Her Red-Carpet Romance. Marie Ferrarella

mother says I do that too much.”

      He instantly endeared himself to her by saying, “Your mother’s wrong.” She had to really concentrate to hear what he had to say after that. “There’s nothing wrong with offering an opinion—unless, of course, you’re delivering a scathing review on one of my movies. Then all bets are off.”

      “Has anyone ever done that?” she asked incredulously. Then, in case he didn’t understand what she was asking, she repeated his words. “Given a scathing review about one of your movies?”

      He didn’t have to think hard. He remembered the movie, the reviewer, what the person had said and when. Why was it that the good reviews all faded into the background, but the one or two reviews that panned his movie felt as if they had been burned right into his heart?

      “Once or twice,” he answered, keeping his reply deliberately vague. The reviews hadn’t exactly been scathing, but they had been far from good.

      “Well, they were crazy,” she pronounced. “You make wonderful movies.”

      He laughed at her extraserious expression. “You don’t have to say that,” he told her. “You already have the job.”

      “I’m not saying it because I want this job, I’m saying it because I really like your movies,” she insisted. “They make me feel good.”

      “Well, that was their intention,” he said, carrying the conversation far further than he had ever intended. He rarely discussed his movies this way. He spent a lot of time on the mechanics of the movie rather than the gut reaction to it. The latter was something he felt would take care of itself. It was just up to him to set the scene.