Playing With Her Heart

by Lauren Blakely

  I meet up with Reeve after a few miles.

  “Try to keep up,” I shout at him, as he joins me mid-stride.

  He rolls his eyes at me and keeps a perfect pace. I like running with Reeve because he is the only one who runs like I do. Full tilt. Nothing held back.

  “Can I say I told you so?” he says after the first half mile.

  “About not being able to keep up?”

  “No, idiot. About the show.”

  “By all means. Say it all day long.”

  “Get me good seats for opening night.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say, and I smile. I am happy to see my friend. Happy because I am out of my own head for a while. I can escape from my thoughts.

  I am happy, I am happy, I am happy. The more I say it the more I believe it. Rinse, lather, repeat.

  * * *

  After we finish the run, I head back to my apartment. As I walk up the steps to the second floor, my phone rings. I dig around in the side pocket of my fleece jacket and pull it out. My agent’s name is flashing across the screen, and my heart gallops with a fleeting fear that I’m about to lose the job. That it was all an error.

  “Don’t tell me Davis Milo changed his mind,” I say, stopping on the stairwell.

  She laughs. “No, darling. Don’t ever worry about that. The producers sent me the contract already and I’m working on it.”

  I breathe again and walk up the rest of the steps.

  “But that’s not why I’m calling,” M.J. continues. “I just got off the phone with Milo. He wants to meet with you before rehearsals start.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “He likes to meet with understudies to set their expectations. So you and I will go together to his office on Friday at ten in the morning. Does that work?”

  “Yeah, I’ll see if my schedule is clear, M.J.”

  Another laugh. “I’ll email you the address.”

  After we hang up I unlock the door to my apartment, pour a glass of water, and sink down onto my couch with my laptop and everyone’s best friend in the world—Google.

  I quickly cycle through his resume, though I know it by heart. The South Pacific revival he won his first Tony for, then an original production called Anything for You, followed by the play The Saying Goes. He’s worked on the West Coast too, and directed a production in San Diego at the La Jolla Playhouse three years ago that earned all sorts of accolades. Called World Enough and Time, the play was inspired by a line from an Andrew Marvelle poem, and there have long been rumors that it would one day become a movie. I find a photo of him with Madeline Blaine, the young actress who played the lead and then rocketed to show biz success, landing a starring role in a romantic comedy movie that made millions at the box office. She’s been on Maxim’s Hot List and now commands top dollar for her roles. Once I go down that photographic rabbit hole, I can’t resist looking up more pictures of him.

  Because it’s hard to look away. It’s hard not to stare at his face with those eyes that seem to know you, and that hair that seems to beg for hands to be run through it. I click on a picture of him at last year’s Tony Awards with his arm draped around a stunning redhead. I zero in on the caption. Award-winning director Davis Milo and publicist Amber Surratt. Then, one from the year before, where his hand is clasped protectively around the waist of a black-haired beauty in a slinky gold dress. She’s a talent agent and she represents many of Broadway’s top stars. At a Broadway Cares event last year he’s seen with a well-known choreographer, who’s no doubt as flexible as she is gorgeous. His hand looks to be on her back. I touch my lower back briefly, as if I can recall the sensations I’d felt when he laid his hand there as he caught up with me in Sardi’s.

  I lean into my couch pillow and arrive at two conclusions: one, besides the lone photo of him and Madeline Blaine, he seems to prefer the company of the women who work behind the scenes in the business. And two, he’s tailor-made for tuxes. The man just looks at home in a suit. He’s effortless, every bit of him completely effortless in black and white, with an easy and understated elegance. He wears the tux, rather than the tux wearing him. I run my index finger across a photo of him, tracing his outline absently, arriving at a third conclusion: I bet he looks best in a tux if you’re the one next to him when he’s wearing it.

  I close my laptop and head to my bedroom, opening my tiny closet. I pick out something classy for my meeting, a pencil skirt and my favorite emerald green sweater.

  Then I knock on Kat’s door.

