“She only has so much time.”
“Now . . . We gave you a shout-out, Dallas and Roarke, on the red carpet. Here’s another. You’re the reason, both of you. But, Dallas, as much as you’re going to hate this—being Dallas—this is as much yours as mine. I’m putting it in my place, but it’s yours, too. I’m sharing this amazing award with the smartest, bravest, most dedicated cop and frustrating person I know. Thanks. Holy crap! Thanks!”
“And that,” Roarke said, “is my very favorite acceptance speech in the history of them.”
“Jesus.” Eve scrubbed at her face. “Between her and Mavis, they’ve got me dripping. I’m glad for her, I really am. I have to be. But, Christ on a tricycle, Roarke, this is going to be a pain in my ass. As if it wasn’t enough of one before.”
He laughed, hugged her in. “Just think what a pain in your ass it’ll be if it wins best picture.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t think that. Don’t put that out there.”
“To Nadine,” he said. She huffed, but clinked.
“Okay, but that’s it. One’s enough. No more.”
“Well, we’ll wait and see, won’t we?”
The Icove Agenda took five Oscars, including best screenplay, best director, best cinematography, best actress, and the big guns. Best picture.
A little shell-shocked, Eve dragged herself into bed.
“It’ll never end now. Never end.”
On a laugh, Roarke snuggled her in, kissed the back of her neck. “There, there.”
“Bite me,” she muttered.
She closed her eyes and, consoling herself that the job would keep her too busy to worry about it, willed herself to sleep.