Ben notices the author of one of the books while he's still walking over, and takes the DVD case off the top (with a dubious look at it) to pick up the book and hold it demonstratively.
"Richardson? You do know he's no more a historian than Dan Brown?"
"I see your mouth moving, but -- that's weird, no sound is coming out of it," Riley drawls, lifting his hand and making his Frito-dust-covered fingers go flap flap flap.
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Andrew does a mild doubletake, passing by on his way to the bar with an armful of books of his own.
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There are passionate kissing noises.
Riley boo's under his breath and fast forwards.
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What is that?
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Riley doesn't let go of the track bar, effectively keeping the video paused.
(It is paused on a purple-haired woman and a big muscled dude, both wearing white chef coats, hollering at each other over a flaming pan on a stove.)
"...Hi," he says shiftily, without turning around, to the person he's pretty sure is standing over his shoulder.
Please be Ava. Being caught watching this show is going to be really embarrassing otherwise.
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"Richardson? You do know he's no more a historian than Dan Brown?"
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"The man doesn't even know hayfoot from strawfoot," he mutters, sorting through the rest of the pile slowly.
"Flavors of Love?" he asks, off-hand.
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Beat.
"Don't answer that." If he answers that, Riley is never going to get out of the ensuing lecture.
"Flavor of Love," he corrects. "Reality TV from another dimension; it's impressively terrible."
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