I leave the studio, take the elevator downstairs and head outside. I need fresh air. I need to think. I need to find what’s missing. I push a hand roughly through my hair and lose myself in the midday crowds of tourists and locals thronging down Broadway, some in brand new I Love New York jackets as they snap photos, some suited up and racing to make their Midtown meetings.
I turn the corner and head toward the St. James. We’re finishing with the rehearsal studio stretch and moving into the theater itself for the next several weeks. It’s rare to have access to the actual stage itself at this point, but since the St. James is empty, Clay worked it into my contract for us to rehearse sooner on the stage itself.
I head toward the alley that leads to the stage door, figuring some time in the theater itself will be the inspiration I need. Then I hear a familiar laugh.
There she is, and it slays me every time I see her—how fucking beautiful she is. How effortless. How much I want her again. I see her and I want her. I talk to her and I want her. I spend time in the same five-foot radius, and I want her.
I watch her as she walks toward me with Shelby. They don’t see me yet. They’re chatting with each other, laughing as if they have some insider secret. A grin tugs at my lips because her smile is so radiant, so pure. Some days she seems like the most easygoing person in the world. Other times, she seems like she’s hiding something. The mixture is intoxicating, and I want to be the one who unlocks her mysteries.
They near me, and Shelby sees me first. She waves. “Hello, Mr. Milo. You checking out our new rehearsal digs?”
“Of course. Can’t get enough of the St. James. About to take a quick walk-through.”
“Hi,” Jill says, and though she’s cool and casual, the slightest blush spreads across her cheeks and I know she’s remembering the other night in the car.
I want to whisper “hi” back, just to her, then kiss her right below her ear in the way that drives her crazy. But I behave. The three of us stop in front of one of the glass cases on the stone and stucco wall that will soon hold a poster enticing pedestrians to come check out Crash the Moon.
“We were on our way to the rehearsal studio for our afternoon call,” Jill says. “But does this mean we’re working here today?”
She turns to point to the theater, and I notice her hair. She’s wearing it in a braid today. She’s only worn it up once before—the other night at our private rehearsal. Her neck is so inviting, beckoning me to touch her, to run a finger across the exposed skin. I stuff my hands in my pockets, but my prized self-control doesn’t stop me from saying, before I can stop myself, “Your hair is up again.”
Then Shelby pipes in. “That’s my handiwork! And let me tell you, it’s the best French braid the world has ever seen.” She grabs Jill by the shoulders and spins her around, so I’m looking at the back of her head. “Have you ever seen a better braid?”
But I’m no longer seeing a braid. I’m seeing the answer. I’m seeing what I went looking for. Now I know exactly what the scene needs before that kiss.
I say goodbye to Jill and Shelby, duck into the St. James, and call Stillman, telling him my idea. He says yes.
18
Jill
“And now for the pièce de résistance.”
Kat shows me one of her newest prototype necklaces, with a miniature padlock modeled after the ones hung on the Lover’s Bridge in Paris. “A spin-off from the holiday line,” she adds, referring to the Paris-themed necklaces that were sold in tandem with cufflinks made from the old locks from the bridge. Her fiancé’s company made the cufflinks and then manufactured the necklaces she designed. They were a massive hit at stores, and now she’s doing the hers version of the padlocks as a necklace.
I turn around and sweep up my hair with one hand. She loops the jewelry around my neck, letting the charm fall against my skin, then spins me around so I can face the mirror behind her door. “See? You look mah-velous, dahling! Simply mah-velous.”
She’s so genuinely happy, in general, but also for me, because I’m going out this afternoon. On a date.
Six years ago, I never could have imagined even a coffee date would be so far down the list of things on my mind.
At the top is the pit in my stomach—not a hollow pit—it’s filled with all my guilt over what I did with my director the other night. I let him touch me. I begged him to touch me. I practically threw myself at him in the car, grabbing his shirt, and then pleaded with him to make me come.
I was a different person, a woman crazed with need. I wanted Davis unconditionally—no hearts, no flowers, not even dinner first. Because that would be a date.
I honestly don’t know if I would feel this out of sorts if there was some kind of relationship building. One where two people get to know each other with their clothes on before—or maybe concurrently with—getting to know each other naked. Was that naïve?
Then, ironically, I have a date—a coffee date—with the man of those exact youthful fantasies, and I’m not sure I’ll even be able to enjoy it.
I turn back to the mirror, eyeing my jeans, red cowboy boots and a scoop neck top. My hair is down because it doesn’t remind me of Davis. Of how he can’t keep his hands out of my hair. How he likes my hair up, how he likes my hair down, how he can’t stop touching me. Here with my hair tucked primly behind my ears, I feel less like my own emotions and desires are going to ambush me.
“Um, no. What are you? A schoolgirl? Let it free!” Kat threads her fingers in my hair and makes it wild again. “Never tuck your hair behind your ears on a date.”
“It’s not a date. It’s a meet up of two friends,” I say, as if that makes what I’m doing okay.
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Go have fun with your friend. I’m going to go call my friend Bryan,” she says, sketching air quotes, “to see if he wants to come over and be friends.”
