“Date night for the director?”
I scoff.
“You can just admit it. I can tell.”
I huff. “Maybe.”
“Ah, I see my suggestion to behave fell on deaf ears.”
“Maybe I am behaving.”
“Is it the understudy?” He arches a brow as we chat on the street corner.
“That obvious?”
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “I’m not going to say be careful because I know you know what you’re doing. And I’m not going to say don’t do it, because life is short. Just watch out for the ticker. I know you pretend yours is made of steel, but I think it might be softer.”
“Just like yours?”
He shrugs. “Unfortunately.” Then he fixes on a smile. “But hey, that’s why I’m never going to fall in love again.”
I laugh hard. “Yeah. Right. And on that note, I have a lovely woman to take to dinner.”
I turn to go, and Ryder calls out. “Davis.”
I turn around and wait.
“Have some fucking fun. You deserve it, man.”
“So do you.”
A rush of cold air invades the restaurant. The guy in the untucked shirt perched on the stool next to me whips his head around, but I doubt it’s because of the chill. I grin privately, take a drink of my scotch, then place the sturdy glass on the smooth chrome bar at Vertigo, a new fish restaurant in Soho that Michelle raved about. Anticipation winds through me, as a picture of Jill forms in my mind. I lick my lips then turn around.
She’s handing the hostess her coat as she scans the restaurant. Then she finds me, and her eyes lock on mine. My blood heats as I take her in. She’s more stunning than I imagined, wearing a black knit dress that hugs her body and hits right above the knees, exposing inches of her bare legs before they’re covered up in the sexiest black boots I’ve ever seen. I toss a twenty on the bar without turning around and walk up to her.
Placing a hand on her lower back, I plant a chaste kiss on her cheek. “You’re playing dirty, dressed like that. But I’m behaving myself and it’s killing me,” I say.
“I’m so impressed with your self-control,” she teases.
“You should be. It’s excellent, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.”
I turn to the hostess. “Is our table ready?”
“Yes, Mr. Milo. Right this way.” She leads us through the restaurant with its white-tiled floors, sleek silver tables, and gray leather booths. “The one you reserved,” she says, and lays the menus on the table in the back. I gesture for Jill to slide in first to the curved booth.
“Thank you very much,” I say to the hostess, who gives a quick nod, then leaves.
I sit down as Jill smooths out her skirt, then fingers the crisp white tablecloth. “Nice tablecloth,” she says in a knowing voice.
“Isn’t it, though?”
Then she looks me over, her eyes flicking from my green-and-white checkered shirt to my dark pants. She leans closer, her soft breath on my neck, her pineapple scent taunting me as her long hair brushes my shoulder.
“You look very handsome,” she says in a soft voice, almost as if she’s nervous and unused to giving compliments.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her. “I hope you’re not tired of hearing it from me.”
She shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her lips, and all these little gestures remind me that this really is a first date. But the moment is shattered when the waiter appears.
“Can I start you off with something to drink?”
I turn to Jill. “Belvedere and soda?”
She smiles instantly. “You remember.”
“Of course.”
“And are you going to have Glenlivet on the rocks?”
“You remember too,” I say, and I tell myself not to read anything into it, but it’s too late. It already makes me want her even more. All of her. I turn to the waiter and give him our drink order, and he leaves.
“I remember everything about having drinks with you at Sardi’s,” she says in a sweet voice that damn near melts me.
“You do?”
She nods, and I wait a beat, thinking she’ll tell me next that it was because I cast her, because I gave her her first big break. But instead, she says, “Because I was with you.” Then her hand is on my shirt, and she traces lazy circles around one of the buttons, whispering in my ear, “I want to kiss you, but I’m afraid to do it in public.”
“Why?”
“Because I worry if someone might see us.”
“And so what if someone does?”
“Davis,” she chides.
“What? I don’t know why it’s a big thing.”
“Maybe not to you. But to me it would be,” she says, and there’s the slightest note of hurt.
“Why?”
She pulls back to give me a curious look. “Really? You can’t figure it out?”
“No. Maybe you could just say it,” I say, a bit irritated.
“I don’t want anyone to think I got the part in the show because I’m sleeping with you.”
It dawns on me that she’d want to protect her reputation as a rising star. I get it. I do. Still, it’s a reminder that actresses put their careers first. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t know why I’m chasing a woman who has erected so many barriers for me—from her job to her love of another man.
But the answer dawns on me too.
I’m doing it because she’s worth it. Everything about her, from her talent to her beauty to her gorgeous heart, is worth any trouble. All the obstacles.
“You’ve already made it,” she continues. “You have three Tonys, an Oscar, you have producers probably falling at your feet to have you direct. I’m just starting out, and I want to have a long career in this business.”
“I guess I don’t worry that much about what people think about my private life. And I don’t think you should either.” And then, because I can’t resist pointing out the flaw in her logic, I add, “But I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Not yet,” she says, and her hands are still on my shirt. I glance down at the way she’s tracing the buttons, as if she’s dying to take my shirt off.
