“Jack,” I begin, gathering up my courage, “There’s, uh, something I wanted to talk—”
But before I can go on, the car comes to a smooth stop in front of The Rouge. The spell of the moment is broken once again as our driver comes around to open the car door. So much for having that capital “T” talk with Jackson about where we stand. It’ll just have to wait until later tonight, I guess. Just thinking about having Jack to myself for an entire evening is enough to put me in a good mood.
“Never mind,” I say lightly, moving to untangle my hand from his as I climb out of the car. “I’ll tell you later.”
But Jack doesn’t let go of my hand. I look back at him in surprise as he holds me anchored in place with one foot out the door.
“Good,” he looks up at me from the backseat, “Because I intend to pick up right where we’ve left off tonight.”
“Oh. OK. Sounds good,” I stammer, mesmerized by his intense gaze, “But aren’t you coming inside?”
“I have to take care of a few things first,” he replies vaguely, “But you go and get ready. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
He draws my hand to his lips and plants a searing kiss there. I stand there speechless as his eyes linger on mine. Gently, he releases my fingers and slides back into the car, signaling for the driver to take off. I stand staring after him from the curb, the place where his lips touched my skin tingling hotly.
Of all the many, many kisses we’ve shared since I joined this movie, this one has me the most worked up. Because that quick, innocent peck wasn’t part of a script. That was real. What else might we be sharing for real later tonight?
I race upstairs to start getting ready. I might not know what tonight has in store for me and Jack, but I know I want to look damn good for whatever lies ahead.
Chapter Thirteen
Three hours later, I must have tried on every single outfit in my outrageous walk-in closet. I stand before the vanity mirror, scrutinizing my appearance. Dressing for a mystery date is no easy task. Without any idea as to where Jack might be taking me tonight, I’m trying to nail the perfect, sexy, all-purpose outfit. Something that toes the line between casual and formal, hip and classy. And I think I’ve finally nailed it.
My blonde locks are piled into a loose up-do, my face done up with classic cat’s eye makeup and a nude lip. I’m rocking a tight red crop top and a high-waisted black leather skirt that fans out from my body. A pair of vintage black peep-toe pumps finish off the look, though I’ve got a pair of flats stashing in my studded clutch just in case. All told, I’m pretty content with my ensemble. I’d better be, too, because Jack will be over any minute to pick me up.
Since that intense moment in the car a few hours ago, my mind has been reeling with the possibilities tonight might hold in store. Despite the fact that we’ve known each other for our entire lives and have enough charged sexual tension between us to power New York City for a year, we’ve never been on a proper date. The timing has never once been right between us. But now, at last, maybe that could change. Maybe it’s finally time for us.
Unbidden, a memory of Avery comes sweeping into my mind’s eye. The two of us are sitting in the car we shared in high school, the afternoon she found out she’d be playing Juliet to Jack’s Romeo.
“You should tell him how you feel,” she told me that day, gazing out the window as we soared through our hometown.
“I could never do that,” I replied. “He’d never be interested in me that way.”
“Huh,” She said, “That’s weird. I never realized before that you’re totally, completely blind. You think I would have noticed a thing like that.”
“It’s not gonna happen. End of story,” I insisted.
“We’ll see,” She smiled in reply. “We’ll see.”
“I guess we will see, after all,” I whisper to my reflection, so close to Avery’s these days.
A hard knot rises in my throat as I think of how excited my sister would have been, knowing that Jack and I might finally be making a go of it. She only ever wanted us to be happy, and somehow she was convinced that what we needed to be happy was each other. Maybe she could see something back then that we couldn’t. I wish I could ask for her guidance now. I’ll just have to rest easy knowing that she’s cheering us on from afar. From wherever she is now.
“Wish me luck, Ave,” I sigh, blinking away my tears before they can run over and ruin my careful makeup. “I might need it.”
And right on cue, there it is—a knock at the door.
The swarm of butterflies raging through my belly propels me across the main room of the suite. I feel like I’m in high school again. I haven’t been this excited for a maybe-date since...ever. Smoothing down my hair, I swing open the door, babbling away at Jack.
“Hey! Hi. So, I wasn’t sure what the dress code was, and—Oh...” I trail off as I realize that it isn’t Jack who’s come to my door at all. Instead, I find Lionel—our impassive, gray-haired driver—staring back at me. “Sorry,” I blunder on, “I was expecting. Um. Someone else.”
“My apologies, Miss Benson,” he says evenly, “For what it’s worth, I think the way you’re dressed it quite fetching.”
“Um, thanks Lionel,” I smile, eyeing the note he’s holding in his hand. “Is that for me?”
“Indeed it is,” he says, passing me the card. I flip open the message and read, intrigued.
Let Lionel give you a lift. I’m waiting with a surprise for you. — J
I grin down at the note, my confusion giving way to excitement. A surprise is the best kind of romantic gesture in my book. The fact that Jack’s gone through the trouble of orchestrating something for our night on the town must mean this is more than a casual outing. Right? I’m becoming more and more certain that this is our first official date.
