Northwest Romantic Comedies: Boxed Set Books 1-6

by Lia London

“You sound chipper today,” she said with a giggle.

  “I wasn’t until you called.”

  “Aw, that’s so sweet.”

  “You called. Does that mean you still respect me in the morning?” he teased.

  Amaya’s boisterous laughter filled his ear, and he repositioned himself back on the bed, ready to settle in for some pillow talk.

  “Wait, you don’t respect me?” He gasped theatrically.

  “I respect you, Frank Judd. You can tear up the dance floor in true Latin Lover style.”

  At the word lover, Frank closed his eyes. No point in getting ahead of himself. “Well, thank you. Coming from a woman of your fluid grace, that is a great compliment.”

  “Aw, so sweet again! See? You can be nice. I even saw your review of the club. I’m so glad you enjoyed it there as much as I did.”

  “I loved it,” he agreed. “Tonight’s gig at the—”

  “Oooh, hang on Frank. That’s why I called you. I can’t go tonight. Have you already set the reservations?”

  Frank’s throat constricted. “Why not tonight?”

  “I missed too many rehearsals last week. I need to check in before I lose all the steps. I’m the understudy for the main gal, and …”

  “Jenelle didn’t think you needed the extra drill,” he protested.

  “I don’t think she knew how many nights I’d be gone.”

  Frank could feel himself pout. Was Jenelle torturing him deliberately? Had she heard about their romantic interlude and objected? He scrambled for an excuse. “But you’re just the understudy.”

  The silence on the other end told him he’d said the absolute wrong thing.

  “Just the understudy? Do you understand what being the understudy to the lead means? It means I have to be just as good as she is and ready to step in at a moment’s notice without having nearly as much time running through it on stage. I am the one who saves the show if—”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I misspoke, Amaya. Please forgive me. I’m… disappointed.”

  “Oh.” The smile returned to her voice. “Well, I can understand that.”

  He sighed, unsure of where the conversation should go next. “I guess I can set it for tomorrow night, if you want. I’ll do a lunch review today for one of the other assignments.”

  “Could you?” She sounded relieved.

  “Yes. It’ll be fine.” He tried not to feel sorry for himself.

  “Hey, if you want, I bet you could come and watch the practice tonight. We’re in dress rehearsals, with opening night on Thursday. I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to do all the numbers, or even one or two, but …”

  “I’d love to come. Tell me where.”

  “We’re doing the show at the Keller Auditorium this time, so it’s super exciting. It’s a great venue.”

  “And should I slip into the back seats? Will Jenelle mind if I’m watching?”

  “I doubt it.” Her voice took on a flirty lilt. “Can I trust you in the back seat of a big auditorium?”

  Frank’s cheeks flushed. “I’ll be on my very best behavior.”

  “I’ll try to be, too. Meet you out front about 6:20. I’ll let you in then.”

  “Should I wear ninja gear to hide in the dark?”

  Amaya laughed again. “No, but skip the bowtie. You’re much sexier when you’re casual.”

  His eyebrows shot up with delight. “What? Sexier? I thought you said I had to behave myself.”

  “You do! But when I show you off to my friends after, I want you looking your best.”

  “Oh. Right.” She wanted to introduce him to her friends? Had Jenelle put her up to this, or did she genuinely want him to meet more of the people that mattered to her? “I’ll see you at 6:20, sans necktie.”

  “Amaya, come on. You know better than that,” scolded Jenelle with a suppressed grin. “It’ll be a distraction.”

  “It won’t be,” promised Amaya. “I’ll keep him way in the back and tell him to refrain from clapping or talking. No one will ever know.”

  Jenelle gave her the indulgent smile a teacher gives to her pet. “Look, you didn’t know our policy, so I’ll cut you some slack this once. But normally, we charge half price to advanced reviewers coming in during dress week, and that’s if they’re doing write-ups.”

  Amaya lifted her hands in the air. “Then we’re set. You know he’s a writer for the paper. He can give us some preview paragraphs, right?”

  Jenelle narrowed her eyes. “That’d work if he’d received the assignment officially.”

