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

by Lauren Blakely

  “Were you on a date?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Did he take you out? Did he romance you? Did he kiss you?” He looks tortured as he asks the last question, and my breath catches. I never wanted to torment him.

  I never wanted to torment Aaron, either. Comparing him to Davis is laughable, but the intensity around us is setting my nerves on end.

  When Davis breathes out it’s hard, almost feral. His eyes blaze at me, and his hands shake. He’s so mad he’s shaking. His voice is low and measured as he bites out the next words. “Did. He. Kiss. You?”

  Angst and anger mix and rise up in me like a thick plume. I don’t like being talked to this way. I don’t like feeling this way. “Why should I tell you? You don’t take me out. You don’t call me. You don’t even text me,” I say as if that proves all my points.

  He scoffs. “I should send you texts with smiley faces? That would change things?”

  “No,” I spit back. “But you’re acting like you own me. And you don’t. You don’t own me just because you want to fuck me.”

  He heaves a rough sigh and looks away, his lips pressed tight together as if he’s trying to collect himself. He looks back at me, almost forcing himself to calm down. “I can’t stand the thought of him kissing you. I can’t stand the thought of his hands on you. I can’t stand the thought of anyone’s hands on you.” He brings a hand to my shoulder blade, traces my collarbone with his knuckles. “Except mine,” he says in a rough voice, as he trails his fingers down to my waist then wraps them around my hip. He bends his head to my ear and whispers harshly. “I can still taste you.”

  His words make me lightheaded, and my knees nearly buckle. I feel like my world has been twisted inside out, and I’ve lost all sense of direction. I can’t find my way through anymore. “Why are you doing this to me?” I ask him in a strained voice.

  “What am I doing to you, Jill? Tell me. Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

  “Acting like this.”

  “How am I acting?” His question is half-curious, half-demanding. As if he can’t go on until he knows the answer.

  He’s still inches away from me. His eyes are so dark they’re nearly black now, but they don’t let me go. He’s so near to me that I can smell his anger, his heat. I can smell how much he wants me too. His shirt collar is open, unbuttoned once, exposing a patch of skin below his throat. I could press my lips to him, taste him, run the tip of my tongue over him. See how he reacts to me.

  “Like a jealous lover,” I answer, and I don’t bother to mask my anger either.

  He pushes a hand through his hair then lets go, his fingers now touching my face gently. He traces the outline of my cheek. Then my jaw. Then across my lips. I wish it didn’t feel so good.

  “Maybe I am,” he whispers. “Maybe that’s how I feel about you.”

  I clench my teeth, place a hand on his chest, ready to push him away. “But don’t you get it? You don’t have the right to be. All we do is find each other in the dark. In hallways. In dressing rooms. In stairwells. Why? Because you. Don’t. Date. Actresses.” Then I pause for effect and add bitterly, “You’ve told me that. Hell, even Shelby knows that.” I hold out my hands wide as if to say so there.

  He grabs my hands, laces his fingers through mine, and brings our clasped hands to his chest. I look down at our linked fingers, surprised he would make such an intimate gesture in such an angry moment. This isn’t what I thought would come next. Then he squeezes my fingers, as if he’s pleading for me to understand him. “Do you want to know why?”

  “Yes,” I say, letting go of all my anger. Because beneath my frustration, I desperately want him to tell me. I think I know the answer. But I want to hear it from him, not from gossip. I want him to trust me.

  “Because the last time I did, it wrecked me.” His face softens as he admits that, and I can tell how hard it is for him to say. Instinct takes over, and I tighten my hold on his hands, letting him know I’m listening. “And I don’t want to feel like a fucking mess again. Not if I can help it. Not if I can stop it. But I can’t get you out of my mind, Jill, and I haven’t been able to for a long, long time. I don’t want anyone else touching you, and I don’t want anyone else going out with you either, whether it’s to bowling or even to mini-golf,” he says with sneer.

  “Hey, what’s wrong with mini-golf?” I risk teasing him gently, knowing it might be too soon, but also knowing it would break the intense mood.

