A Midsummer Night's Fling (Stage Kiss Series Book 1)

by Beth Matthews

  "Save it, love." Lachlan snorted. A very well-bred snort.

  Nicola's cheeks burned.

  "What do you want, Lach?" Max emerged, wearing his ratty green t-shirt and gray rehearsal sweats. He dropped his balled up Oberon tights on the cutting table. Her underwear was, she prayed, safely hidden in the pocket of his sweats.

  Lachlan worked his mouth, his jaw rigid as he flicked a glance back and forth between the two of them. At last, he folded his arms and glared at the floor. "While you two were changing, Rita had a stroke at rehearsal."

  "Oh my God."

  "What?"

  Lachlan's face fell, and his throat convulsed as he swallowed. "We're all heading to the hospital. Tierney went with Rita in the ambulance. She wanted me to grab her purse."

  "I'll drive," Max said, hustling out of the costume shop.

  Shocked, numb, Nicola started after him. Poor Rita.

  As she passed, Lachlan caught her arm and stopped her. "You and Max then?"

  She tried to twist her arm free, but he held on, not hurting but not letting go either. "Lachlan."

  "Just tell me."

  She twitched her arm, and he released her. Nicola wrapped her own arms around herself. Too fast. Too much. "It probably didn't mean anything, Lachlan."

  Because if it had meant anything then it had to mean everything, didn't it? And she . . . couldn't handle that right now. She rushed for the doorway.

  And ran right into Max.

  His eyes were cold, and he cocked his head to the side, as if daring her to repeat what she'd just said to his face.

  She flinched.

  "You two coming?" Max turned without waiting to hear their reply.

  Her heartbeats seemed to be spaced too far apart, she felt dizzy, like the world kept body-checking her to knock her flat.

  Lachlan glanced at her face, and – perhaps alarmed by what he saw – his manner gentled. "Come on, love. Let's see Rita." He caught her by the elbow and guided her out of the costume shop.

  Chapter Twelve

  Max wanted to corner Nicola, make her talk to him and tell him what she was thinking. What did it mean?

  But Lachlan was in the car, and they should all be focused on Rita anyway. Still, Max's brain kept pulsing with the thought: What did it mean?

  Lachlan was on his cell, getting directions from Tierney on where they should park at the hospital, what waiting room to go to, etc. Once they got there and stowed the car, the three of them hustled through the sterile white corridors, and Max's gut tightened with unease.

  Isabelle and Tierney sat in the small waiting room. Tierney's face was a shocky white, her eyes red-rimmed, her nose swollen. She sat close to her mother, and Isabelle had her tiny arm snug around her Amazonian daughter's shoulders.

  As Max and the others entered the room, both Elton women hopped to their feet. Tierney hugged Max then Nicola then Lachlan. The costume designer actually clung to Lachlan while he patted her back and soothed her. "Here now, poppet," Lachlan said. "Want to go out, have a smoke? Calm you down a bit?"

  Tierney sniffed. "Yeah."

  Isabelle pursed her lips. "It's a hospital, Lachlan."

  "It's California, Isabelle. They'll have a smoking area outside."

  Isabelle was opening her mouth for another protest, but Max touched her arm. Tierney looked shattered. She could probably use time away from the action to collect herself. Max wasn't even a smoker anymore and he was craving a nicotine fix. Pack-a-day Tierney had to be gasping for a smoke.

  Isabelle darted a disapproving look his way then threw her hands up and stalked back to the chairs.

  Lachlan chivvied Tierney along, his arm firm and supportive around her shoulders, his perpetual air of lechery momentarily put aside.

  "You don't want to go with them?" Nicola murmured.

  Max frowned. "I. Don't. Smoke." He claimed the chair next to Isabelle which Tierney had vacated. Nicola, after a hesitation, sat in the row of guest chairs opposite the two of them.

  "Is Quinn here yet?" Nicola asked. Quinn was Rita's wife.

  Isabelle nodded. "Lachlan called her as soon as the ambulance left. Quinnie was at the hospital before Rita was." Isabelle glanced away, her voice thick with tears. "Quinnie's back with Rita and the doctors."

  "In the car, Lachlan told us that Tierney saved Rita," Nicola said. "Tierney was the one who figured out it was a stroke."

