Gabe was looking down at me, smiling a very smug smile. The competitive side of me couldn’t let that stand. I did a move of my own, circling my hips against his, arching my back so my breasts—as modest and inoffensive as they were—pressed up against his chest and his hand slid back to touch my ass.
The smugness vanished into surprise—as if he hadn’t been expecting that. Hadn’t been expecting any of it. Especially how he felt. Because I could feel exactly how he felt. And it felt good. Felt intoxicating. Felt powerful.
Here was one of the hottest guys on the planet—according to People magazine—and he was turned on and pressed up against me.
I licked my lips. He watched.
Something was going to happen.
Except, it didn’t.
Because at that exact moment, Ollie resurfaced, dancing right into us. We broke apart, Gabe adjusted his pants, and I did my best not to stare. I didn’t succeed much, and when Gabe caught me, he gave me the same naughty, wonderful grin as before. The kind of grin that told me that if I wanted to get out of there with him, very, very wicked things might be in my immediate future.
“Come on,” Ollie said, either not noticing what was happening between me and Gabe, or saving me from it.
He gave my hand a tug, and I heard a rip. I didn’t have to look to know that my dress had torn—I could feel the slight breeze against my side.
Ollie pulled me away, deeper into the throng of bodies on the dance floor. I caught a glimpse of Gabe standing there on the edge of it all. He lifted a hand and then he was gone.
Film Fans
THE HILDEBRAND RARITY REVIEW
By Nicole Schatz
With every new Bond comes a chorus of disapproval. Consumers are fickle—they crave something new, but not that kind of new. They want to be challenged but comforted at the same time. They desire fresh takes, but only in a form that’s familiar to them.
That’s to say, audiences will accept something different as long as it feels the same.
No one wanted Gabe Parker to play Bond. The cards were stacked against him from the moment he was announced—especially when it was believed he was chosen over his Tommy Jacks co-star, Oliver Matthias.
At first it was an insult due to the fact that Matthias is British and Parker is decidedly not. Future audiences had already begun cringing at the thought of Parker, whose image was one of sweet, bro-y boyishness, acting suave while attempting to do a British accent.
Then when his audition tape was leaked and it was clear that the accent wasn’t going to be a problem—nor the boyishness, which he folded into his Bond-ness in a particularly charming, unique manner—critics had to find another reason why Parker was ill-suited for the role.
That reason came in the form of the unsubtle homophobic backlash at the reminder that Parker had dared to play a gay man dying of AIDS in his college production of Angels in America.
How, Middle America cried, how could Bond be played by someone who had kissed another man onstage?
The answer, we now know, is very, very well.
Parker’s Bond is a revelation.
And Chani Horowitz warned us that it would be. If you were one of the millions who read her profile of the star, you’ll know that she did everything possible to prime the pump, as it were.
It’s clear that the producers knew the film had only a few moments to convince the audience that they’d cast the right man and they use those minutes perfectly. Parker’s entrance is reminiscent of other great character introductions—where the acting, the editing, the directing, the music, all coalesce to make something truly unforgettable.
Think Hugh Grant’s entrance in Bridget Jones’s Diary. Rex Manning’s introduction in Empire Records. Darcy in any decent Pride and Prejudice adaptation.
That’s Gabe Parker as Bond.
Iconic.
We don’t even see him at first. It’s a sea of men in dark suits and dark hair at a gala, the occasional beautiful woman sprinkled throughout. All are powerful, confident men. Except one.
He’s shot from behind, but his body language doesn’t beg attention. It’s the opposite. Bond is hiding in a corner, shoulders bent, eyes—behind Clark Kent–esque glasses—focused forward, sipping on his signature drink.
He’s watching someone. He’s not the only one. The whole room is watching the latest Bond girl, Jacinda Lockwood, resplendent in a wine-red gown that floats on her skin as lovingly and intimate as a nightgown. She’s dancing with someone twice her age.
Bond watches from afar, but we see his eyes up close. They’re full of longing.
Lockwood looks up from her partner’s shoulder and sees him. The dance ends and she walks off the dance floor, away from Bond.
He deposits his drink on a passing tray, and then the transformation begins. Parker walks toward her, his shoulders straightening, his hand smoothing back his hair, his glasses deposited into his pocket.
By the time he reaches her, he’s another person.
He pulls Lockwood into his arms and they drift to the dance floor. They dance closely, the whole room watching as Bond wraps his arm around her waist. His other hand traces her collarbone, and with a not-too-gentle push, she swoons backward and he dips her, long and slow, drawing a half circle with her body.
When she’s pulled back upright, she—and the rest of the room—has fallen in love with Gabe Parker’s Bond.
It’s no wonder Jacinda Lockwood married him less than a week into filming.
Chapter
15
I’m making a terrible mistake.
“I should cancel,” I say.
“Should you?” Katie asks.
She’s doing that thing that I hate.
“I should,” I say.
Katie shrugs. She’s sitting on my couch, her hair in that haphazard bun of hers—the one that always seems so effortless on her but looks like a hairy cinnamon roll whenever I attempt it. She’s reading a magazine and seems unconcerned with my dilemma. I’m fairly certain she’s waiting for me to leave so she can sage my entire apartment. According to her the vibes in here are very destructive to my well-being.
I’m pretty sure the only thing in my apartment that’s destructive to my well-being is me.
“I’m going to buy you a plant while you’re gone,” she says, still looking at her magazine. “Maybe two.”