But if I’m going to be with someone again, I need to know it’s not a tainted kind of love. That it’s not twisted. That it can’t be used against me, or against someone else.
“What about you?” I layer a salacious tone in my voice, so I can shift the attention back to her and off of my fictionalized love life. “Does Bryan have ropes for you?”
She laughs and shakes her head, then places her hand on her chest. “Jill, let me introduce you to your vanilla friend Kat. But even so, it’s better than anything I’ve ever read in a romance novel. Speaking of, I downloaded this hot new rock star romance. It’s scorching. I’ll gift it to you. Maybe you can use it tomorrow when I’m out of town.”
I hold up my hand and waggle my fingers. “If only my e-reader could vibrate.”
Kat laughs, and I say goodnight and get ready for bed, taking the time to put together an outfit for tomorrow, settling on a jean skirt, black tights, and a teal sweater. I don’t link the care I put into my clothes to my earlier thoughts until I’m picking out accessories and realize—I want to look dateable. I want to go on a date and just see where things go. I’m ready.
Davis Milo appears center stage in my mind. Oh, no. My director is ineligible. However, talking to Patrick on the train was fun, and I think if I ask him out now, I’d have much better luck than six years ago. So, that’s what I’m going to do.
I have a charm necklace Kat made for me last fall, with a beret on it to commemorate when I’d gotten the part in Les Mis. When I go to get it from my nightstand, my gaze falls on the top drawer, slightly ajar. I reach to close the drawer, but instead I pull it open.
The small wooden box inside has been beside my bed for six years. It calls to me now in a haunting voice, as if I need a reminder of what’s inside. As if I could forget.
I remove the box, place it in the middle of my bed, and take a deep, calming breath. I’m about to open a bomb. It’s tried to destroy me before, but I keep thinking, This is the time I’ll defuse it.
From the same drawer, I pull out a tiny key dangling from a chain, and I unlock the wooden box. I don’t need the pictures to see Aaron’s perfectly–dark, close-cropped hair, light brown eyes, and that dimple on the right side of his mouth that made me fall for him. His sense of humor, the jokes he made about our school mascot, the dozens of red roses he brought me when I played in our production of Mamma Mia. Those are the good things.
Fingers shaky, I take out a picture. He and I at prom. I’m wearing a red dress that falls to my knees, and my hair is in a French twist with a few loose tendrils. He’s unbearably handsome in his tux, and that smile gives nothing away. I open the note next, the creases in the paper as permanent as tattoos, and read the first few lines.
“God, I love you so fucking much, Jill.”
That’s what gets me every time. Those words. Those awful, painful words.
I close the box, lock it, and return it to the drawer.
The next morning, I take the train to the rehearsal studio, a cute knit cap pulled over my blow-dried hair, a red scarf wrapped around my neck, and a skirt—tights too, which I’m glad of as I hurry from the Fiftieth Street station to the building.
Inside, I head right to the elevator panel to press the button.
“Hold the elevator.”
I turn, and it’s Davis.
“Please,” he adds when he sees me. His tone is—unless I’m imagining things—playful, and he flashes a smile just for—I check around—yes, just for me. His inky blue eyes twinkle, and I have a strange, fleeting sense of him appraising me from stem to stern and drinking me in—my cap and the blonde hair peeking from under it, to the black tights and the short gray boots that Kat brought me from Paris. It might have lasted a flick of an eyelash, or I might have imagined it entirely.
Besides, thoughts are unpredictable. I’ve had unprofessional thoughts pop randomly into my head, caught myself looking where I shouldn’t. It didn’t mean I would act on them. That is, not again, because I’d learned from the first mistake.
“Elevator’s not even here yet,” I say, facing the closed doors in case I’m blushing.
“I’m sure there will be another one,” he replies, facing the same way.
From the corner of my eye, I notice he’s not wearing a winter coat, even though he’s just come in from the cold. Just jeans, shoes, and a white button-down shirt that must have been tailored for him. He’s holding a coffee cup in one hand, and a sesame seed bagel in the other. It’s only us in the lobby. Waiting.