  “Nothing. If you go with me,” he says, and the anger is gone now. “And I don’t want you having dinner with anyone else either. So you’re going to make me break all my rules, right now.” Then his expression changes, and he looks vulnerable in a way I haven’t seen. “Have dinner with me, please.” His voice rises just a bit as he lets down his guard for me.

  For me.

  It guts me, his honesty. The risk he’s taking. How it changes everything if I go out with him.

  “So you want to date an actress after all?” I ask, smiling a little, so he knows where I’m going. I already know my answer, but I can’t resist flirting with him.

  “Yes. You,” he says, and now the nerves have gone, and he’s all confidence and control again. “I want to send a car for you, and I want you to wear a dress, and count the seconds until you walk into the restaurant. Because I’ll be there at the bar, waiting for you. Every head will turn to watch you walk over to me, and they’ll all want to know what that guy has that the most beautiful, breathtaking woman is there for him. To be with him.” He stops for a beat, and I’m melting for him as he lays his heart on the line. “Say yes, Jill. Say yes to me.”

  Every inch of me is goosebumps. The soft little hairs on my arms stand on end, and I am breathless. I can’t say anything to him but yes. I want the same thing he wants.

  More.

  “You know my answer, Davis,” I say.

  “Say yes,” he implores me one more time.

  “Yes.”

  He relaxes into me, as if that one word has let out all the tension from his body.

  “But now I want you to say yes to something,” I say, and I finger his crisp, white collar.

  He raises an eyebrow, inviting me to say more.

  “I want to unbutton your shirt. I want to feel your chest against my hands.”

  “We have to get back out there, though,” he says, but I’m already making quick work of the first button. He breathes out, and I can tell that he’s giving in to me, that he can’t not give in to me right now. “But Shannon can handle it,” he says, answering for himself. Then the words trail off like vapor as I undo each button, spreading the fabric, and revealing his chest for the first time.

  I’ve felt him through his shirt plenty of times. I’ve outlined his muscles with my hands. But there’s always been a barrier. Now there’s none as I reach his waist, and he helps me by untucking his shirt from the waistband of his dark gray pants. There. Now he’s mine to look at, and he’s so gorgeous it makes my heart hurt.

  Then it stops hurting as a warm flush spreads through me because I’m going to that place I go only with him, where the heat between us takes over, and cocoons us. He closes his eyes, letting himself savor my touch as I run my index finger down the line of his chest, through the slightest bit of hair, down to his flat abs, stopping at that delicious V. His skin is smooth, and he’s so toned, and he clearly takes care of his body because he’s carved and cut and I want to bend down and trail my tongue across his flat belly and all the way up his chest. I want to kiss him everywhere. I want to touch him everywhere. I want to know his body.

  He lets out a low growl as I explore his chest, then my hands have a mind of their own and I push his shirt down to his elbows, feeling his strong, toned arms. Every inch of him I’ve seen is beautiful, and I want so deeply to know what all of him looks like.

  But I respect his boundaries. I understand that this is all he’ll allow, so I pull his shirt back up, then button my way down. He tucks it into his pants
, and I adjust the collar, smoothing it out.

  Then I cup his cheeks in my hands. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t look away.

  “Davis,” I say softly, “you have to know you’re beautiful too.”

  “Thank you,” he says, leaning into my palm.

  “I want you to kiss me now. Kiss me like I’m the woman you’re breaking all your rules for.” I tilt my chin and bring my lips to his, and he kisses me, a soft, tender kiss that I never want to end.

  But soon it does.

  Only, instead of leaving the dressing room, he leans over to lock the door.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “This will only take a few minutes,” he says with a glint in his eye. “Besides, I need to make up to you properly.”

  “You do?”

  “I need to show you how contrite I am for behaving like a jealous ass,” he says, then places his hand on my shoulders and gently turns me around so I’m facing the door. He runs his hand down my back, sending shivers through my whole body, as a delicious pull begins in my belly. He pushes up my sweater, unhooks my bra, and loops his hands around to cup my breasts.

