by Maggie Riley
“Any luck with the sides?” she asked.
I sighed. We had asked for actors to come prepared with their choice of Shakespearean monologue, but I was hoping to hand out one or two scenes of dialogue for those we were interested in seeing more of. I just hadn’t picked which scenes I wanted to do.
This whole production seemed to be affected by my sudden inability to make decisions. It was frustrating and exhausting. I hated working like this—knowing that everyone depended on me and being unable to provide any kind of leadership or direction.
“I have some options,” I told Joanna. “I’ll pick two by tomorrow.”
“I know you will,” she said, getting up from the desk. “But I’m going to call it a day.”
“Any plans for tonight?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “Charity auction for the Children’s Hospital.”
“At least it’s for a good cause,” I said.
“Yes,” Joanna sighed. “But I’d much rather just write a check than show off how charitable I can be by bidding for something I don’t want or need.”
“Maybe you’ll find something that will be useful for the theatre.” As usual, I tried to find the silver lining. “Win-win.”
“Doubtful,” said Joanna. “Probably just a lot of spa trips or fancy dinners. Nothing we need.”
“I could use a spa trip,” I said playfully.
“You hate going to the spa,” Joanna reminded me.
Which was true. I didn’t like people fawning over me in that way. It felt weird—the imbalance of power was something I tried to avoid at all costs. Likely a holdover from living in a house with housekeepers and cooks that I wasn’t allowed to speak to.
“Will your parents be there?”
“No,” said Joanna. “They’re in London, thank goodness.”
“Small blessings.” I gave her a smile. “Just remember, these are problems some people would kill to have.”
“I know,” said Joanna. “But right now they’re my problems and I have a right to be grouchy about them.”
“This is true.”
After Joanna left, I told myself I would stay at the theatre until I had figured out which sides to use, but within fifteen minutes, I could already tell that I wasn’t going to get any work done in the office. I decided to take it home with me in hopes that a change of scene would help me make necessary decisions. And I really hoped that this hesitation wouldn’t continue through the entire run of the show—I didn’t know how much more I could take.
I packed up my bag and headed out of the theatre. As I crossed the street, heading towards my subway stop, I dug through my bag for my headphones and crashed right into another person. But when I looked up to apologize, I found a familiar face.
“Lincoln!” I threw my arms around him.
Lincoln Hawthorne had gone to school with Joanna and I. We had all been good friends—until Lincoln and Joanna had become something more. And then became nothing at all. It had been ages since I had seen him, and it had been under those unpleasant circumstances.
“Nice to see you, Reagan,” he said.
He was wearing an expensive suit and a smile. Same old Lincoln. His family came from the same kind of old money as Joanna’s did. He was someone who knew all about family expectations and pressures.
“You look good,” I told him, and it was true.
“As do you.”
He was being kind, but then again he had known me since I was a gawky, awkward teenager. Now I was a gawky, awkward adult—something I worked hard to embrace.
“I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch,” I said, but he waved off my apology.
“I completely understand,” he assured me.
“It’s probably a good thing that you missed Joanna,” I said, knowing that her method of greeting Lincoln would not have involved a hug.
Her usual threat of ball removal might have gone beyond a simple threat. Even after all these years, she refused to talk about him. Refused to even mention his name. I understood—she had been betrayed by what had happened and didn’t want to revisit painful memories, but I couldn’t help thinking that there was something more to it all. It had never made sense to me what Lincoln had done, but then, I hadn’t been privy to all the details. The person I knew—someone I had considered to be a good friend—would have never participated in such a hurtful act. But it wasn’t my place to interfere. It hadn’t been then and it wasn’t now—whatever had happened was between the two of them.
“I waited for her to leave,” Lincoln confessed. “I was hoping to catch you alone.”
“Me?” I was surprised—we had been friends, but usually within the context of his and Joanna’s relationship. “So this is not some serendipitous occurrence?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “Do you have time to talk?”
“Of course,” I told him, linking my arm through his. It was nice to see someone from my past that didn’t give me a stomachache. Who knew me and all my secrets. Who still appeared to like me. “Would you like to talk inside? I can show you the theatre.”
“I’d love to,” he said, smiling, but there was some sadness there. “I know it was your dream. Yours and Joanna’s. I’m glad it became a reality.”
Once upon a time, he had been our biggest supporter. My heart gave a little twist and I realized that I had missed Lincoln all these years. I wondered if Joanna did as well. I wondered if she allowed herself to.
I patted his hand. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll give you the VIP tour.”
Chapter 15
JOSH
It wasn’t until I got to the theatre that I realized the flaw in my plan. When I made the decision to go to Reagan to apologize in person, I was operating on half a night’s sleep and half a pack of beer. As my cab pulled away from the curb, the effects of the beer were wearing off and I realized that I had no idea if Reagan would even be there. Since I knew Allie spent most of her time at the theatre, I had assumed that Reagan would do the same.