I glance at Davis again, and he’s not even shivering. It’s like he’s made of iron, impervious to the elements.
“Don’t you ever get cold?”
“No.”
“You’re kind of badass.”
His lips quirk up in a grin. “Thank you.”
I clap my hand to my mouth because I don’t know what’s going to come out next. “Dammit,” I mutter.
The grin fades to a concerned frown. He transfers his bagel to his other hand, and reaches as if to touch my arm, but then he stops himself. Lowering his hand, he asks, “Is something wrong, Jill?”
I start to give a breezy, “Nothing,” but he seems to genuinely care about my answer. So, after a moment, I say, “I forget I shouldn’t say things like that to my boss.” It’s true, a reminder to myself, and though I didn’t plan it that way, it’s a bit of a rebuke. With me, he’s been warm and teasing, or icily formal. He delivered, on request, the hottest kiss of my life and then went full General Patton on the cast at rehearsal the other day. . . And now whatever this is.
My finely-tuned calibrations can’t get a read on him. At a glance, he’s the man in the GQ ad, relaxing in a leather chair, a suit jacket tossed casually over the arm, a few buttons of his crisp white shirt undone, holding a sturdy glass of scotch, his midnight blue eyes hypnotizing from the page.
At work, he’s the colonel keeping us in line, but he’s also an artist and a gentleman. And then there’s this unexpected soft side. Davis Milo is the strangest mix of sophisticated class and unbridled intensity I’ve ever seen. If a Merchant Ivory movie and a Quentin Tarantino flick got together and had a baby, that would be him.
“I really wish you wouldn’t call me your boss,” he says, in a carefully neutral tone that could mean anything. I wonder if he’s having just as hard a time reading me.
“But you are, aren’t you?”
The question—aren’t you?—takes on a life of its own. It didn’t sound flirtatious when I framed it in my head. Maybe something between my brain and my vocal cords is looking out for me, because the air around us feels warmer, sharper, and I lean into it, wanting more of it.
More of the mistake.
He tilts his head and keeps his eyes on me, not letting go. That look makes me want to tell him things, to open up, to share the secrets I’ve never told anyone else. His dark blue eyes are pure and unflinching, and they demand total honesty, nothing less.
Of course, that’s his style. He elicits the most compelling performances from actors by demanding unwavering truth on stage.
He doesn’t respond to my question. The silence expands, an electric kind of quiet, and soon I can’t take the tension.
“My boss,” I clarify. But my feathery voice seems to belong to someone else.
“Technically, I’m not your boss,” he says in that same level, could mean anything tone. “The producers are. I’m only your director.”
I can’t tell if he’s returning the volley, or if he’s just a master at handling actors. At handling me.
I look at the floor numbers above the elevator. Third floor. The elevator will be here any minute, and then I’ll be alone with him in it. My mind gallops off to visit all the sexy scenes in elevators I’ve ever read. Part of me wants to rein in my imagination, but the other part would let it run.
I can’t leave it to chance which wins.
“I’m going to take the stairs.” I turn on my heel and go.
“Good idea.”
&nbs
p; His voice follows me, but I did not expect that he would follow me too.
10
Davis
I take a bite of my bagel as we round the first landing, chewing as I watch her walk up the stairs. I should look away, but her legs—strong, shapely, and impossibly long—have the advantage over willpower.
“How’s your coaching going?” I ask as we round another flight.
She casts me a curious look over her shoulder as she keeps walking, her boots on the concrete steps resounding in the stairwell. “How did you know I was a running coach?”
“Because I looked you up before I called you in,” I say. “I research all actors I seriously consider casting.”
“Oh,” she says. I catch a faint whiff of disappointment. Would she rather I’d looked up only her?
“Coaching is good,” she continues. “I scaled back a bit when I got the part, but I’m still working with a core group of women who are training for a run to raise funds for breast cancer research.”
