The Private Rehearsal (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 4)

by Lauren Blakely

  “I’ll do my best.” I smile, happy to see my friend. Happy to be out of my own head for a while, where 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. Lather, rinse, repeat.

  On the way home from the run, my phone rings while I’m on the stairs to the second floor. I dig around in the pocket of my fleece jacket and pull it out to see my agent’s name on the screen. My heart gallops off in irrational fear. I’m about to lose the job. It was all a mistake.

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

  M.J. laughs. “No, darling. No worry there. The producers sent me the contract already, and I’m working on it.”

  I can breathe again, so I 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?” I have no clue if that’s normal for a Broadway show, but M.J. wouldn’t pass on a sketchy request. Davis doesn’t seem like he’d make one, either.

  “He likes to meet with understudies to set their expectations. We’ll go together to his office on Friday at ten. Does that work?”

  “I’ll see if my schedule is clear.”

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

  After we hang up, I let myself into my apartment, pour a glass of water, and sink into my couch with my laptop and Google.

  I quickly cycle through Davis Milo’s résumé, though I memorized the key points before the audition. The South Pacific revival when he won his first Tony, then an original production called Anything for You, followed by the play The Saying Goes. He’s worked on the West Coast too, and three years ago, directed a production in San Diego at the La Jolla Playhouse called World Enough and Time, inspired by a line from an Andrew Marvelle poem. Lots of accolades for that, and rumors it would become a movie.

  I find a photo of him with Madeline Blaine, the young actress who played the lead in that show and then landed a romantic comedy movie that made millions at the box office and sent her career soaring like a rocket. She now commands top dollar for her roles.

  After that, I can’t resist looking up more pictures of him. From last year’s Tony Awards, a photo of him with his arm draped around a stunning redhead. The caption reads: Award-winning director Davis Milo and publicist Amber Surratt. In a pic from the year before, his hand clasps the waist of a black-haired beauty in a slinky gold dress. I recognize her as a talent agent for many of Broadway’s top stars. Then, at a Broadway Cares event last year, he’s snapped with a well-known choreographer, guiding her through a crowd with his hand on her back.

  I touch my lower back briefly, remembering when he laid his hand there as he caught up with me in Sardi’s.

  I sink into my couch pillow and conclude two things. One, except for Madeline Blaine, he seems to prefer the company of women who work in the business behind the scenes. Two, he and formalwear are made for each other. He wears a tuxedo with understated elegance that seems effortless, rather than the tux wearing him. I run my index finger across a photo, absently tracing his outline, and arrive at a third conclusion: I bet he looks best viewed from close beside him, on his arm for the evening.

  I close my laptop and head to my bedroom, opening my tiny closet to pick out something classy for our meeting Friday. A pencil skirt, I think, 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 care to wake up at the crack of dawn, you know.” She rolls onto her side, bringing her purple comforter snug around her neck.

  “Hate to break it to you, but it’s the crack of ten. 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.”

  “Your generosity is one of the many reasons I love you.”

  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.

  Because I’m eager to learn about the job, anxious to get started.

  Because I want to impress Davis Milo as an actress.

  No other reason at all.

  7

  Jill

  Davis’s office is in a red brick building with a gleaming glass door in a Tribeca neighborhood teeming with industrial spaces, lofts, and celebrities. I’ve pictured him in a sleek, black office building in the middle of Times Square. But then, Tribeca is the epicenter of New York cool and has claimed people like Beyoncé, Justin Timberlake, and Leonardo DiCaprio as its residents, so I suppose it’s fitting that Davis keeps an office among the glitterati.

  I adjust my purse strap, walk a little way from the building so I can’t be seen from the lobby, and check my makeup in the side mirror of a parked car. Good. No smudged eyeliner. No lipstick on my teeth. Just so much anxiety in my belly. The initial excitement has worn off, and I’m glad M.J. will be here too.

  I scan the block, hoping to spot her marching my way, looking tough and agent-y with her shoulder-length brown bob and kick-ass attitude. When I check the time on my phone, though, I see a text message from her marked as urgent.

  Jill darling!! I’m so sorry. I’m stuck on the Metro-North, and my train is delayed a whole hour. But you’ll be fine!! You’re there, right?

  Well. That’s a kink in my plans. But there’s nothing we can do about it, so I type back: Yes, don’t worry about me.

  Sure, I’ll be fine. If I’m not, I’ll fake it.

  My nerves ignore the pep talk, and as I turn the phone off and head inside, I try again. I’ve got the part, I’ve already had a drink with him, and we got along swimmingly. These are first job jitters I’m going to ignore.

