For the first time this year, she doesn't have many work obligations. She has used this time to practice for the year. it's currently its August first and the only thing she needs to this month is to a book signing type of event.
Rose had an event to promote The English Patient, where she spoke with people who had read the book and led a question-and-answer session in which she answered all their questions about the novel. They asked questions such as what my inspiration was regarding the book, and why I chose to use these themes and subject matter. I answered that the inspiration came to me while I was on a film set.
This went on for about an hour, during which I spoke about the book, answered all the questions, and signed loads of books. As I departed the audience and went to leave the event, she bumped into someone and automatically apologised to the guy she walked into and profousely apologised to him. She looked up and saw he had an incredible smile, and she got all shy and coy, which is unlike her. This is the first time she has seen someone and became interested immediately.
"Hello," he said, with a bemused smile.
It happened in the east corridor of the Royal Academy, where the floor gleamed and the air carried a faint, perpetual echo. Rose, arms full with a stack of annotated scripts and a single, balancing mug of tea, was running late for her cold read. The collision was inevitable—she turned the corner at speed just as Ethan James, all six-feet-something of him, strode out of the adjacent rehearsal room, eyes on his phone. Their impact was gentle but the results disastrous: scripts went airborne, the mug pirouetted, and Rose herself would have toppled if not for Ethan's quick, steadying hands.
"I am so, so sorry," he blurted, already crouched to retrieve the scattered pages. "I should've watched where I—"
"—was going?" Rose finished, a smirk already overtaking her initial shock. "I'd say the same, but I'd rather blame the hallway. It's always too narrow for ambition."
Ethan looked up, and for a second, the world felt oddly silent. He had the sort of open, athletic face that belonged on Olympic posters, but his eyes— Dark Brown—held a kind of careful wit that made her pulse trip. "You're Rose Lamarr Olivier. I saw you in last month's preview. You were… phenomenal."
Her cheeks warmed, but she managed a practiced, elegant shrug. "Thank you, but the critics disagreed."
"Then they're idiots," he deadpanned, offering her the mug. It was miraculously unspilled. "I'm Ethan. Ethan James."
She took the mug, their fingers brushing, and for a fleeting moment the touch lingered—electric, alarming. "I know who you are," she replied, softening. "You made half the cast cry at your monologue."
He grinned, sheepish but unafraid. "Sorry for the mess. Let me help you get this sorted?"
"Only if you promise not to upstage me again," she shot back, teasing, as they knelt together to gather the scripts. Close now, she could smell the faintest hint of cedar and something clean, expensive. She wondered, just for a moment, what it would be like to sit across from him in a real conversation, not just a hallway disaster.
They stood, arms full, faces nearly level. "Deal," Ethan said, and it sounded like a contract. Rose found herself smiling, genuinely, for the first time that morning. She had a feeling she would be seeing a lot more of Ethan James—whether by accident or design.