“Takes a lot of discipline to do that, to run every day. I imagine it takes even more discipline to have run five marathons.”
“Yes. I am immensely disciplined.” There’s something veiled in her answer that raises intriguing questions. “In fact, I’ve learned all the lines already.”
Oh. My mind was drifting off to far tawdrier shores.
She halts abruptly on the landing to the fourth floor and wheels on me in a startling rush of frustration and hopeless desperation. “You can’t just do this.” Her voice nearly breaks. “You can’t keep coming in and out of my life.”
I step closer to her, confused but mostly worried. “I’m sorry.” But I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. “Are you okay?”
She flashes a smug and brilliant smile. “It’s from the show. Act II, Scene Five.”
I can only stare for a moment then laugh at myself. “A point to you. You had me going and I didn’t even recognize that it was a line.” Because I know them all, of course, and I give her Paolo’s line and his cocky stare. “But I’m in your life. I’m in it, Ava.” I say emphatically. I’m no actor and don’t wish to be one, but I shift into the scene. We’re no longer in the stairwell. We’re in the art gallery where this scene takes place, and Ava is angry with Paolo because he’s appeared when she didn’t expect him.
Ava is through with all their ups and downs. “Then be in it,” she commands in clipped syllables.
I step closer to her. “I will if you’ll stop pushing me out.”
“I never have, and you know it.” Chin lifted, she fixes me with a tough stare and doesn’t back away.
I pause. Breathe. Let go of the anger. “Ava, I can’t stand this fighting anymore.”
She raises her eyebrows playfully. “Let’s do something other than fight, then.” Her eyes soften. She reaches for my face with tentative fingers. “You have something on your . . .”
That’s not right. I frown, puzzled at words that don’t fit. “The next line is I have something in mind—”
She cuts me off. “No, I was going to say you have a sesame seed right here.” She taps her chin.
“Oh.” I swipe once to wipe it off.
“You missed,” she says softly. “Davis,” she adds, so I know she’s talking to me now in that inviting, seductive tone. We’re done with lines. It’s just us.
She sweeps her thumb across my chin. “I got it,” she whispers. Still Jill or back to Ava—I don’t care. She traces my jawline, and the barest touch from her makes me hard.
“Did you find any more?” I ask, low and hoarse.
She shakes her head, her hair brushing her coat. I catch a faint scent of her pineapple shampoo that already is her scent to me.
Now she’s running her index finger across my lower lip, and that’s it. That’s all I can take.
“Jill,” I warn.
“What?”
“If you keep doing that . . .” I trail off, leaving the possibilities open.
She keeps doing it, obliterating all my willpower. I place my coffee and bagel on the stairs then grab her wrists, walking her two steps backward until she’s up against the concrete wall. Her lips are softly parted, and her eyes are full of heat. I bend close to murmur near her ear. “Ask me again. Like you did in my office.”
She tilts her head so her cheek brushes mine and whispers, “Kiss me again, like you did in your office.”
I take a tighter hold on her wrists as I capture her mouth with mine.
She lets out the tiniest little whimper at the first touch of my lips, an encouraging sound. I want to kiss her hard and hungry because that’s how she makes me feel. But I’m setting the tempo and tone here. Still trapping her wrists, I trace her lips with the tip of my tongue, slowly, torturously. She tries to deepen the kiss, but I take my time with her sinfully delicious mouth, tormenting her with my tongue. I want her to think only of lingering, consuming kisses any place she wants them.
I move to her jawline, kissing her there, teasing my way to her earlobe. “Is that what you wanted me to do?” I whisper.
“Yes,” she pants.
“Is that why you touched me?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been thinking about me since that day in my office?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
She inhales sharply then whispers in a ragged voice. “Yes.”
I let go of her wrists, and they fall to her sides. I untie the belt of her jacket then undo each button, letting the fabric fall open. “I hate winter,” I say. “Too many layers.”