  There. Done. Ignored.

  I am confident. I am bold.

  The lobby has an unfinished vibe and continues the eclectic mix of materials from outside with huge potted plants, exposed pipes, and concrete walls painted a bright white. I check in with a security guard behind a counter then take the stairs to the second floor. Davis’s office is at the end of a long, quiet hallway, and the door is slightly ajar, so I knock.

  “Come in.”

  His voice is strong and deep and oddly calming. It brings to mind the other night—this is the man I teased about casting me as Tevye. I’ll be fine.

  I peer in and see him seated behind a large oak desk. It’s surprisingly untidy, spilling over with scripts and sheet music. I would have pegged him as a neat freak from the impeccable way he dresses. Today, his navy-blue shirt looks crisp and freshly laundered, but his dark brown hair is slightly messy, as if he ran a hand through it right before I walked in. What’s most unexpected, though, is the music playing from his computer. Not Rodgers and Hammerstein, not Sondheim—he’s listening to Muse. “Madness,” specifically. I could sing along, I know it so well.

  When he looks up from his screen, he seems about to smile, but then he makes his face impassive and simply nods in greeting.

  Neither one of us says anything. The only sound is the music.

  “I love this song,” I say. Someone has to break the silence.

  He hits a button on his keyboard and turns the music down.

  I’m even more nervous than before, plus really confused.

  Did I do something wrong?

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

  I take it, and it’s awkward. I mean, I half tackled the man on the street when he told me I’d been cast. This
ultra-professionalism feels stilted and weird.

  “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. Instead, he peers down the hall, seeming annoyed that I’m alone. “Where’s M.J.?”

  “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 jacket.”

  I take off my coat and hang it up. He gestures to a beige couch, and I sit, crossing my legs. The natural place for him to sit is a chair angled toward the couch, but he gives his desk a pained look, as if the seating arrangements are life and death business.

  He finally settles on the chair. “I wanted to speak with you before rehearsals start because you might have the most difficult job in the show—you and Braydon, Patrick’s understudy, that is.”

  I lean forward and listen eagerly. Whatever weirdness might be going on doesn’t matter anymore. This is what I’m here for.

  “Being an understudy might be the toughest job on Broadway. You’re essentially learning and rehearsing two parts. You’ll be in nearly all the chorus scenes and songs, but you also need to know Ava cold—and you might not ever go on.”

  I nod. Some understudies warm the benches for an entire run. “Right.”

  “Or you might have to go on at a moment’s notice. A moment that can make your career.” There’s intensity now in his voice. He leans in slightly, his body language loosening up. “And I’m going to expect that of you. You’re going to need to know all the lines backward and forward, all the songs inside and out, and all the blocking, top to bottom.”

  His dark blue eyes lock onto mine. He’s so passionate with the instructions. It’s the complete opposite of his earlier coldness, and I see how much he must love directing.

  “Whatever it takes.” I’m absolutely 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 the slightest of grins tugs at the corner of his lips. He wins the struggle not to smile, though, and returns to the task. “Take the script home and work on it over the holidays. You should be off-book when we start rehearsals.”

  “Absolutely.” This is what I’ve lived for. I’m not going to complain because it’s hard.

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

  “I won’t disappoint you.”

  He leans forward again, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands clasped together. “Do more than that. Exceed my expectations.”

  The room seems to compress, to tighten into one tense line connecting my gaze to his. Whatever mine might say, his dark eyes give nothing away. Is he trying to break me, or test how I withstand pressure? “I will give you everything, Mr. Milo.”

  At last, his frown softens. Then, he whispers in a low voice that makes me dizzy, “It’s Davis. Just call me Davis.”

  “Okay.” Trying it on for size, I say, “Davis.”

  He shakes his head and breathes out hard. I like that reaction—like he’s resettling something that was knocked loose.

  He walks over to his desk, and I look at the walls, at the table, at the floor—but I still come back to his broad shoulders and his deliciously sculpted ass. Things I should not, under any circumstances, be looking at. Then he grabs a thick book of spiral-bound pages, and even that ass goes out of my mind.

  The script.

  The book and music for the newest Stillman musical, and he holds it like the treasure it is. 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’s still standing, so it’s clear the meeting is over. I stand too, then tuck the script into 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.

  Because Kat jinxed me, dammit.

  He moves fast, hand on my elbow to steady me. It makes him the closest thing to grab onto so I don’t fall. When I look up at him, I feel the flush of embarrassment in my cheeks and decide to make light of it. “That’s what I get for borrowing my roommate’s shoes. I room with Bigfoot, you see.”

  Lips twitching, he glances down at the black pumps. “Nice shoes, though.”