  “And no one in the company knows he didn’t.” Amaya dared lift a challenging brow. “Come on. You’re the one who practically introduced us. Are you not okay with us getting together?” She bit her lip, afraid of the answer.

  “No, no. I’m overjoyed that you two are getting along. Keep it that way.”

  Amaya hesitated, unsure if Jenelle’s words were merely a sanction of approval that they made a good couple, or a stated expectation that she had to make things work out with Frank for other reasons. “I’ll try.”

  Fortunately, Jenelle laughed. “All right. Go let him in.” She reached out and caught Amaya’s arm before she could dart to the lobby. “I can’t believe you’re voluntarily spending time with Frank. He’s a total stick-in-the-mud.”

  Amaya flashed her eyes wide open. “Maybe I got him unstuck.”

  “That’s what I’d hoped you’d do.” Jenelle let go and shook her head as she retreated to the stage. “Just don’t get distracted. I need you to run both ‘Wanderer’ and ‘New World’.”

  Squealing with delight, Amaya bolted for the lobby and slammed open the door. Frank stood there in jeans and a white polo with a day’s worth of stubble on his chin. “Dang, boy. Dressed down in your civvies, you look so much …” She caught herself before she said hotter and hummed. “Come on in. Hurry.”

  “Thanks?” He pressed by as she held the door, and she caught a whiff of his subtle cologne. “I like your leotard, too, but I don’t know if you should wear it outside. It’s pretty cold, and I wouldn’t trust construction workers not to whistle at you.”

  Amaya chuckled and clasped his hand, feeling a spark of excitement fly between them. “I don’t suppose you can pretend you’re writing a preview article of the show?”

  He shrugged, not letting go. “I pretend all the time. Whatever you want.”

  “Just be a critic. A nice one.”

  “I’ll be watching you, so of course it will be favorable.”

  Amaya’s heart swelled. He always knew what to say to make her feel desirable. As she led him to his secluded spot in the back row of the first floor, she squeezed his shoulder. “I have to go now. I’ll be in two pieces tonight.”

  “Wonderful.”

  She hesitated, not wanting to leave him yet. Whatever had happened on the dancefloor the night before created an attraction she found compelling. He had transformed into a new man, a lively, cheerful, very sexy and sweet man. She wanted to keep getting to know him. His kisses had been so unexpectedly passionate, nothing like the Victorian, thin-lipped peck she might have imagined after the first day.

  “Is this where I say, ‘Break-a-leg’ or is that not a dancer thing?”

  “Oh, we say it. It’s a good luck thing.”

  “I know, but it always sounds more like a death wish. Are you supposed to tumble into the orchestra pit, or something?”

  Amaya giggled and leaned her elbows on the back of the chair next to him. “You mean I know something you don’t?”

  “It’s remotely possible,” he said, feigning his stuffiest expression.

  “In ancient Greek times, when the audience liked a theater production, they would clap and stomp their feet. You were supposed to be so good they would break their leg from stomping so hard.”

  Frank clutched his chest. “Wait, so I’m supposed to break my leg? That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  “Not when you put it that way.”

  He sat up strai
ghter, and their faces drew together, inches apart. “I wouldn’t be able to dance if I broke my leg.”

  “Amaya! Get backstage. We’re running notes now!” called Jenelle.

  Flustered, she brushed Frank’s lips with a whisper of a kiss and dashed down the aisle. Vaulting up onto the stage, she blushed at what she’d almost said to Frank. Jenelle was right. Having him there was a distraction. A tempting, tasty, powerful distraction.

  Frank’s gaped as the stage began glowing red along the back wall, illuminating a cluster of bodies in silhouette that moved like flames. The sound system filled the cavernous hall with the chirp of crickets and crackling fire for a few moments, and then soft pan pipe music faded in with a steady, muted drum beat.

  He’d never seen anything comparable to what unfolded before him. The dancers became sparks, fireflies, even stars, all as reflective swaths on their body suits caught touches of artificial moonlight. He saw no faces, no limbs, only movement under a desert, night sky. Mesmerized, he allowed himself to be transported through time and space to another world. The haunting music soothed his body even as the beauty of the piece robbed him of his breath.