Then I pull back to look at her. She’s wearing a V-neck sweater that makes her breasts look fantastic. Her nipples harden under my gaze. I finger the bottom of her sweater, dying to know what her skin feels like. I lift the fabric and run my fingers across the soft skin of her stomach.
She shivers, and it’s as if she’s been vibrating a low hum, waiting for the right person to turn her all the way up, all the way on. I want to be that person, and I slant my mouth across hers to kiss her hard and rough. I want her to feel me later when she’s all alone.
She responds instantly, grabbing my hair, pulling me closer, tangling her tongue with mine. It’s a hungry kiss—I explore her mouth, tasting her lipstick until I nearly lose my mind with the need to know more of her body.
Every inch of her.
Her hands drop to my waist, and she tugs me closer. I follow her cues, giving her what she wants, rolling my hips against her. Her hands are on my ass in a second, pulling me against her, thrusting her body against mine. I’m so close to hiking up her skirt, to touching her under those tights, to learning exactly how much more she wants.
Instead we kiss like that, frenzied and fast, bodies smashed together, but never quite going too far. Finally, we pull apart for air. She’s breathing hard, but she’s smiling too, and everything about her is lowering my defenses—the sweet curve of her lips, the glow in her blue eyes, her talent and how she was meant for this role. It’s eating me alive not to ask her out, to romance her the way I want.
I let her sweetness work its way through the guarded parts of me, and I tell her something I shouldn’t.
“As soon as I saw you audition, you were Ava to me."
Her eyes widen. “I was?”
“Yes.” I want her to know what I see in her. I want her to know that she’s my discovery. I found her, I called her in, I chose her. “You embody her. You are her.” I leave a quick kiss on her neck, making her shudder. “I can feel her pain in you. Her secrets. Her sadness. How wounded she is. Most of all, I can feel her hope.”
She bites her lip, color rising in her cheeks. Slowly, she brings her hand to her heart, as if enchanted. “Really?”
I nod. “You’re going to be such a big star, Jill. A bright light of Broadway. I want the world to know I discovered you.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I’m so happy to have this chance so early in my career to work with you.”
Her eyes hold such ge
nuine happiness, and it’s a strange thing to jolt me back in time. It’s a look I recognize, along with the words. So early in my career. I can picture Madeline three years ago, how thrilled she was when I called her in for an audition after seeing her in a tiny little workshop production, how over the moon she was to be cast in one of my first shows, how hopelessly we fell in love as we worked together on World Enough and Time in San Diego.
It shatters the moment, seeing Jill look at me now the way Madeline did then. She is all my weaknesses, and I know the ending of this story. I can’t go there again.
I shake my head to clear it. “Rehearsal is about to start. I can’t be late. And we can’t keep doing this.”
“Right.” Her voice is shaky.
“We just can’t,” I repeat, aware that I’m the one who needs convincing.
“I know,” she says more forcefully. She’s resigned but resolute. “The show is too important. You can’t be distracted, and I don’t want to do anything to mess with the cast’s chemistry.”
She thinks it’s because of the show. But it’s more than that. “Jill. I don’t date actresses.” It comes out more cruelly than I intended, in a firm, harsh voice that’s more for me than for her.
I can see the moment when my tone and words catch up with her. “Oh.” Her tone is unreadable, and she quickly and deliberately rearranges her features, erasing happiness along with the lingering glow of what we just did.
Then she adjusts her coat and smooths her hair. “Well, that’s fine. There’s someone else . . . I could see myself falling in love with him, and now there’s nothing holding me back. So . . .” She pulls her coat closed and looks around the landing. “Thanks for the clarity.”
Turning on her heel, she starts up the stairs while I’m still taking that in. In love with someone else?
“Then you really shouldn’t kiss me like that,” I call out to her, and this time I intend it to sound harsh.
She gives me one sharp cold stare before she pushes open the door to the fifth-floor hall. “You’re right. I shouldn’t.”
The Private Rehearsal (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 4) Page 6