcase toward her, and she throws her arms around me before I can stop her.
"Tell me everything," she says, pulling back. "Everything. What was he like? What did he say? Did you take pictures?"
"No pictures. They had rules."
"Rules?" She grabs the handle of my suitcase and starts walking toward the parking garage. "What kind of rules?"
"No photos. No physical contact. One hour." I keep pace beside her. "It was very professional."
"Professional." She makes a face. "That's not romantic at all."
"It wasn't supposed to be romantic. It was a promotional dinner."
"But still." She stops at the elevator and jabs the button. "What did you talk about?"
"Money. Work. Normal things."
"You talked about money with Knox Mackay."
"He asked what I do. I told him."
The elevator doors open, and we step inside. Sophia stares at me in the mirrored wall.
"You're impossible," she says. "You have dinner with the most famous actor on television and you talk about accounting."
"He was relieved, actually."
"Relieved?"
"He said it was refreshing to talk to someone who wasn't a fan."
Sophia is quiet for a moment. The elevator dings, and we walk out into the parking garage. The old Corolla is parked in the same spot she always leaves it, crooked between the lines.
"So, he liked you," she says, unlocking the doors.
"He liked that I wasn't trying to marry him."
She laughs, and it's a little too loud for the concrete space. "Okay, fair. But still. You met him. You actually met him."
"I did."
We drive home with the windows down. Sophia asks three more questions, and I respond to each one with the same reply. Short. Neutral. Nothing that invites follow-up. By the time we reach the condo, she's moved on to telling me about a casting call she has next week, and I let her talk.
Inside, the condo smells like the candle Sophia always burns in the living room. Cinnamon, Nutmeg and something else I can't recall. I wheel my suitcase into my bedroom and close the door.
I call my mother who lives in Maine before I unpack.
"Darla?" Her voice is tired. She's probably just gotten home from her shift. "How was the trip?"
"Fine. Scotland's prettier than I thought it would be."
"And the dinner? The actor?"
"He was friendly. We talked about work. He's just a person, Mom."
"Just a person." She laughs, and it sounds like mine. "That's probably not what he's used to hearing."
"Probably not."
"Well, I'm glad you went. You needed a vacation."
"I did."
We talk for a few more minutes about nothing important. The weather. Her schedule. Her four cats. When I hang up, I sit on the edge of my bed and look at my suitcase.
I unzip the side pocket and take out the brochure. Edinburgh Castle on the cover, the same gold glow I watched from the dinner table. I run my thumb over the glossy paper and think about the way Knox said "refreshing" like it was a word he'd forgotten existed.
I open my desk drawer and place the brochure inside; under a stack of old receipts and a solar powered calculator I never use. Then I close the drawer and push the chair in.
Sophia is in the kitchen when I come out, eating gummy bears from a bag and scrolling through her phone.
"You, okay?" she asks, not looking up.
"Fine. Just tired."
"You should sleep. You look exhausted."
I pour a glass of water and drink it standing at the counter. Outside the window, the Miami bay shimmers, I try not to compare it to the castle.