I shudder, and fall onto his chest, and then he rocks into me, saying my name many times too, then kissing me softly and holding me close, as I think of music, and lyrics, and sailboats in the moonlight.
Chapter Twenty
A week later, I'm walking home from the coffee shop when I run into Amber on her way to her gymnastics class. I don’t have anything to say to her, but I don’t want to avoid her either. I won’t let her have that much power in my life.
So instead of slinging a snide remark, I suck in all my pride, and say, “Hi Amber.”
Without agenda, without anger, without that jealousy that encased me for the last year.
“Hi McKenna. I’ve been meaning to reach out to you.”
I stay strong. Whatever she has to say, whatever they will throw my way, I’ll manage. I wait for her.
“I wanted to let you know that I had no idea what Todd was up to with the business buyout bullshit. But as soon as I heard last night, I sat him down and told him it was not okay. I told him to back off and stop threatening you with legal battles.”
“You did? You said that?”
“Yes. I made it clear that he was not going to operate our family that way. We make our own money. We don’t try to take money that belongs to other people. And The Fashion Hound is yours, and yours alone. So he spoke to his lawyer this morning to let him know he won’t need his services.”
A brittle piece of my heart softens. I’m not going to be friends with Amber, we’re not about to get mani-pedis together, but I respect her for this.
“Thank you, Amber. Thank you for that.”
“I better get to class.”
“Happy cartwheeling,” I say, and I mean it.
I walk the last few blocks to my house and am surprised to find two delivery men and a large truck waiting outside my steps.
“You McKenna Bell?”
I nod. “We have a delivery for you.”
“Evidently. What is it?”
But the guy doesn’t answer. Instead, he returns to the truck, and wheels a dolly down the ramp. When he’s halfway down I see what’s on the dolly.
My very own Qbert. An arcade Qbert.
“Oh my god!” I clap my hand to my mouth and I jump in excitement.
“Built it myself.”
I turn around and there’s Chris walking around from the front of the truck.
“You did?”
“I had a feeling you might like your own.”
Fifteen minutes later, the delivery guys are gone, and there’s a gorgeous new game in my living room.
“It’s one hundred percent authentic,” Chris says, and then hands me a bag of quarters. “No freebies. You gotta pay this beast every time.”
My eyes light up and I reach for a quarter. “I want to play now.”
“There’s one thing I should let you know, though. I tested it out first. Just to make sure it worked. So you’ll have to beat my high score.”
He taps the screen and shows me his score. It’s insanely high. I pretend to punch him. “Chris! That’s too high. It’ll take me forever to beat your score.”
“We can just christen the game instead then.”
Epilogue
Two Months Later
The cabs honk, and the traffic roars, and everywhere there are people, bustling and coming and going. Chris holds my hand as we weave through streams of New Yorkers and tourists. I’m wearing a black linen dress with cartoonish dog prints smattered across the fabric, and a flouncy skirt that shows off a hot pink petticoat underneath. It’s totally retro and rockabilly, and I love it. So does Chris, who looks sharp in jeans and a button-down shirt as he guides us to the stage door.
He knocks and the stage manager opens the door shortly.
“Hi. You are?”
“Chris McCormick. Here to see my sister Jill.”
The stage manager glances at a list in her hand, taps it once to confirm, and then shows us into the theater, escorting us through narrow hallways that whisper stories of the past, of plays and productions and big, brassy musicals that this jewel of Broadway has seen over the years. Down a well-worn red carpeted hallway to a dressing room, and the stage manager knocks. We are early. Curtain is in one hour. But it’s opening night at Chris’ sister’s show, and she said she wanted to see him beforehand.
She opens the door and flashes a huge smile then jumps into his arms.
“Hey, little sis.”
“Hey, big pain in the ass.”
“I see you haven’t changed.”
“I can still beat you up.”
“You so wish you could.”