  Isabelle swiped a tear away with her thumb. "Damn I'm proud of that kid. Yeah. Tier told me she went down to the stage and noticed Rita displaying the warning signs for stroke. My father died of a stroke. There were signs beforehand and we all missed them. Tierney never wanted that to happen again."

  Bile rose in Max's throat. "Rita told me she had a headache. I didn't even think. That's one of the signs, isn't it? And she wasn't using her right arm." He punched his thigh, blazing inside with guilt.

  Nicola shook her head faintly. "It's not your fault."

  Isabelle bumped his arm with her elbow. "We're in show business, Maxim. I think most of us have a headache twenty-four seven. I know I do. You couldn't have known." Isabelle gusted out a long breath, shaking her head. "I thought MacBeth was the cursed Shakespeare play, but this Midsummer seems worse. First we lose a Titania. Now Rita in the last week of rehearsal. Did somebody break a fucking mirror?"

  Max very carefully did not glance at Nicola, and Nicola very carefully did not glance at him. Now was not the time for Isabelle to figure out what they'd been doing in the costume shop.

  Quinn emerged. A striking, lithe black woman in her early fifties, her gray eyes were tear-stained and swollen, but she was beaming. "Rita's going to be all right."

  "Oh, thank God." Isabelle hopped from her seat and moved to clasp Quinn's hands. There were hugs all around, and some of the sick worry inside Max unknotted. Quinn gave them a brief medical rundown on Rita's condition which Max was too dazed or too dumb – or both – to understand. The gist was: Rita would be OK. And that was the most important bit.

  Eventually, Isabelle asked, "When can she come back to rehearsal? When can Rita get back to work?"

  Quinn lowered her gaze and shook her head. "Isabelle, the doctors . . . we caught it early. Things look good, but Rita will need recovery time. Physical therapy. It'll be a long time before she can direct." Quinn swallowed, blinking. "She may never be able to work again."

  Isabelle hunched, and Max felt himself echoing her posture. Rita was all right. She was alive, but would she ever be their Rita again? Flashing, funny, full of bouncy, manic energy and sass. Work was Rita's life. If she couldn't work . . .

  Quinn clucked her tongue and patted Isabelle's hand. "She's asking to see you, honey."

  "All right." Isabelle scraped her palms across her cheeks, erasing the shine of tear tracks. She flashed a practice-smile and donned an air of cheerful optimism as easily as she would shrug into an overcoat. Isabelle, the consummate actress. Always.

  After Isabelle disappeared backstage beyond the doors to see Rita, Quinn turned to Max and Nicola. "Excuse me, guys. I need to call some people to make updates. Her mother, her daughter in New York."

  "Of course," Nicola said.

  Quinn slipped off, leaving the two of them alone.

  After a long silence that fell just shy of uncomfortable, Nicola said, "I'm glad Rita's going to be all right."

  "Yeah." Max still had trouble believing that he hadn't noticed Rita was sick.

  Nicola's fingers brushed the back of his hand, a comforting touch. "Max, there were two dozen people at rehearsal today. Lachlan and I among them. We all missed the signs. We all screwed up."

  He batted that away, but some of the sour guilt in his stomach eased.

  "Max?" Her tone, the brittle desperation in it, made him glance at her face. She was pale, but with a subtle flush fanning her cheeks. Her eyes were wide, but warming to a soft, velvet brown. "I'm sorry for what I said before to Lachlan. In the costume shop. I'm just trying to process all of this."

  Max clenched his hands to
gether, his stomach all in knots again. "Nic. The talk? Here? Now?" He glanced over his shoulder, scanning for Tierney or Isabelle or anyone else from the company.

  Nicola eyes went cold. "No. Never mind. There's nothing to talk about anyway, is there?" She shot to her feet and started to storm away.

  "Nic." He caught her by the wrist.

  "What?"

  "I want to have the talk," he said. "I'm the one who said we should talk, remember? I meant not here, and not right now." He lowered his voice. "Isabelle doesn't forbid show flings, but she's not a big supporter of them either." He breathed out deep through his nostrils, holding onto his temper – as Nicola seemed incapable of doing lately. "Also, can you work on not assuming the worst about me every time we talk? It's like you're looking for reasons to be mad at me."

  "I'm sorry. And you're right." She slid a sideways glance his way. "So today – what we did . . . it was a fling-thing then? Casual?"