  I gasp and close my eyes as he palms my breasts, teasing my nipples with his fingers until they harden into peaks.

  “Is this how you say you’re sorry?” I ask, as my breathing grows shallow.

  “No.” He brings his mouth to my upper back, and trails hot kisses down my spine. I whimper as he licks his way down my back, then as his quick hands undo my jeans. He pushes them down to my knees and does the same with my pink panties. I move with him, letting him touch me, kiss me, taste my body like I’m his canvas and he’s painting me with his tongue. I press my palms into the door, and he hooks his strong fingers around my hips and tugs me so I bend, my back almost flat, my behind in the air. I want to turn around and watch, but I also love this feeling of letting go, of surrendering to his touch as he kneels and presses his thumbs against my cheeks, spreading me open. He moves closer, blowing warm breath between my legs, making me ache for his tongue.

  “This is how I say I’m sorry.”

  I gasp as he kisses my throbbing center, tasting how wet I am for him, enjoying how my body responds instantly to his touch. My breathing quickens as he flicks his tongue against my clit, swirling and licking and sucking me, until soon I’m panting and moaning as quietly as I possibly can so no one can hear, though I am desperate, absolutely desperate, for the release he’s about to bring me. He grips me firmly with his strong hands on my hips, and strokes me with his tongue, working relentlessly until I shatter. Even then he pulls me closer, his lips needing me, his tongue still savoring me, drinking me in as if he can’t get enough of me as I come again.

  I don’t move for a few minutes as the sensations wash over me, the aftereffects of two powerful orgasms lingering in my body.

  Soon, he pulls up my lacy pink underwear, then my jeans, and I turn around. I’m sure I’m a lightheaded, woozy mess as I snap my bra and adjust my sweater.

  “I suppose you’re forgiven,” I say, and he grins wickedly.

  “Good. And I suppose I’d better head out first, seeing as you look like you’ve just come hard.” Then he pauses, raking his eyes over every inch of me. “And twice.”

  He brushes his lips against my forehead and leaves.

  Five minutes later, after a quick bathroom visit, I join the cast and crew on stage. I can’t help but wonder if anyone can know from looking at us that our hands have been on each other, that our lips have meshed together, that we’ve done so much more.

  Or if we’re both fantastic at make-believe, because even as I practice the numbers on the call sheet, I’m thinking of my closet and the dresses I have, and the one I want to wear to dinner with my director, because I know he’ll find a way to have his hands underneath my clothes.

  And that’s more than fine with me.

  22

  Jill

  There is no question that this is the dress. With its sleeveless scoop neck, plunging V back, and a hand-beaded bodice with intricate crystals woven throughout, it is sheer perfection.

  “Oh, Kat.” Tears well up in my eyes. “This is the one. This is the dress you’re going to get married in.”

  She smooths her hands over the organza that extends into a cathedral train behind her. A short, dark-haired woman who owns this bridal shop in the West Village watches patiently from her post a few feet away. Kat appraises herself in the three-way mirror, the soft light of the shop making her look even more stunning. “You think so?”

  “I know that’s a rhetorical question.” I stand up from the cushiony white chair I’ve been parked in as she’s tried on a strapless lace dress, a satin sheath, and many more. Soft, classical music plays through an unseen sound system. High-class bridal magazines lie elegantly on top of an oval glass coffee table next to the chair. A vase of jasmine flowers fills the boutique with a sweet floral scent. All these touches are enough to make anyone in here forget that beyond the shop doors lies grimy, noisy, crowded Manhattan. “Look at yourself. It’s perfect and you know it. It’s you.”

  I stand behind her, so she can see me in the mirror now, smiling at her. She glances at her reflection one more time, considering the dress from every angle. I can practically see the cogs whirring in her head, inching closer to the moment when she reaches 100 percent certainty. Her brow is furrowed then a grin starts to form, slowly at first, until it quickly becomes a full-blown smile.