“Lead the way, Lionel!” I say happily, shrugging into a warm shearling bomber jacket.
“Of course, right this way,” the driver nods.
I practically skip along behind him as we head downstairs and out onto the street. Slipping on my gigantic sunglasses, I step out into the fading sunlight, expecting to find the usual town car waiting for me. But the only ride I see is a spotless black limousine—not an uncommon sight outside of The Rogue. I assume that Lionel is parked around the corner...until he goes to the limo and opens the door for me.
“Wait. What?” I stammer, staring at the limo with my jaw hanging open.
“Complements of Mr. Cole,” Lionel replies.
“Man. Most guys usually just pick up flowers or something,” I mutter, stepping up to the limo and sliding inside. “But hey, I’ll take it.”
The spacious ride is empty, save for me. But even so, I spot a whole bottle of champagne and a single flute sitting on the built-in bar. Scooting over to the chilled bottle of bubbly, I find another note waiting for me in Jackson’s signature hand.
Imagine what your post-collegiate, broke-ass self would have thought if she could see you now. Cheers!
I laugh out loud at this, and help myself to a glass of champagne. Settling back against the sleek leather seat, I allow myself a moment of proud reflection. Just five years ago, I was hustling around these streets, trying to get even a scrap of barely-paid acting work. Now, I’m the leading lady of a major motion picture. Not such a shabby turn-around, if I do say so myself. Even if my ascent has been a little—OK, very—unconventional.
Champagne in hand, I gaze out the tinted windows of the limousine. Curious eyes follow the car as it glides through city traffic. It’s still so strange, being someone who people pay attention to all of a sudden. All my life, I’ve been more or less invisible—the unremarkable artsy girl, the less popular twin, the black sheep of the family. And something tells me that the whirlwind of attention is just beginning. But you know what? It doesn’t scare me. After nearly a decade on my own, I know I’m strong enough to handle whatever stardom has in store for me.
Though I admit, it will be a hell of a lot more fun with
Jack by my side.
“Here we are,” Lionel says from the driver’s seat.
I peer out into the gathering New York City night. We’ve left the fashionable SoHo streets behind for the grittier landscape of Alphabet City. What could Jack possibly have in store for us over here? I would have thought that his movie star lifestyle was more about hip, fancy restaurants than rowdy, grungy watering holes. But then again, he did say that tonight would be a surprise, so he’s on-point so far.
The limo door swings open, and I pull my bomber jacket around me as I step out onto the curb. I peer around at my surroundings, trying to get my bearings. As I glance up at the building just behind me, a crashing wave of deja vu sweeps through me. I know exactly where I am. The question is...what am I doing here of all places?
“Mr. Cole said that you’d recognize this place,” Lionel says, nodding up at the crumbling little building before us. “Is that the case?”
“Of course I recognize it,” I breathe, stunned by the sight of this old, familiar haunt. “I practically lived here when I first came to New York.”
The place in question is a tiny, ancient theater, tucked away on a side street off Avenue D. It was falling apart when I first showed up here to audition five years ago. It’s called The Ingenue, and it’s where I had my one and only leading role as an actress in New York City before I decided to go off on a different path.
I was twenty-two when I performed here in a less-than-stellar production of Hamlet that hardly anyone saw. But I didn’t care. I was living out my dream, playing the tragic character of Ophelia in a real live theater. The few months I spent working on that show were some of the best of my life. The question is, how does Jack even know about that? Why did he think to bring me here? Did he quiz one of my former roommates about my old hangouts or something?
I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.
“He’s just inside,” Lionel tells me, “You go ahead in. I’ll be waiting here when you’re...finished.”
“OK. Thanks,” I say faintly, and walk up the few uneven steps to the door of the theater. Sure enough, another note is taped to the door.
Come on in. I’ll be the one at center stage. — J
I feel unaccountably nervous as I push open the heavy door, its red paint chipping even further as I step through. Is it residual stage fright that’s got my heart pounding a mile a minute, or the prospect of being alone—really alone—with Jack? Maybe a little of both.
The cramped lobby looks exactly the same as it once did, if a bit shabbier. I pad across the springy, dirty carpet and push aside the curtain that leads to the theater proper. My eyes struggle to adjust to the near-darkness, and I feel my stomach fall. I don’t see a soul. Maybe this has just been a prank or something. I’m just about the retreat from the minuscule, 50-seat house when a blaze of light erupts onstage with a satisfying electrical hum. Blinking up into the brightness, I feel my hand fly to my mouth in delighted amazement.
There’s a rickety prop table set at center stage, laden with a bounty of delicious-looking Italian food—heaping plates of pasta, crusty bread and butter, colorful salads, and a few bottles of wine to boot. And standing beside this unlikely spread is none other than Jackson Cole, wearing a perfectly cut navy suit that puts this space to absolute shame, and of course, his gorgeous lopsided smile. I stare at him, unmoving, as he spreads his arms wide.