  I realize my hand is on his shirt, my fingers fisted around the cloth, wrinkling it. I should let go. But I don’t. He smells clean and freshly showered, and I don’t want to move unless it’s to get closer.

  Kissing my director is a terrible idea. A Bad Idea straight from the Top Ten List of Bad Ideas.

  I relax my clenched hand and smooth the fabric. “Nice shirt,” I say softly and glance up.

  His dark blue eyes aren’t cold. They’re not freezing me out. They’re heated, searching mine.

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

  I bite the corner of my lower lip, and my heart pounds wildly, insistently. I feel like Ava. And Ava is bold. She voices what she wants, and so do I, whispering, “Kiss me.”

  There’s a flash in his eyes, and they drop to my mouth. My words are permission, but he still bends his head so slowly, until our lips are as close as can be without touching.

  My breath catches, everything in me poised and waiting. The heat of his lips is almost a kiss, but it isn’t enough. I want his mouth on mine and his hands in my hair, winding his fingers through the strands to grip tight. I want a kiss so deep and hot that I feel it in every cell of my body like a fever I don’t want to get over.

  I want all those things, and I shouldn’t.

  I want him.

  “Davis . . .”

  Just like that, he is claiming me, first tracing his tongue across my top lip, then nipping at the bottom one, then kissing me so fiercely that I shudder and everything else falls away. His lips own me, his hands want to know me, and I swear I might combust from this electric contact.

  When he breaks the kiss abruptly, I’m reeling, and I look at Davis through a haze. I don’t know what to say, and he seems robbed of words too. As if he doesn’t know how the kiss happened, either.

  After a moment, he exhales deeply, collecting himself.

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

  A mistake? I blink. That was a kiss that begged to become so much more.

  The haze finally clears, and all that’s left is embarrassment. That seems like too mild a word for kissing the director—my first Broadway director of my first Broadway job.

  God. All I can do is what he hired me for. Act.

  “Yes.” I nod in confident agreement. “A mistake.”

  “It won’t happen again.” His gaze turns back to me, cold once more, stripped of the longing there just seconds ago.

  “Of course not,” I say. “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 still spinning, body still wanting.

  I let myself out and walk away. My lips feel bruised and so does my heart, especially when I hear him turn up the music now that I’m gone.

  8

  Davis

  The cast gathers on metal folding chairs in the Midtown rehearsal studio, not far from the theater district. The windows look out over Broadway, five stories down, cars and cabs screaming by. I’ve rolled up my shirtsleeves, figuratively and literally. It’s January, but it’s hot in here, the heat already rasping through the radiators and the sun through the windows w
arming things even more.

  “There will be no Broadway spectacle to fall back on. No dancing paintbrushes or flying monkeys. I’m not going to ask anyone to zip in on cables from the balcony and perform aerial sequences.” This is the inspirational go-get-’em talk before football season starts, without the locker room. I stand at the baby grand rehearsal piano, the music director at the bench, the choreographer leaning against the wall across the room. I take a beat, survey the wide-eyed talent and the jaded veterans that fill the chairs. But even those with fat bios and long lists of credits have their eyes on me.

  Except Jill. She’s staring hard at a point behind my head, hasn’t once made eye contact.

  That’s fine. I’ve haunted the boxing gym, and an hour-plus of hard-hitting every day has smoothed over the memory of that surreal day in my office when she’d asked me to kiss her and I’d wanted that too much to deny her. I’ve blotted out the sinfully good feel of her in my arms and replaced it with a patched memory of how things ended with Madeline, how it had been when she left with barely a goodbye.

  “You are the key to this show.” I gesture broadly to the cast and crew, encompassing them all. “We succeed or fail on how you work with each other. Crash the Moon is about passion and creativity and the limitless bounds of desire, both in art and in love. It’s about one young woman’s artistic and sexual awakening. It’s about a jealous man and an intense love, and it is very physical. The thing that makes people hold off taking a piss until intermission and then race back to their seat afterward, that gets them cheering and shouting, is what you”—I pause to point to the whole cast, from the chorus members to the supporting actors to Patrick, Alexis, Jill, and Braydon—“bring to the stage.”

  Alexis sits in the front row, kicking one high-heeled foot back and forth, showing off bare legs even in the winter. She takes pride in dressing like a starlet, and kudos to her—she’s got some Marilyn thing going on with a white, swirly dress and pinned-up hair. My eyes stray to Jill in spite of myself. I’d love to see her in a low-cut white dress and stilettos—a dress that can be bunched up for doing things behind closed doors, or in alleys, or in stairwells.