“I mean it, Kat. It’s Sunday afternoon. It’s coffee. It’s not that way with Patrick.”
She fixes me a serious look. “Make it that way then, Jill. Or if not him, then someone you want that way. Now’s your time.”
I grab my coat, my purse, and my phone and catch the subway, those last few words still echoing. Now’s my time. Because I’ve done my time, right? I’ve beaten myself up over Aaron. I’ve read his letters thousands of times. They’re branded on my brain. They’re tattooed on my heart.
I close my eyes as the train rattles under the city, and Aaron’s written words ring in his voice in my ears.
I fucking love you so much.
Do you have any idea what it feels like to love a person this much?
It’s killing me to be without you.
I press my fingers against my temple, as if I can squeeze out the reminders of him. I still don’t understand it. He was so good to me the whole time we were together. Captain of the swim team, president of student council, the model, upstanding guy. He was unimpeachable, and he was crazy about me. If I’d loved him as much as he loved me, would things have been different? Would I be different? But it’s so hard to know anymore. All I know is that love should be free from the kind of weight that trapped me and finally crushed Aaron.
Patrick and I drink lattes and chat for an hour about our favorite shows, movies, songs . . . Standard getting-to-know-you stuff. It’s fun. Really, it’s fun.
It’s still early as we leave the cafe, so we head to the indie bookstore on Seventy-Third. Inside, he stops at the first table and taps a celebrity tell-all tale from the reality star du jour. “God, I love these books.” He opens one to a random page and speaks for the starlet subject in a high, breathy voice. “But spending the summers in Lake Como with my movie star boyfriend isn’t as glamorous as everyone thinks it would be. My iPhone has spotty reception there, so it’s hard for me to keep up with Twitter.”
He chuckles deeply. “I have to get this. They’re my secret addiction.” He looks around like he’s checking for eavesdroppers. “Junk reading, but I don’t care. They make me happy.”
“What do you like to read?”
Do I tell him that I read red-hot racy romance novels? That I love stories with sexy alpha males who border on bossy?
Yeah, maybe not.
“Oh, you know, this and that,” I say evasively.
“C’mon, now.” He cajoles me and nudges me with an elbow. “You can tell me.”
I don’t know how it would feel to speak the truth. To let the person I am now speak up, even about a little thing like what I read. But it’s actually a big thing. I read these books because it’s all I’ve allowed myself. Because I’m terrified of getting close to another person again. Because I’m petrified of what happens when love gets twisted into a weapon.
I pick something—my brother’s favorite author.
“Elmore Leonard. Get Shorty is not only a terrific movie, but a fantastic book too.” I’m even quoting what Chris told me about the book, and I hate that I’m lying to someone about something so minor. I shift gears and try to tell the truth, but out comes another lie. “And Carl Hiaasen too. He tells the craziest stories and they suck me into his world.”
More lines from Chris. More lies to Patrick.
“Do you have his newest?”
I shake my head.
“Let me get it for you then. As a gift.”
“Oh . . . thanks,” I say in a strangled voice.
I hope Chris enjoys the book he’ll be getting for his birthday.
My heart pounds and my legs burn, and my breath is visible in the frozen morning air. It’s Monday, still early in the dawn, and the sun is barely peeking over the wintry New York horizon.
I turn around and run backward. “Almost there!” I call out to my crew of mommy warriors as we run behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They are a resilient group, decked out in nylon running pants and fleece jackets. This group is my most advanced set, training for the upcoming 10K to raise money for breast cancer research. It’s their third year, and if they improve their times, they’ll land more matching money from corporate sponsors. “Keep up your pace. Keep your elbows at your side, and don’t forget to breathe.”
I flash them a smile and turn back around as we run toward the reservoir in Central Park. The women are quiet in the home stretch, and so am I as I let the running do what it does: wash away yesterday’s regrets. I run them off and leave it all behind me.
When we reach the end of the reservoir, I raise a fist, encouraging all of my ladies as they slow down and finish a hard morning run.
“You’re amazing. You’re going to do great on Saturday.”
I hug them all, and soon we go our separate ways. As I walk across Eighty-Sixth Street toward the subway, I fast forward to tonight, and the next private rehearsal. Should I wear my hair up or down? Should I wear that black V-neck sweater that hugs my breasts just so? Or maybe the navy blue one since it matches my eyes?
Wait. I know what to wear.
My red sweater with the little buttons up the front.
I bet money Davis likes red.
Then I realize I’m about to walk into traffic because I’ve been daydreaming about a guy with a list of reasons I shouldn’t be daydreaming about him. I stop at the curb, and press the crosswalk button, and tell myself to stop thinking about a man who seems to like me a lot in private, but not enough to date.
19
Davis
I unlock the stage door to let myself in. I’m the first to arrive, and I’ll be the last to leave.
I use these moments before the stage manager, choreographer, music director, and cast arrive to walk through the theater. The St. James is a more intimate setting than many others on Broadway—not as small as some playhouses, but not a cold, heartless theater like some of the newer ones. It’s the perfect size for a show like this, since Crash the Moon isn’t about extravaganza and spectacle. It’s about the relationships between the characters, about lives changing, hearts breaking, and most of all, passion. This theater is the only one that can handle the intensity and the sexuality of this production.