  “Come in,” she says, sleepily.

  “Rise and shine.”

  “Some of us don’t wake up at the crack of dawn, you know,” she says, and rolls onto her side, bringing her purple comforter snug around her neck.

  “Hate to break it to you, but it’s almost ten. Well past the crack of dawn. Anyway, can I borrow your black pumps for a meeting later this week?”

  “You know I have huge feet.”

  I laugh. “You’re an eight. I’m a seven and a half. I’d hardly call that huge.”

  “Bottom shelf in my shoe rack. But be careful. They’re true to size and I don’t want you to stumble.”

  “Ha. I’m like a cat. I always land on my feet.”

  “Then my Louboutins are your Louboutins.”

  “One of the many reasons why I love you so much.”

  I find the black beauties and return to my room, placing them next to the skirt and sweater. There. It’s the perfect ensemble.

  Then I find myself wishing it were Friday.

  Which makes no sense to me whatsoever. Except on a professional level. Because I want to impress him as an actress. That’s all.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jill

  The office building is red brick with a gleaming glass door and huge potted plants inside the lobby, an eclectic mix of materials in the middle of the Tribeca neighborhood that’s teeming with industrial buildings, lofts and famous faces.

  Surprising, because I somehow pictured Davis in a sleek, black office building in the middle of Times Square. But then, Tribeca is the epicenter of New York cool and claims Beyonce, Justin Timberlake and Leonardo DiCaprio among its star-studded residents, so I suppose it’s fitting that Davis keeps an office among the glitterati.

  I adjust my purse strap, walk a few feet away from the building in case anyone’s looking in the lobby, and check my makeup in the side mirror of a car parked outside. Good. I still look freshly made-up, and there are no lipstick marks on my teeth. I press a hand against my belly because anxiety is flooding my veins. I don’t know what to expect from my first official meeting with a Broadway director. What sort of expectations does he want to set with me? The initial excitement is behind me, so I’m glad my agent will be here. I scan the block for her, hoping to catch a sight of her marching purposefully towards me, looking all tough and agent-y with her shoulder length brown bob and kickass attitude.

  I check the time on my phone, when I see a text message from her marked as urgent. I click it open. Jill darling!! I’m so sorry. I’m stuck on the Metro North, and my train is delayed a whole frigging hour. But you’ll be fine!! You’re there, right?

  I write back with a Yes, don’t worry about me, then I turn the phone off and head inside, talking myself down from these nerves. There’s no reason for me to be nervous. I’ve been cast, and I’ve already had a drink with him, and we chatted and got along swimmingly. Everything will be fine, and these are first job jitters that I’m going to ignore.

  There. Done. Ignored.

  I am confident. I am bold.

  I push open the glass door, and enter the lobby, which has a warehouse-y, unfinished feel to it with exposed pipes and concrete walls painted a bright white.

  I stride purposefully to the security guard behind a counter, and inform him where I’m going. Davis Milo. Second Floor. He tells me I’m on the list so I sign in, and take the stairs up one flight.

  I find his office at the end of a long, quiet hallway. The door is slightly ajar, so I kn
ock.

  “Come in.”

  His voice is strong and deep, and something about it calms my nerves. This is the man I teased about casting me as Tevye. I’ll be fine.

  I open the door and he’s seated behind a large oak desk that’s spilling over with scripts and sheet music. I would have pegged him as a neat freak, but his desk has a slightly unkempt look to it, which is all the more surprising given how impeccably he’s dressed. He’s wearing a navy blue shirt that looks crisp and freshly laundered, and pressed charcoal slacks. His dark brown hair is slightly mussed up, as if he were running a hand through it right before I walked in. What’s most out of tune with my expectations, though, is the music playing from his computer. It’s not Rodgers and Hammerstein, nor is it Sondheim. He’s listening to Muse, and I almost want to hum along to the lyrics I know so well from “Madness.”

  He looks up from his screen, meets my eyes, and almost seems like he’s about to smile. Then he makes his face impassive, and simply nods in greeting.