“But if you don’t want anyone to think that, why are you touching me like this?”
“Because it’s hard for me to keep my hands off you.” But she says it in a brusque voice as she turns away to pick up the menu. This woman is hot and cold, and almost impossible to read.
“Let’s figure out what to order,” I say.
After the waiter brings our drinks, Jill orders the wild salmon with green beans and I opt for the sautéed filet of sturgeon. Then, I hold up my glass. “To the long and ridiculously successful career I know you’re going to have.”
She smiles, softening once more, then clinks her glass to mine. “And to dinner.”
Her eyes stray, and she looks at my hand. She takes a drink, puts her glass down, and reaches for it, tracing a soft finger across the scar. Her tone shifts to a more serious one, as if she’s let go of the sexy Jill and now she’s a more emotional one.
“You said this happened when your parents died. You punched the glass window of the door. Can I ask what happened to them?”
I like that she’s direct. That she’s asking me without hesitation. Because I don’t want her or anyone to feel sorry for me. “They died in a car crash one February night. They were in the city. They were huge theater fans—that’s where I got it from—and had actually been seeing a play the night they died. It had started snowing, and my dad was driving them home to where we lived in Westchester. A car coming the other way lost control on an ice patch, and they died instantly on impact. Police came later that night. Told me what happened.” As I recount that awful night, my chest tightens, remembering how I opened the door to be greeted, not by my parents, but by the solemn-faced officer come to bear bad news. It’s been more than a decade since that night, and I’ve managed. I’ve mov
ed past it the only way you can—by going through it. Still, the memory is like a knife reopening an old wound, letting it bleed out yet another time. “I didn’t believe it at first.”
“You were in shock,” she says softly, and there’s something in her voice that says she knows the feeling all too well. She runs her finger across the scar.
“Yeah, exactly. I was that way for a few days. Then pretty soon, I was angry. That’s when I slammed my fist through the glass pane on the door. Not my brightest decision, especially if I had ever wanted to have a professional boxing career,” I say, managing a slight laugh to lighten the mood.
“Did you? Want that?”
I shake my head. “No. Theater is in my blood. My dad was a theater history professor. Mom was a choreographer, and there was never any question about what I wanted to do.” Then I shift back to the story. “The worst part, though, was having to tell my younger sister. It was only us then. It’s only us now.”
“You took care of your sister?”
I nod. “I delayed college for a year to stay home with her, get her through the rest of high school.”
“You’re a good brother,” she says in a kind voice, and squeezes my hand tight.
“Thank you for saying that. What about you? You said you have two brothers?”
“My brother Jay is working in Europe for a company there. And my oldest brother, Chris, lives in San Francisco and is this huge video game guy. Hosts his own Webflix show about geek culture, and just started getting serious with this gal who’s a fashion blogger. He’s actually coming here soon for work, so I get to see him and to meet her. I can’t wait.”
“You’re close to him?”
She nods, but then holds up her hand and moves it back and forth like a seesaw.
“Close, but maybe not so close?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as I try to understand her.
She chews the inside of her lip as if she’s considering the question, and it’s fascinating to see a new side of her. How she seems to genuinely connect with people and care about them, but can be so guarded too.
“No. I mean . . . we’re close,” she offers, but that’s all. Then in a small, fragile voice, she adds, “Maybe you can meet him.”
All my frustration from earlier, all my fear vanishes with those words. I don’t know that I will ever meet her brother, but the fact that she makes the offer at all is huge for Jill.
“That would be nice,” I say, and now her eyes have gone glassy as if she’s sad and drifting off someplace. But before I can ask what’s wrong, I follow her gaze back to my hand.
“I’m sorry you have this scar,” she says as she strokes a finger across the top of my hand. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. But since you do have this scar, and you can’t change the past, is it okay if I tell you I think it’s kinda sexy that you just told me all that? Maybe because it’s so real. And the scar is a visible reminder of who you are, and what you went through, and you don’t hide from it. You own it.”
“I don’t know any other way to be,” I tell her, because it’s the truth. I might traffic in illusions, but they all first come from truths. From who we all are deep down, from what makes us tick. That’s my stock-in-trade. I take another swallow of my scotch, the ice cubes clinking against the glass. A waiter passes by bearing small salads for another couple at a nearby table, but I barely notice them. I put the glass down, touch her cheek, then thread my fingers through her hair. “Now it’s my turn to ask you a question.”
Her eyes widen with worry then she takes a breath as if she’s steeling herself. “Okay,” she says tentatively.
“Do you remember the night in the car, the first time I made you come?”
She nearly spits out her drink. “You cut to the chase.”
“I do. It seemed as if you were saying it was the first . . .” I let my voice trail off, tilting my head to the side to see if she’ll let me get to know her. Get to see inside her.
She doesn’t answer right away. Just takes a drink, fiddles with her napkin.
“I want to get to know you,” I say and run a finger along her arm. “That’s all.”
She looks afraid. She looks lost. But she parts her lips and sighs. “I’m not a virgin, but I haven’t been with anyone in a long time,” she says quietly, as if it’s the first time she’s said that out loud.