Running my hand through my hair, I also realized that I probably looked exactly as I felt—exhausted and slightly hung over. Not exactly the best version of myself. I almost turned back to the curb, ready to hail a cab, go home, take a shower and reconsider how to best word the much-required apology.
Instead, I walked over to the theatre, figuring that since I was already here, I might as well see if Reagan was as well. And she was. Through the glass doors I could see her standing in the theatre lobby talking to a guy. He was tall—maybe not as tall as I was, but tall—and wearing a very expensive-looking suit. In fact, everything about him looked expensive. Expensive shoes, expensive haircut, expensive watch. I felt decidedly less impressive in my day-old jeans and wrinkled t-shirt.
Had I been wrong about my previous assessment of Reagan? Did she care about money? She clearly knew this guy. And knew him well, as indicated by her body language, which radiated familiarity. They were standing close together, both of them looking comfortable and relaxed in each other’s presence. His arms were crossed as Reagan reached out and put a hand on his elbow. He smiled down at her and said something. She laughed.
Watching that was like a punch in the stomach. Because she was damn beautiful when she laughed. And she sure as hell had not been laughing the last time I had seen her. But this guy made her laugh. Made her happy. Jealousy reared its ugly head. It was not an emotion I felt often, and I realized now that I didn’t like it at all. Especially since I had no right to be jealous.
I took in the rest of her. She looked charming, in her usual black clothes, her hair pulled back in a braid, her glasses sliding down her nose. My eyes traveled downward, following her long, slender neck to the indent at the base of her throat. I imagined her pulse beating there. Was it beating faster because of this man? Was she looking at him the way she had looked at me the other day before I had fucked it up? Was attraction and interest sparkling in her eyes?
Reagan laughed again and I realized that I was standing on the street, s
taring into the theatre lobby like a creeper. I was about to turn away, to hail another cab, when she caught sight of me.
She froze and the smile slid from her face.
Fuck. This was a bad idea.
But it was too late, because she was heading towards me. If I walked away, she’d think I was even more of a jerk. And then she’d certainly never smile at me the way she had smiled at this guy.
So I pulled open the door and met her halfway across the lobby.
“Hi,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets, feeling unbearably awkward.
“Josh,” her voice seemed tentative. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”
“Yeah, I guess I should have called.”
We just stood there for a moment, staring at each other. I had never felt this awkward around a woman before. But it seemed that Reagan brought out a lot of things I had never felt before.
It was then that Reagan seemed to remember the other man, who had followed her across the room. He was looking at me with an expression of caution. Probably very similar to the look I was giving him.
“Josh, this is Lincoln Hawthorne,” she introduced us. “Lincoln and I went to high school together.”
Hawthorne? That name sounded familiar. Hadn’t I seen it on a couple of buildings? Then I remembered that Reagan had gone to school with Joanna, whose family name I had definitely seen around town.
I shook the hand he offered, barely restraining from giving him that extra tight squeeze that guys sometimes gave each other as a warning. Because what was I warning him of? I had no claim over anything. Or anyone.
“And this is Josh Lawson,” Reagan said, not bothering to explain who I was to her.
Not that I blamed her. Because who the hell knew what I was. Her friend’s brother? Some guy she had been asked to babysit? The asshole who had hurt her feelings?
“Nice to meet you.” Lincoln put a hand on Reagan’s shoulder as if he was protecting her. Or comforting her. It annoyed me.
I tightened my jaw and then told myself to stop being a jackass.
“Likewise,” I said.
There was that awkward silence again. I had come here to apologize but I couldn’t very well do that in front of this guy. I wanted to know what Lincoln was doing there, but I had absolutely no right to ask. And it was clear from the look on Reagan’s face that she had the same question about my appearance at the theatre.
Her eyes met mine and suddenly the room felt hot and tense. Like it had before when I had caught her looking at me like I was a steak and she was starving. The kind of look that made a man’s chest swell with masculine pride—and other parts of him swell with other feelings. I was definitely feeling all of those things.
“Are you still interested in grabbing a drink?” Lincoln asked her, his hand still on her shoulder.
Reagan jumped, as if startled, as if she had forgotten he was there. Because I certainly had. She looked over at Lincoln, blinking slowly.
“Maybe another time?” he asked, his voice gentle. Friendly.
Some jealousy left me when Reagan smiled up at him. Because while that smile was kind and bright, it didn’t contain anything more than friendship. I saw none of the heat, none of the attraction that had sparked in her eyes when she looked at me.
“Another time would be lovely,” she said, turning and giving him a hug. “It was so good seeing you,” she told him.
“And you,” he said, giving me a warning look over her shoulder before releasing her. But it wasn’t a jealous lover look—it was a “don’t fuck with my friend” look. I could appreciate that.
“We’ll talk soon,” said Reagan, patting his arm.
Lincoln nodded, first at her and then at me before taking off. I waited until the glass door had swung shut before turning to Reagan. But when I did, I realized that I still had no idea what to say to her. Luckily, she spoke first.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said.