  Neither one of us says anything for a beat, and the only sound is the music.

  “I love this song,” I say to break the silence between us.

  He starts to speak, but instead he leans over, hits a button on his keyboard and turns the music down.

  My nerves return. Did I do something wrong?

  Then he rises and walks over to me, offering a hand.

  I shake his hand, and it’s awkward. I mean, I’ve already pretty much tackle hugged the man back on the street outside Sardi’s when he gave me the news. Now we’re back to some sort of uber professional dynamic.

  “Good to see you again, Ms. McCormick.”

  Ms. McCormick?

  Oh. I get it. We’ve done the celebratory drinks, and now we’re all business. “And you as well, Mr. Milo.”

  I wait for him to correct me. To tell me I can call him Davis. To return to the witty banter of the other night. But instead he peers down the hall. “Where’s M.J.?” he asks, and he seems annoyed that she’s not here.

  “She’s stuck on the train. She can’t make it.”

  “You and I can chat for a few minutes then. There’s a hook on the door for your coat,” he says, and I take off my coat and hang it up. He gestures to a beige couch and I sit, crossing my legs. A chair is angled across from the couch and it only seems natural that he’d sit there. But he glances at his desk, an almost painful look in his eyes, as if he’s deeply considering the seating arrangements. He pushes a hand through his hair, messing it up again, and the tousled look he now has going on is terribly inviting. Even though I know I shouldn’t think of him that way. I shouldn’t notice his looks, but if he weren’t my director I’d surely send his picture to Ellie for her hot guy collection.

  He finally sits in the chair. “I called this meeting because you probably have the most difficult job in the show.”

  I lean forward and listen eagerly. Whatever weirdness is in the air doesn’t matter anymore. This is the important stuff—his first direction for me.

  “Being an understudy might be the toughest job on Broadway. You have to learn all the chorus parts you regularly play, as well as another role. You’re essentially rehearsing two parts. You’ll be in nearly all the chorus scenes and songs, but you also have to know Ava cold. And you might not ever go on.”

  I nod, knowing some understudies warm the benches for an entire run. “Right.”

  “But some understudies have to go on at a moment’s notice, and if that happens, it’s the sort of event that can make your career,” he says, and there’s an intensity now to his voice as his body language shifts. He’s leaning slightly closer to me, the change in his tone loosening him up. “And I’m going to expect that of you. You’re going to need to know all the lines backwards and forwards, all the songs inside and out, and all the blocking will have to be committed to memory,” he says, his dark blue eyes locked on mine. He’s so passionate as he gives me his instructions that it nearly erases his earlier coldness, and this change reminds me how much he must love directing.

  “I’m ready to do whatever it takes,” I say, completely earnest and serious as I match his stare. Then I add, almost mischievously, “Mr. Milo.”

  Because I want to get back to where we were.

  He turns to stare out the window, but there’s the slightest grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s trying hard not to smile. He wins, keeping his expression stony as he returns to the task at hand. “I want you to take the script home. I want you to start learning it. By heart.”

  “Absolutely. I would be thrilled to.”

  “I’m going to ask a lot of you, Jill. I have ridiculously high expectations for the show, and everyone has to meet them, and that includes the understudy for the leading role.”

  “I won’t disappoint you.”

  He leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands clasped together. “Do more than not disappoint me. Exceed my expectations.”

  The room seems to compress, to tighten into this one tense line from him to me as he holds my gaze, but his dark eyes give nothing away. I’m not sure if he’s trying to break me down, or to see if I can withstand the pressure. “I will give you everything, Mr. Milo.”

  At last, a smirk plays on his lips. Then he whispers in a low, sexy voice that makes me heady for a moment, “It’s Davis. Just call me Davis.”

  “Okay,” I say, then, as if I’m trying it on for size, I repeat his name. “Davis.”

  He shakes his head twice and breathes out hard, and for some reason, I like the way he responds.