Then she turns to me, and she’s gorgeous, with beautiful blond hair pinned up on her head, and heavy stage makeup that accentuates strong cheekbones and dark eyes. She’s wearing a white tee-shirt splotched with paint stains, and a pair of loose jeans. I’m not sure if they’re her costume, or just casual backstage clothes.
“I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you. You’re even hotter in person.”
I blush. “Stop that.”
“No, seriously. I can’t believe my brother snagged a total babe. How did you trick her, Chris?” she says to her brother, and I love the back-and-forth banter. Then she turns to me, and wraps me in a hug. She lowers her voice and whispers just to me. “I’m so glad he found you. He’s mad about you.”
“The feeling is completely mutual.”
“So I’m sure you guys want to see the stage before the show starts,” Jill says, then guides us out of the dressing room, down the hallway, past other actors and stagehands who she says hello to. Then to the wings, and onto the stage.
The set is breathtaking in its minimalist glory, and I gasp. “It’s amazing,” I say, then we turn around and take in all the empty seats in the theater, seats that will soon be filled up with patrons here on opening night of Crash the Moon.
Jill smacks her forehead. “I forgot something in my dressing room. I’ll be right back.”
Then it’s just Chris and me on an empty stage in a Broadway theater.
I turn to him and am shocked to see him down on one knee.
“I’m pretty sure they want to get their stage back soon, so I’m seizing this moment.”
He looks so earnest, so full of hope, as he reaches into his pocket and takes out a dark velvet box. His nervous fingers fumble at the opening, and his light brown hair falls across his forehead. I can already feel my throat hitching and tears welling, as he takes out a stunning diamond in a vintage style cut that couldn’t be more perfect for me.
“When we first met, I thought you were a babe. Then I got to know you and I thought you were the coolest chick ever. And it all started with you wanting me to pretend to be trying out to be your Trophy Husband. So what I really want now is not to be your Trophy Husband, but just to be your husband.”
“Yes,” I say, and my voice breaks, and the tears come, and I’m shaking as he slides a ring onto my finger because I am overjoyed.
“Okay, let’s clear the stage now.”
* * *
I can’t stop looking at my ring. I don’t think I will ever stop looking at it. The theater fills, and soon the overture begins, and I spread open the Playbill and point to his sister’s name.
“Look. There’s your sister. Look at the role she’s playing.”
“I know. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“Totally,” I say. “Hey, do I have to take your name? Because McKenna McCormick would be pretty silly.”
“Take my name or don’t take my name. All I care about is that you’re mine forever. For always.”
“I am.”
Then the music swells, and the sound of the orchestra fills the theater, and I hold hands with my favorite person in the world as the musical begins.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, a ginormous thanks to the readers. Without you, well, this book would not have been possible. I am so so so grateful for your support, your notes, your tweets, your messages, and mos
t of all your passion for romance, especially the kind I write. I love hearing from you, and I am grateful for each and every one of you. Romance readers are THE BEST - a vocal and awesome crew and I want to hug all of you.
Writing is such a solitary act, but editing and publishing are not. I am honored and humbled to have amazing critique partners like Cyn, Summer Stone, Simone Noelle, Kelli and CS. My business advisor, Simone, is my go-to gal every day, and I would not be on this indie journey if she hadn’t encouraged me and guided me. THANK YOU, Simone. Then there is my biggest advocate, Michelle, who somehow manages to make sense of the insanity of our plans, and does it with passion, intensity and a gung-ho attitude. I adore the indie writing community and can not imagine navigating it without my indie BFF Monica Murphy. That indie family now also includes the amazingly awesome authors Kristen Proby, Kendall Ryan, Emma Hart, Lexi Ryan, Melody Grace and Paige Edward. Big thanks to Kristen and Kendall for the fabulous blurbs!
A special thanks to Kelly Simmons at Inkslinger PR for her focus, dedication and use of words like “lickable” to refer to stock photos. And for believing in this book.
Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations blew this cover out of the water with her work. Holy hotness! You are a cover wizard, Sarah! Giselle at Xpresso organized an amazing cover reveal. Thank you, Giselle!
The indie world thrives on word of mouth, Goodreads, social media and the amazing bloggers who bring so much passion to books. I am indebted for the support of amazing bloggers including Cara at Book Whores Obsession, Kari at Sub Club, Taryn at My Secret Romance, Angie at Angie’s Dreamy Reads, Becky at Reality Bites, Sugar and Spice Book Reviews, My Fictional Boyfriend, Denise and Nic at Flirty Dirty, Tammy & Kim Reviews, Romance Addict, Jessica and Lyndsay at Little Black Book Blog, Christine at Shh…Mom’s Reading, and more.
And most of all a big thanks to my family. I love you all so so so much.
Sneak Peek at Playing With My Heart
Tentatively Slated for an August release
Dear Readers: After reading Caught Up In Us, many of you asked when I would tell Jill’s story. Likewise, after reading Pretending He’s Mine, where Jill also plays a key role, many readers inquired as to when they’d get her story. I’m thrilled to let you know I’m busy writing Playing With My Heart and am aiming for a summer release. To whet your appetite, here’s the first chapter. (Note: This is unedited and may change in the final version.)
Xoxo
Lauren
Playing With My Heart
Chapter One
Davis
The moment this girl steps on stage to sing her solo, I know - without a shadow of a doubt - that she’s our Ava. Her voice gives me chills. She starts small, as the song calls for, in a trembling kind of tone, and then through each verse her voice strengthens, matching the lyrics, the tone of the song, the story the music is telling: a girl who was all alone, but who had to find her own way to her dream, and found it through pain and patience and heartache.
When she reaches the chorus, her voice is all I feel, and it’s got arms and fingertips that stretch from the center of the stage, all the way around the theater to the balcony. A voice that surrounds you, and mesmerizes you with color and heat and tremulous tenderness. The voice has layers and hurt all in one, and so does this actress, her face, the way she wrings the emotion from the words.
I have goosebumps all over, as I rest my elbows on my thighs, my hands clasped together, seeing only her. I want to hold onto this moment, this feeling, because it comes around so rarely. Usually, it’s in London when I see a huge star perform, or sometimes it’s when I go to Lincoln Center for a one-night only performance of a legend. So few and far between, I can count them on one hand, being blown away by a new talent. By someone I could cast in a new Frederick Stillman musical, so she’d make her New York theater debut, and I’d be the director who discovered the next big Broadway star.
This girl is It. She’ll haul home Tonys over the years, she’ll lure in TV deals, and cut CDs, and the denizens of theater the world over will adore her.
I can feel it in my bones. She’s my lead. She’s going to bring down the house. She’s going to make the audience cry and soar, and then get on their feet for the loudest, biggest standing ovation.
When she finishes, I nearly can’t help myself. I want to stand up, shake her hand, and tell her she’s been cast. But I can’t. The executive producer and composer can veto me, though I have no intention of letting that happen. I have never been more sure of a casting choice than I am now.
Even so, I restrain myself. “Thank you so much. Now, the scene and song with Mr. Carlson.”
Patrick Carlson, who was cast long ago as the lead in Crash the Moon jumps up from the red upholstered chair next to me. He’s here at the final auditions, along with Don Kraftig, the producer, and with Mr. Stillman himself.
Frederick Stillman, the most revered composer in the last quarter century, who’s collected armfuls of awards for best musical. Actors fall all over themselves to star in his shows, directors fawn at his feet.
I would have fawned to land this gig, but I didn’t have to.
I’ve won three Tonys, one Oscar, and my Broadway shows have all returned on their investors’ dollars. I directed a film too – that’s how I nabbed that golden statuette. So Stillman called me. Called my cell one fine afternoon six months ago, and told me he was offering the directing job to me, only me, and to no one but me.
I said yes on the spot.
Now I want to say yes to this girl.