  When at last the music faded back into a snapping campfire, he exhaled, shaking his head.

  Without thinking, he pulled out his phone and tapped the memo app, recording his impressions in swift, descriptive phrases. Maybe no one at the paper had asked him to do a write-up for the dance concert, but would it hurt to write an article, just in case?

  The next piece began almost as a continuation of the last, with the music hinting at a nineteenth-century American Southwest feel. A lone figure appeared on the stage, trudging under hot gold lights. A wide-brimmed, leather hat and long, tattered desperado coat obscured the dancer’s identity, but he was clearly a thirsty wanderer lost in the desert. One by one, mirages appeared and taunted the dancer, some created by lighting effects, others by more dancers.

  Frank’s heart beat with pity for the protagonist, struggling under the heat and desperation. When the dancer threw its arms around a cactus, then recoiled in pain, he recognized for the first time that it was Amaya. He slid to the edge of his seat, entranced by the way she showed her pain at each loss and betrayal of her senses. Weariness played through every expressive move until she removed the hat, the coat, and boots. Now in a stylized version of Old West shirt and trousers, she gained more buoyancy to her steps, and Frank sensed her character had died and been liberated from her parched and desolate surroundings. Her discarded clothes lay in a heap, and she was somehow lifted into the air by invisible wires, as if her soul were floating away in the arms of an unseen angel.

  The stage lights dimmed, and Frank dabbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. Ashamed at how he had ever doubted her abilities, he bent to type more phrases to describe her dance, but a text notification from Becki scrolled across the top of the screen. Owner of Danseur Noble said you rescheduled. Hope this is because you found new date. Stay focused. Tribune is watching your work closely.

  Frank blinked and read the message again. The Tribune in Portland? The biggest city in Oregon? Were they really watching his reviews with interest? Could this be his break?

  He didn’t want to lie to Becki, but he also couldn’t cancel on Amaya, so he simply typed back, Lunch review left me with indigestion. See review. Did not wish to arrive at DN already in gastronomical distress.

  Her reply came quickly. Ha! That’s more like Grumbleygut. Keep it up. And wrap it all up by Friday.

  Yes, ma’am. He stuffed the phone into his pocket and leaned back to watch the next dance, which turned out to be something about the dead coming to life, but nothing like zombies or vampires.

  Amaya wiped off the make-up that disguised her as a video-game robot, glad the white greasepaint covered her blush. Four of her cast mates scurried by, calling compliments that lifted her off the ground.

  Jenelle appeared in the mirror behind her, peeling Amaya’s costume away from her face. “Always keep the costume away from the make-up remover.”

  “Oh, sorry!” Amaya yanked the sleeves off, letting the bodice drop around her waist.

  “You’re making Sandra look bad,” whispered Jenelle.

  “I’m sorry.” Amaya bit her lip and tugged her bra strap back into place.

  “I’m not.” Jenelle’s reflection made an almost imperceptible nod before changing expressions. “So, what do you think of Frank, really?”

  A bag of marbles broke inside of Amaya’s brain, scattering her thoughts. Was Jenelle teasing? Truly interested? Insisting? “Um, we’ve gotten over the Grumbleygut stage.”

  “So, you like him?” pressed Jenelle. “Because that would be very good for you.”

  Amaya hid a frown behind the sponge wiping away her make-up. What did that mean? Was there a connection between liking Frank and getting bigger parts? Or would that hurt her?

  “We’ve gone out three times,” said Amaya carefully. “It’s been fun enough, and I found out he can dance his Latin moves all right.”

  Jenelle smirked. “Yes. He should’ve been a Brazilian.”

  Amaya spun in her chair to face Jenelle. “Oh my gosh, I thought the same thing!” She blushed at the way her outburst brought a knowing look to Jenelle’s face.

  “Keep up the good work, Amaya.” Jenelle patted the back of her arm. “It’ll take you places.”

  Amaya scraped harder at the make-up. Jenelle did not give ready praise, so her words filled Amaya with a mixture of hope and fear.

  “You can watch from the back,” added Jenelle. She pointed a finger for emphasis. “But stay focused. You know what I want you to watch for. Stick around after for cast notes.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Amaya saluted.