I head down the center aisle, trailing my hand over the creaky upholstered chairs that theatergoers will pay top dollar to park themselves in soon. Tickets went on sale last week, and Don emailed to tell me the show is already sold out for the first two weeks and counting. That’s 1,600 seats filled every night with people expecting to be blown away by this show. I tap the stage for good luck then turn to the empty house, picturing it full of faces, chatting, eager for the show, brushing up on actors’ credits in the Playbill then tucking away phones, closing purses, and focusing as the overture to the newest Frederick Stillman show begins.
Just a handful of weeks to get it ready.
My thoughts are interrupted when Shannon marches across the floorboards, clipboard in hand. “Alexis called. She has a cold and can’t make it in today.”
“Color me surprised,” I say dryly.
My stage manager rolls her eyes. “Shocking. I know.”
“Does that make it two missed rehearsals already, Shannon?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Indeed it does.”
“Remind me not to tell Don that I told him so when this keeps up during the show.”
She laughs once. “Of course. Should I let Ms. McCormick know she’ll be playing Ava today?”
“Yes. You can give her the new pages when she arrives. Same for Patrick. Give them an hour to read them over first, and we’ll have them on at ten.”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
Minutes later, the actors trickle in, and I work on a scene with two of the supporting cast members first. Then the stage manager calls Patrick and Jill to the stage.
I’m instantly aroused when I see what she’s wearing. Tight jeans and a red sweater. She looks edible in red. Then I notice it has tiny little pearl-shaped buttons on it. I can hear the sound they’d make, clattering across the floor, if I were to rip it off her.
It’s going to be a long fucking day, watching her rehearse this scene with Patrick.
Shannon has one hand pressed against the stage door later that evening. “Alexis called. She’ll be back tomorrow. She said she—her words—simply cannot wait to rehearse the new scene.”
“I’m so glad she’ll grace us with her presence.”
“If we’re lucky, she might even try to reconfigure the blocking,” Shannon says in a deadpan voice as she zips up her coat. The weather forecast earlier today called for snow after midnight. Shannon taps the doorframe, as if an idea just took shape. “Maybe you could nail down some of the blocking tonight when you work with Jill. So there’s no wiggle room.”
I tamp down the mischievous grin that’s forming. I’d certainly thought of that myself, but hearing the suggestion from my stage manager makes my task tonight feel more necessary than self-indulgent.
“Good idea, Shan. Now go get home so you can curl up by the fire and watch the snow fall.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe we’ll even have a snow day tomorrow,” she muses. “Oh wait. Davis Milo never allows snow days.” She swats me playfully on the arm.
“You don’t allow them, either.”
“You got me there. But I learned my merciless ways from you.” She tosses her scarf around her neck with a final flourish. “I’m off into the tundra.”
She opens the door, letting in a cold blast of air. I’m about to close it, when a voice I long to hear calls out, “Hold the door! My hands are full.”
I push back on the door and see Jill practically sprinting down the alley, holding a cup of coffee in each hand. She says a quick hello and goodbye to Shannon as she passes her.
“Good luck with the hair scene, Jill,” Shannon says. “Make sure you guys finalize the blocking.”
“Hair scene. I’m on it,” she answers like a good soldier.
Jill reaches the door and holds up the blue paper cups. “Coffee.”
“I can see that.”
“I got you
one,” she says, and there’s the slightest flutter to her voice, as if she’s nervous.
She thrusts a cup at me, and I take it. I’m dying to break into a grin because it’s not just coffee—it’s coffee from her. It’s coffee for us. It’s a little something she did for our private rehearsal.
“I’m impressed you can run and not spill the coffee.”
“It’s all part of my marathon training. In fact, I teach that skill to the more advanced runners in my coaching group.”
“But of course. Some of them probably even want to learn how not to spill a latte, or perhaps an espresso,” I say with a smirk.
“We’re actually well past the how-not-to-spill espresso training. By the way, do you think you can let me in now?”
I laugh, realizing I’m standing in the doorway and she’s outside, shivering, even with her coat on. I open the door wider, letting her in. I look briefly at the dark sky, brighter than usual, a sure sign the clouds are swelling with snow.
“Looks like snow.” I let the door close behind us.
“You better watch out, then. I toss a mean snowball. My brothers taught me how to throw.”
“I’ll consider myself duly warned for a vicious snowball attack.” We head down the backstage hallway toward the wings of the stage. As I watch her walk, her coat hitting just below her waist, I imagine her naked again. I love that I know what she looks like without anything on.
I take a drink. The coffee is perfect. Just black. Nothing added to it. Exactly how I like it.
“How did you know?”
“How did I know what?”
“How I take my coffee.”
“I took a wild guess. My roommate has this theory about guys and their coffee drinks,” she says as we reach the stage. She stops at the edge of the curtains.
The Private Rehearsal (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 4) Page 11