Jill
My twenty-two years on earth have led me to this moment.
Every singing lesson I ever took.
Every acting class I ever went to.
Every play I read, every song I heard, every emotion I called forth from deep inside for every part I’ve ever played before.
Here. Now. Today.
But really, more than anything, the fact that I finished five marathons matters most right now. Because of that, I have the training, the perseverance, and the composure to not freak the fuck out when I walk across the floorboards of the St. James theater to join Patrick Carlson on stage. I can barely see the powers-that-be because the seats are shrouded in darkness, and the lights are on the stage. But I can make out the silhouette of the director in the second row, along with the producer, and the God I bow down to – Frederick Stillman himself, who wrote this anthemic musical, which I fell in love with. I would enter the Hunger Games for a chance to perform in something he’s created, but fortunately all I have to do is nail an audition with Patrick Carlson.
So, as if I’m running with the kind of focus I need for 26 miles – blinders on, nothing but blinders – I ignore the fact that Patrick Carlson is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, that his honey blond hair looks thick and soft and that his light brown eyes are so inviting I want to swim in them.
Okay, maybe not his eyes. Because. Ew. Creepy.
But they are magnetic, and they draw me in, as if they have their own lifeforce.
Wait. Can eyes have a lifeforce? Or are they more like tractor beams? Or magnets?
Actually, neither image will help me now, so I implement The Jill McCormick Ran Five Marathons Brainsweep, and I can hear the silent boop-beep-bop of futuristic sounding computer keys silencing these silly thoughts, as I forget that his talent alone inspired me in high school. I abandon the memories of all the times I skipped class in college to second act matinees of Rent to watch him play Roger, or Wicked to see him as Fyero.
I am no longer Jill, aspiring New York actress auditioning for her first Broadway role, and he is not Patrick, the man who exudes talent and charisma every second he’s on stage.
He’s Paolo and he’s my teacher. Right now I am Ava, a young painter without a family, and he’s a mercurial and captivating artist. I face the audience – nearly two thousand empty seats and only a few occupied ones, the spotlights from above shining brightly, as he steps behind me.
He says not a word. Instead, he
breathes out, “hmmm,” as he places his hands on my arms, as if he’s considering me, then runs his palms sensuously from my wrists to my shoulders.
“You must let go, Ava. You try too hard to make your paintings perfect. You need to make them you.”
I nod, breathless, speechless, because this man I’ve admired, looked up to, is touching me. My art teacher, and the renowned painter. He brushes my hair away from my neck, and I lean my head to the side, letting him trace the vein in my neck with his finger. Then, as if I’ve just remembered that I’m a good girl, that I don’t do this, won’t do this, can’t do this, I pull away.
Because I am, shockingly – me – a good girl.
“I am only here to learn.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I am teaching you.”
Ava wants to correct him, to tell him he’s not, that he’s crossing lines, even though the crossing of them feels good to this girl who’s felt far too much of the not-good in life for far too long. But Ava’s not ready yet for this. Soon, but not yet, so she – me, because I’m her, completely and utterly subsumed by her – wheels on him, fire in her eyes, then lashes out with the first sung lines in a heated duet.
“You don’t have permission to lay your hands on me.”
He plays the gentleman, giving a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me then, I only touch you as your teacher,” he sings softly, but powerfully in that baritone that could melt igloos.
“That’s not teaching.”
“Then find you own way to paint, child.”
And he starts to walk off.
Ava huffs, crosses her arms, looks away, and sings roughly of all the ways this man makes her crazy. He tells her how her brushstrokes are too controlled, her head is too much in the way, she needs to throw her body into the act of painting. And I hate it, and him, because he feels like the one thing that stands between true creativity and me.
I sing an angry lament, a furious plea to the universe to send me elsewhere. But yet, there is no place else for me, nowhere to go. I’ve been left all alone, and all I have is my art, and he’s the only one who can make it better.
Trophy Husband Page 18