  "What was it for you?" he tossed back, and the breath seemed to catch in his chest, snagging under his sternum as he waited for her response.

  The corners of her lips turned up, the insinuation of a smile. "I thought you didn't want to have this talk right now."

  His slid his hand down, loosening his grip, and moved from holding her wrist to squeezing her hand. "We seem to be having it anyway. So?"

  She scratched the back of her neck and jiggled her hand to free it from his grip.

  Not good.

  But then she stared at him, heat and hunger in her eyes, and her gaze flicked to his mouth like she was thinking about kissing him.

  Good.

  "Max, I don't know. I honestly do not know."

  Not good.

  Or was it? He glanced away from her, trying to gather his own thoughts, parse his own feelings. Did he know what the sex this afternoon had meant? What he wanted? He had feelings about it, sure, a tangled mess of a queasy knot in his stomach – half delighted, half terrified, all nauseous.

  What did it mean? How could he demand she answer that question when he couldn't? Of course, he did have one crystal clear, undeniable feeling: he wanted it to happen again. Whatever it had meant.

  The ashy, burnt scent of cigarettes tickled his nostrils. Max turned then waved as Tierney and Lachlan returned to the guest chairs.

  Max shot Nicola a rueful look. Later?

  Her mouth twitched, but she nodded. Later.

  ***

  Isabelle returned from her visit with Rita after about fifteen minutes. Tierney rose, opening her mouth in a question. Isabelle held her hand up. "Give me a sec, Tier." The artistic director hurried out through the sliding glass doors of the hospital.

  Nicola shifted in her seat, glancing at the others. Are they as freaked out right now as me?

  Tierney kept twisting her mint and lilac-colored hair around and around, flipping it over her shoulder, pulling it back forward to fall over her chest. She bit off part of one black painted nail then spit the end into a potted plant.

  Lachlan had gone still, deep into British Stiff Upper Lip Land; his arms lay perfectly aligned on the chair rests.

  Nicola looked over at Max and saw him gazing at her with an odd light in his eyes, a hidden spark she didn't dare interpret. Heat pooled in her gut, an anticipating kind of warmth.

  Stop it.

  Isabelle returned, appearing composed, cool as a Queen carved from ice.

  Tierney rocketed to her feet. "Mom?"

  "We need to talk about Midsummer." Isabelle arranged herself in a guest chair then glanced around and gathered each of them in by eye. "Rehearsal is on for tomorrow."

  Max frowned. "But Rita – "

  "Rita agreed with me. Midsummer is the centerpiece of our summer season. We can't afford to delay opening night." Isabelle puffed out a slow breath. "I'm putting Judith in charge of the production as director."

  Nicola winced. I'm screwed.

  "You all should go home and rest before rehearsal tomorrow. Rita's all right, and I'm going to stay to keep Quinnie company." Isabelle spoke with her Voice Imperial, but, Nicola reasoned, Isabelle knew Rita and Quinn better than any of them. Quinn would probably do better with one good friend for company instead of a pack of people. And Rita wouldn't let anyone but Isabelle into her room to visit anyway.

  Still reluctant, nevertheless the four of them gathered themselves up and departed.

  So it was, poor Max ended up with a car-full as he departed the hospital. Tierney sat shotgun; Lachlan and Nicola occupied the backseat. Nicola sat in the opposite corner from Lachlan, who still reeked of cigarettes.

  "Judith O'Fallon," Tierney spat out, cigarette pack in hand as she fished in her purse for her lighter.

  Max glanced over and, with one hand still on the wheel, plucked the cigarettes out of her fingers.

  "Hey."

  "Not in my car, Tee."

  Tierney rolled her eyes but dropped the lighter back into her bag. Max chucked the cigarettes in there too.

  Nicola frowned, disbelieving the evidence of her eyes. She'd never imagined Max could quit smoking.

  "It's so insulting," Tierney continued. "Giving the gig to Judith. Max, you've been knee-deep in Midsummer for weeks. Rita's right-hand man. You could have taken over easy but noooo." Tierney folded her arms, slouching in her seat. "Mom had to give the gig to one of her pals."

  "Me as director?" Max scoffed. "I'm not ready for that, Tee."

  "No, but you're not an asshole like Judith." A loud crunch filled the car as Tierney bit off part her nail.

  "Do you know Judith well?" Nicola asked.