  Once she’d cleaned her skin and freshened her pits, Amaya slipped quietly into the auditorium and made her way up the aisle to Frank.

  “Hi,” she whispered, somewhat breathless. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re absolutely amazing,” he said. His eyes locked with hers, twinkling in the dim light of the Exit sign nearby. “You’re the best thing up there.”

  “Oh hush. You’re biased.” She grinned and sat down beside him, letting the side of her leg melt into his.

  “I’m biased. You’re talented. We don’t have to be in conflict about this.”

  “No, we sure don’t.” She smiled. “Thanks again for coming.”

  “Are you done now?”

  “Nope. I need to watch Sandra—she’s the one I’m understudying—in her dances for the second act.”

  “I cannot imagine in my wildest dreams she could be better than you.”

  She nudged him shyly. “Just watch her and tell me what you think.”

  “So, you want me to stay?” His eyes flashed with surprise.

  Shrugging, Amaya said, “I mean, if you want to.”

  Frank smiled and took her hand, letting their folded fingers rest on his thigh. “I want to stay. Very much.”

  A surge of delight almost lifted Amaya from her seat. She squeezed his hand in return and settled in to watch the second act.

  Frank counted the items in his basket one more time to make sure he was eligible for the express lane before rounding the endcap of boxed candies and nearly slamming into a wall of muscle wrapped in green cotton.

  “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t see—”

  “Didn’t see? How you not gonna see me?”

  Wincing, Frank raised his eyes past the massive shoulders, the thick, dark neck, and up to a gleaming smile full of white teeth. A smile?

  “Hey, lookie who it is, Garold!”

  “Barth?” Frank’s eyes widened. Barth and Garold were nearly identical except that Barth had his hair clipped short with Z’s shaved like racing stripes into the sides of his head, and Garold’s bleach-tipped dreadlocks hung past his chin. What were Amaya’s cousins doing here? “Oh, right. You live in Eugene.”

  “Man, we own Eugene!” Barth gestured for emphasis, strutting in the tiny enclosure be
tween the chip bags, mints, and fashion magazines.

  Frank couldn’t resist. “Even in the off season?”

  Garold gaped at him with exaggerated horror. “Even in the … Man, you ever hear such a cocky white boy?” He pointed to the cashier, who had just begun sliding Garold’s items across the scanner. “You think I only own this town when it’s football season?” challenged Garold.

  The clerk, a slim Filipino man with glasses and a mustache, glanced and Frank, Barth, and Garold and seemed to sum up the gist of the conversation. “No, boss. You rule rain or shine,” he said without skipping a beat or revealing any emotion.

  Barth and Garold broke into boisterous laughter and high-fived each other. “You’re all right, man!” cheered Garold, punching the air near the cashier.

  “Great to hear,” he replied calmly. “That’ll be $22.62. Do you have a club card you want to use?”

  Chewing his lips closed, Frank watched the exchange until the transaction was done, and then waved good-bye.

  But rather than move on, Barth and Garold parked in the bagger’s spot and waited.

  “Nuh-uh. Now we know you’re from our town, we need to talk to you about dating our cousin.” Barth’s face would have been menacing without the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

  The cashier flicked Frank a curious glance.

  “Amaya?” asked Frank, swallowing the crack in his voice.

  “You dating one of our other cousins?” challenged Garold.

  “Nah, man,” said Barth. “The only other girls are like six years old.”

  “Oh, right.” Garold nodded and turned back to Frank and adopted a very formal air. “What exactly are your intentions with regards to our cousin, Miss ’Maya Jefferson?”

  Frank handed the cashier a twenty-dollar bill while he considered the question. “I guess right now, I’ll continue to get to know her better?”

  Barth’s eyes narrowed. “And by better, you mean …”

  Frank’s mouth fell open until the automatic change dispenser spat out quarters and pennies, rattling him back to his senses. “Uh, nothing … I mean, her personality. Her interests. Stuff like that. Not …” He waved his hands in surrender before snatching up the paper sack of groceries. “Nothing too personal. I just …”