  She turns around, and she’s simply glowing with happiness. “I’ll take it,” she declares.

  “Wonderful,” says the shop owner. “It is perfect for you, Ms. Harper.”

  “I’m so glad I found your store. I’m so glad I found this dress,” Kat says, the words spilling out in a happy rush. Then she turns to me. “And thank you for coming with me. I couldn’t do this without you. You’re the best maid of honor and the best friend I could ever hope to have.”

  “Oh please. I did nothing except gaze upon your beauty,” I say playfully, but my voice breaks, and I swipe at a tear that rolls down my cheeks. I’m so happy for her.

  “Oh, you’re so cute when you’re all emotional and teary,” she says, and crushes me in a hug.

  “I’m going to miss you when you move in with him. I can’t believe you’re only my roommate for a few more months.”

  “I know. But I’ll still see you. We’ll still hang out.”

  “Always. We’ll always hang out.”

  We pull apart, and the shop owner helps Kat take off the dress, and they make arrangements for it as I wander through the tiny store with its cream walls and gold-framed vintage pictures of garden weddings and sunset vows. When they’re done, the shop owner asks Kat about her bridesmaids’ dresses.

  “Something classy. Something she could wear again,” Kat says, nodding to me.

  “I need a dress for tonight is what I need,” I say under my breath.

  Kat turns to me, gives me a curious look. I wave my hand as if to wipe away the comment I should have kept to myself.

  “I have a black and white dress in mind,” the shop owner says. “Sleeveless and above the knee. Straight lines. Very sophisticated. I’ll have it in the store next week if you’d like your maid of honor to try it on when you come back for a fitting?”

  “That sounds fantastic,” Kat says, then we exit the store. “Are you holding out on me? You have a Saturday night date with Patrick, and this is the first I’m hearing about it?”

  My stomach twists, and I feel like I can’t get air for a moment. As if my lungs are crushing me from the inside out. I flash back to all the lies I’ve told over the years. To all the fables I’ve carefully constructed to seem as if I really am this person. This what-you-see-is-what-you-get person. But I’m too many people. I’m Eponine. I’m Ava. I’m the woman who claims her brother’s favorite books for her own. I’m the running coach. I’m the jokey, happy friend. I am the girl who stopped feeling things for real after Aaron.

  And
I am tired of that girl. I’m ready to start saying goodbye to her. I take another small step and speak a simple truth to my best friend. “Actually, I’m going out with Davis Milo tonight.”

  Her eyes widen with shock, and her purse slides down her shoulder, the bag dangling dangerously close to the cobblestone sidewalk. She yanks it back up. “Oh. My. God.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “You’re going out with your director?” she asks, as if it’s not computing.

  This is what I get for telling the truth? She’s berating me? “I was just joking,” I say, regressing in an instant. Who wants progress if it comes with that kind of hassle?

  “You were not,” she says, waggling a finger at me, but her tone shifts from shocked to eager, and she’s not going to let me slip out of this unscathed by honesty. “Is there something going on between you two? Do you like him?”

  I shrug and hold my hands out as if to say I don’t know. Because I don’t know what’s between us. I barely understand what’s happening. “Do you think it’s terrible that he’s my director?”

  “Hello? Pot. Kettle. I fell for my mentor last semester. No, I don’t think it’s terrible at all. I think it might be incredibly hot, and I want to know everything. Spill,” she says authoritatively.

  I don’t know that I can tell her everything. I’m still reeling from having told her anything at all. But I tell her we’ve kissed more than once, and I tell her that I want to find a new dress for tonight.

  A new dress for a new date with a new man.

  “What kind of dress?”

  “Something that’s unbearably sexy but that leaves a lot to the imagination.”

  “I know just the shop.” She grabs my hand and takes me to one of her favorite boutiques and then finds a dress that’s equally perfect—perfect for me.

  23

  Davis

  As I leave my apartment, I see Ryder at the end of the block, heading out of the gym. He gives a nod, then a once-over. When I catch up, he tips his chin at me.