  "She and my mom were cronies in the Golden Days of the Thea-tuh. You know, when you had to walk barefoot in the snow just to get to the stage."

  Nicola laughed. "Uphill? Both ways?"

  Tierney leaned around the seat to grin at her. "Exactly."

  "I think Judith is talented," Lachlan said. "I'm sure she'll bring interesting ideas to the table."

  Tierney made a rude noise. "Practicing your ass kissing already, Lach? Careful, you don't want to wear your lips out before you see Judith."

  Lachlan bared his teeth at Tierney.

  The silence from Max seemed deafening. And what did he think of Judith? Nicola craned around, trying to see his face, but the angle was wrong. All she could see was one muscle ticking in his jaw. He startled her as he said, "Hey, Nic, what's the plan?"

  "Plan for what?"

  "Well, I can drive you to get your car at the theater, or, if you're too tired, I can drive you all the way to your place. Or you could crash at the bunkhouse."

  "The bunkhouse?"

  "Our flat," Lachlan said.

  "We have an empty room." Max's voice was so carefully neutral as to be almost a monotone.

  Did he not want her to stay over? Or did he want her to stay over so much he couldn't show how much he wanted her to stay over, or maybe – oh, shut up. She leaned toward the front seat. "I don't want to make the commute back from my place – not now and not in the morning, but I don't have anything to wear to rehearsal."

  "You can borrow some of my things," Lachlan said at once.

  "Or," Max said, "we could throw your clothes in the wash."

  "So everyone can think I'm doing a walk of shame?" she said.

  Tierney grinned. "What do you think they'll believe if you show up in Lachlan's castoffs?"

  "Right."

  "So?" Max asked.

  "So." Nicola sighed. "Home, Jeeves. Your home."

  "Can I crash there too?" Tierney asked, her voice small. "I don't want to be alone in the ancestral pile tonight."

  "Sure, Tee. No problem."

  "Great." Tierney nodded to herself, pleased. But then she thumped her hands against the dashboard. "Fucking Judith O'Fallon. Unbelievable."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Max's "bunkhouse" was palatial, and situated in one of the swankiest neighborhoods in Pasadena – and Pasadena had some pretty damn swanky parts to it. It was a two story house with a brick front, wide windows fac
ing the street, and a heavy wooden door with lead paned glass at the top. As Max rolled the car to a stop Lachlan and Tierney, already familiar with The Bunkhouse, hopped out and went straight inside. Nicola, having never seen the house before, lingered a little to gawk.

  The house sort of loomed over her as she approached. Max was waiting for her by the front door and she wheeled toward him, her mouth agape. "Max. This is a legitimate mansion!"

  "Talk to Peter. He bought it. I only manage the property for him."

  "How many people live here?"

  "Lachlan and I are in the main house and there's an empty room," Max said. "Abe Tully, he's playing Starveling the Tailor, rents the pool house, but he's been staying at his new boyfriend's a lot. We don't see him much."

  She walked inside and admired the dark wood finish on the staircase, the red carpet runners, the cream curtains, and striped wall paper. The décor was elegant without feeling stuffy, but it had a distinctly feminine touch. An older feminine touch. "Your mom decorated before she decided it was too big for her?"

  "Yup." Max motioned her inside then through one of the open arched doorways that, she found, let into the spacious living room. The living room – probably because that room saw the most use – had a more masculine, lived in feel. Rustic wood paneling lay below red painted walls, and the room was furnished with a squashy brown leather couch and matching chairs, a big TV, and a foosball table.

  Max puffed his breath out and stretched. His shirt rode up, flashing his chiseled stomach. He glanced at her and Tierney. "Do you guys want to flip a coin to see who gets the couch and who gets the spare bedroom?"

  "It's a queen size bed, isn't it?" Tierney asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Then why don't we share it? It's not a big deal. Right, Nic?"

  "No."

  Max and Lachlan exchanged a quick, flashing glance which seemed to say, Nicola and Tierney in bed together? That's hot. Then the guys' faces went carefully blank, like kids who've got something hidden behind their backs they don't want the grown-up to see.

  Nicola laughed.

  Max grinned. "Did you want to throw your stuff in the wash?" He started out of the living room, and she followed him up the stairs. Behind them, she heard Tierney demanding Lachlan supply her with some PJs to sleep in. Tierney was tall enough, she probably could fit in Lachlan's pants.