“Yeah,” I ran my hand over my mouth, realizing that I hadn’t shaved. Great. Wrinkled, hung over and unshaven. “So, you and Lincoln went to high school together?”
Reagan nodded. “Boarding school—” she started and then quickly stopped.
“Good scholarships?” I asked, thinking that it was the only way someone like Reagan would have been able to go to the kind of schools that Hawthornes and Millets went to.
“Sometime like that.” Reagan looked uncomfortable.
No wonder. Who the hell wanted to talk about money? Especially if you didn’t have it. I needed to change the subject.
“I, uh—” I said just as Reagan spoke.
“I wanted to say—”
“I’m sorry,” we said at the same time.
We both looked at each other.
“Oh,” she said. “That’s what I was going to say.”
“You?” I stared, confused. “What do you have to apologize about? I was the one who was a rude asshole.”
“You were upset.” Her eyes were wide. “You had every right to react the way you did. It wasn’t my place to say anything.”
“But you were right,” I told her. “About the apartment. About everything.”
Reagan didn’t say anything for a moment.
“I guess you’re the one who owes me a pizza then,” she said, peering up at me through her thick glasses. Some of her hair had come loose from her braid and was brushing against her cheek. “Extra large with lots of weird stuff on it.”
I let out a laugh, surprising myself.
“If that’s what you want.”
What I wanted was to reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear.
“Are there any furniture stores near your favorite pizza place?”
Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. She looked adorable.
“Furniture stores?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I rocked back on my heels. “I heard the whole serial killer vibe is so last season.”
Her eyes brightened. “Yeah?”
“Not the message I want to send to any eligible young ladies who might come to visit,” I said, barely holding back a wink. I didn’t want to come on too strong. Not with Reagan.
But her smile dropped a little. It took a moment for me to realize that instead of coming on strong, I had apparently come off as uninterested. But before I could clarify that by “eligible young ladies” I had actually meant her, she was already stepping back.
“Let me get my bag, ok?” And without waiting for a response, she quickly hurried off to the office, leaving me alone in the lobby.
REAGAN
There wasn’t much I loved more than a slice of good New York pizza. Of course, the true New Yorkers would say that all New York pizza is good pizza—especially in comparison to the rest of the world—but I was partial to a small pizza joint a few blocks from my place in Greenwich village. And since it was a beautiful Spring day, I had suggested we walk there. It was only about two miles, and we were able to take our time, just talking and enjoying the city.
I sat at one of the high top tables waiting for Josh to finish ordering, telling myself over and over again that this was not a date. That Josh was doing this because he felt bad. This and the furniture shopping. It was all part of his apology. That’s it. Nothing more.
But it was really hard to keep that in mind when Josh came back to the table, a beer in each hand, and no frown in sight. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look downright miserable either. In fact, he looked downright gorgeous. A little bit rough and tumble, with the wrinkled shirt and the shadow of stubble on his jaw. It made a girl want to mess him up even more.
It made me feel a little guilty that I hadn’t told him about my parents back at the theatre. That I hadn’t told him about my background. It would have been the perfect time to mention it, but even so, I couldn’t find the words. I hated bringing up my past. As far as I was concerned—as far as my parents were concerned—Caroline Richmond was gone. And it was best for everyone if she stayed gone. Buried and forgotten.
“I have high expectations for this pizza,” Josh said, sliding the beer across the table towards me.
“It will live up to them,” I told him. “I promise.”
“And if it doesn’t?” he asked. “Do I get some sort of compensation for my suffering?”
His voice was all low and growly. Sexy. His eyes too. I wrapped my hands around the frosty glass and took a long gulp. Unfortunately, that swallow of beer went down the wrong pipe and I choked. Barely managing to keep from spraying beer across the table, I put my hand over my mouth, coughing until I was sure my face was bright red.
“Need a straw?” Josh asked, handing me one.
I coughed again and snatched it out of his hand. He smiled at me. Not a big, bright smile, but a slow, lazy one. Full of promise. Naked kinds of promises.
I reminded myself that I had misread situations like this before. Where I had been so, so sure that a guy was into me and it turned out that he was actually interested in my last name and my family’s money.
But Josh didn’t know any of that. Not that it would probably matter to him. It was clear he was doing pretty well financially. And besides, he didn’t seem like the type that was interested in the social climbing that my previous dates had been so eager to attempt.
So, maybe he was flirting with me. Actually flirting. Not European flirting.
My palms got a little sweaty and my heart seemed to be doing double time in my chest. The thought that a guy like Josh—sexy and muscular and athletic—was seriously flirting with me, was both thrilling and terrifying.
Because I was me. And he was . . . him.
I took another sip of my beer, making sure this time to swallow slowly. Our pizza arrived at that moment and I was grateful for the distraction, for the excuse to put something in my mouth that wasn’t my foot. Because even if Josh was interested in me, there were a billion ways I could screw it up before our meal had even ended.