I want to reassure her that whatever her history is, it’s all fine with me. “That’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I haven’t been with anyone since my high school boyfriend. I mean, I kissed a few guys in college. And please don’t go all protective caveman and get upset that I’ve kissed people. Because I’m not the Virgin Mary and don’t want to be treated as such.” She holds up a hand, dropping her vulnerable self to return to her tough-as-nails one.
“Duly noted.”
“It’s just that . . .”
“It’s just what? There’s nothing wrong with that. Unless it’s for a particular reason?” I ask carefully, because we’re treading on sensitive terrain.
She simply shrugs.
“Jill,” I say, keeping my voice low but steady. I don’t want to scare her. I don’t want to let on exactly what I’d do to someone who hurt her. But I need to know. “Did this guy hurt you?”
“No,” she says quickly, and she looks away from me. She swallows then looks back at me. “The opposite. I hurt him.”
Her eyes are wet, and she looks like she’s about to cry, and all my instincts in reading people’s emotions are turned upside down right now because she’s so hard to figure out. But I also know she’ll only let me in so far at a time. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I think that’s all I can manage for now.”
“Well, whatever it was, I think you have to forgive yourself for hurting him. I’m sure even if you did break his heart, or whatever happened, he’s managed to move on. I did after Madeline. She’s the reason I didn’t want to go out with an actress again. We were very serious about each other, and then she left me in the lurch when her career took off.”
“Would you think it’s terrible that I’m glad she left you?” Then she moves in and silences any more conversation with a kiss. I can taste the Belvedere on her lips, and I can taste her, and it’s the most delirious sensation in the world to have her here with me. She pulls away for a moment. “I know I said I didn’t want anyone to see us kissing, but I hope there’s no one here who knows us, because I’ve been wanting to do that since I walked in the door.” It’s one of the first times she’s talked to me like this. As if she’s shedding all the ways she protects herself. “I’ve been wanting to do that since my roommate helped me pick out this dress this afternoon. I’ve been wanting to do that since I thought about you on the way over in the car, like you wanted me to.”
For a moment I feel as if the ground is swaying, as if we’re being rocked by unexpected waves. I thought I could protect myself. I once stupidly thought I could stay away from her. I even toyed with the idea that I could keep this strictly physical. But the more I get to know her, the deeper I fall. She is the most complicated and sexy and beautiful and vulnerable woman I’ve ever met. Maybe she’s hurt someone in the past, and maybe I’m next in line, but there’s a part of me that is willing to sign up for it because it’s impossible to stay away from her.
Especially when she gives me a very sexy grin. “Do you want to know what I’m wearing under this dress?”
“Now that you mention it, I think I’d like to find out.” I slide my hand below the hem of the dress, feeling the soft naked skin of her legs under my calloused fingers. Then I move my hand to the underside of her thigh, taking my time as I explore, enjoying her invitation to find out what she has in store for me. I watch the expression on her face change as she hitches in her breath and parts her legs the slightest bit. She gives an audible gasp when I reach that delicious part on a woman’s body when her leg meets her ass. Then I cup her between her legs, and she’s naked against my hand, her body a
lready hot and wet.
“Now you’ll really see why I picked this table,” I tell her.
24
Jill
I wonder if he knows I’ve shared more with him than with anyone else. That I give him more glimpses than I have anyone before. Maybe it’s because sometimes I feel as if he can see inside me, as if he senses things about me and knows there’s more than I’ve let on. I’ve kept my past with Aaron hidden—literally hidden, under lock and key—but he alone seems to be able to see through all my defenses, all the ways I’ve built up this persona, and he can gently pull back the curtain, bit by bit, in a way that doesn’t rip me apart. Because he’s so patently open with me.
No faking, no pretending. Only truth.
Which makes me wonder if that’s why my body responds like it belongs to him. If there’s more to this thing between us than just his amazing hands, or the way he kisses me both rough and tender, or how he talks dirty in one moment and then romantic the next.
I wonder if I’m feeling things for him that go beyond these sensations that send me to another world with him.
But right now, I let go of all those questions because he’s learning that I wore nothing for him, so he could do exactly this, so he could touch me under the table.
Then he removes his hand from under my dress and shoots me a mischievous grin.
“Um, hello,” I say playfully. “Maybe you could put your hand back there. Not sure if you got the memo, but I kinda want you.”
“I know,” he says, leaning back against the gray leather and reaching for his scotch. “And I want something too. I want to know what you look like when you make yourself come.”
A shiver runs through me. Is there anything this man can say that won’t make my body high on him? “You’re going to torture me.”
“And you’re going to torture me. But I know you like to touch yourself. And I bet you can do it quietly too.”
“Why do you say that?”
He leans into me, twines his fingers into my hair once more, and I melt into his touch. “Because you have a roommate. Because you told me you read erotic novels. Because I bet you’ve learned how to make yourself come quietly.”
The Private Rehearsal (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 4) Page 15