  He walks over to his desk and I try to look elsewhere—at the walls, at the table, at the floor—but I can’t seem to stop checking him out, from his broad shoulders to his deliciously sculpted ass. I try to remind myself that I should not, under any circumstances, be looking at his fine ass as he grabs a spiral-bound thick set of pages.

  The script.

  It’s like a treasure. The book and music for the newest Stillman musical, and he holds it as such, as if it’s a great and powerful thing. I’ve only seen the pages from the audition scene. Now I’m about to dive into the whole story. I cannot wait, and when he hands it to me I take it reverently.

  “Spend the next few weeks immersing yourself in it,” he says, and he’s still standing, so it’s clear that the meeting is over. I stand up, tuck the script in my purse and loop the strap over my shoulder. He walks with me to the door and as I’m reaching for my coat, I wobble in the too-big heels.

  Stupid shoes.

  But then his hand is on my elbow, instantly. He steadies me as I’m reaching for him so I don’t fall. When I look up at him, I can feel the flush of embarrassment creeping into my cheeks. I decide to make light of it. “That’s what I get for borrowing my roommate’s shoes. She has big feet.”

  He glances down at the black pumps. “Nice shoes.”

  As I follow his eyes, I realize my hand is on his shirt, my fingers fisted around the cloth, clutching it. I should let go. But I don’t. Because I can’t help but notice he has that clean and freshly showered smell that makes any woman want to lean in and lick a guy’s neck.

  Close her eyes. Inhale, and trail a tongue all the way to his earlobe, enjoying the sound of a low groan.

  “Nice shirt,” I say softly, running my index finger across one smooth button. Then I look up to find him staring down at me. His dark blue eyes aren’t cold anymore. They’re not keeping me at bay. Instead, they’re heated, searching mine.

  It’s hypnotic the way he looks at me. Completely hypnotic, as the room goes quiet, the air between us charged.

  I press my teeth against my lips and I think, but I’m not entirely sure because thought has vanished, that I nod briefly, almost as if I’m giving him permission. Then he bends towards me, and my breath catches. Before I even process rationally what’s happening his lips are on mine, and my pulse is racing. It’s barely there, just him brushing his soft lips against mine, but I want more. So I pull him closer and deepen the kis
s. He groans and then suddenly his hands are in my hair, and he’s twining his fingers through my long, blond strands, and tugging me close.

  I thought I was leading this kiss, but I’m not anymore because he’s claiming me, tracing his tongue across my top lip, then nipping at the bottom lip, then kissing me so deeply and with so much heat that I shudder. That only makes him kiss me harder, and everything else falls away because this is a kiss I can feel in every single cell in my body. Deep, and fevered, and possessive.

  It makes me want things I’m not supposed to have.

  It makes me want him.

  My heart pounds wildly as he presses closer, so dangerously near to me that I’m longing for him to slam me against his body, to touch me all over. His lips own me, his hands want to know me, and I swear I might combust from this kind of electric contact.

  He breaks the kiss and I’m honestly not sure where I am anymore. Or who I am. I look at him, at Davis, but everything is so hazy right now that I don’t know what to say. I don’t think he does either, because he doesn’t speak for a moment. He exhales deeply, collecting himself. As if he doesn’t know how the kiss transpired either.

  “I’m sorry,” he says then steps back. He looks away from me, staring at some distant point on the wall. “That was a mistake,” he says quietly.

  My mouth is open in shock. A mistake? That was a kiss that begged to become so much more.

  But I manage to hide my embarrassment at having kissed my first Broadway director by doing what he hired me to do. Act.

  “Yes. A mistake,” I say confidently.

  “It won’t happen again,” he adds, now turning his gaze back to me, his eyes cold once more. Stripped of all that longing from seconds ago.

  “Of course not. Thank you for the script. I’ll see you when rehearsals start.”

  “Yes.” He returns to his desk and I grab my coat, my head cloudy even as my heart beats fast, my body still racing, still wanting.

  Wanting more.