“So? You surprised?” he asks, his grin growing even wider.
“Just a little,” I laugh, finally managing to make my feet move beneath me.
I walk down the center aisle toward him, feeling like a bride approaching her groom at some bizarro wedding ceremony. Jack offers me a hand and helps me up onto the stage I know so well. I look out across the empty audience, then back at the incredible meal laid out onstage, then finally up at Jack, standing right before me looking as gorgeous as ever.
“Wow,” I whisper. It’s all I can think to say. “Jack, this is—”
“Amazing? Inspired? Fucking awesome?” he offers, helping me out of my coat.
“All of the above,” I laugh, my skin prickling deliciously as Jack’s eyes skirt along my bare midriff.
“I’m sure you have questions about my location of choice,” he begins, draping my coat over one of the chairs at the table.
“Tons,” I confirm.
“Well, save ‘em, would you?” he replies, pulling out my chair, “And help me get started on this wine.”
“No problem,” I laugh, feeling like a princess being rescued from her crumbling castle as Jack helps push in my chair. “Though I did get a head start with that champagne. Thanks for that, by the way. And for the limo. And—”
“It’s no trouble,” he cuts in, popping the cork of a crisp white wine. “I want tonight to be one that you’ll remember.”
“Oh, I’m sure it will be,” I reply, a throb of desire resounding in my core.
“Just wait,” he tells me, eyes gleaming, “We haven’t even gotten started yet.”
That throb blossoms into a warm, delicious longing. As good as all this food looks, there’s a very different kind of hunger I’m hoping Jack satisfies for me tonight. After years of unrequited wanting, will this finally be the night I get to have Jack the way I’ve always wanted him? The way he’s looking at me across the table, I can’t help myself from hoping.
“There we go,” Jack says, handing me a glass and raising his own, “We should toast to something, don’t you think?”
“How about...to a bat shit crazy couple of weeks and a job well done?” I suggest.
“Actually,” he says, how voice rich with promise, “I’d prefer to drink to us, Callie.”
“Us?” I echo softly.
“That’s right,” he smiles, “Kicking ass, taking names, and finally having a proper night on the town, just the two of us.”
“I’ll definitely drink to that,” I reply, clinking my glass to his and taking a sip of wine.
“My high school self would be losing his shit if he could see us now,” Jack goes on, shaking his head, “After all this time, I finally got Callie Benson to go on a date with me.”
“Yeah fucking right,” I laugh, sipping my wine, “You had your pick of the litter all through high school, Jack. I don’t remember getting a second glance from you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jack asks, actually surprised. “I was head over heels for with you when we were kids. You must have known that.”
“I certainly did not,” I tell him. “I mean...I hoped that you—That we—But I never—”
“Christ, you blush easy,” he teases, reaching across the table to take my hand. “I can’t believe you didn’t realize back then how crazy I was for you.”
“Well, I mean...You spent most of your time with Avery,” I say slowly, hesitating to even bring it up. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you were there for her. But I guess I just figured...”
“Callie,” Jack says, his perfect brow furrowing ever-so-slightly, “You do know that Avery and I were just friends? I’ve told you that a million times.”
“Just friends who spent every waking minute together, moved across the country together, got engaged...” I point out, taking another long sip.
“Fair enough,” Jack chuckles softly, “I definitely went out of my way to protect her. And of course, I did that because I cared about her. Deeply. She was my best friend. But Cal...You have to know I was doing it for you, too.”
My heads spins dizzily as I take in what Jack is saying. “You were watching out for Avery...because you knew how much she meant to me?” I ask.
“That’s right,” Jack says seriously.
“I...I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
“Don’t say anything,” he replies, rubbing his thumb against my hand, “We’ve got about three tons of food to eat between us. Your mouth has better things to do.”
“That’s good,” I laugh, relieved for a moment of levity amid all that seriousness. “Because I am freakin�
�� famished.”
We tuck into the feast laid out before us. With our crazy shooting schedule, I’ve barely had to chance to consume anything but coffee and the occasional crumb all week. I savor the rich, carby goodness of the pesto pasta, the warm flaky bread, the crisp vegetables, and glass after glass of delicious wine.
I’m amazed at how easily conversation goes on between Jack and I, despite tonight’s heightened atmosphere. Even on an evening that feels like a seriously important step in our relationship, Jack still makes me laugh, roll my eyes, and adore him more by the second. I’m so distracted by what a good time I’m having that I completely forget to address the biggest mystery of the night—namely, how the hell Jack knew to bring me here, to The Ingenue.
Until, that is, he enlightens me himself.
“Before we both lapse into a food coma,” Jack says as we finish our incredible meal, “I want to give you something.”
“Another something?” I laugh, swallowing a big old bite of cake. “What are you trying to do, buy me off?”
“I have a feeling you’ll like this even better than limos and champagne,” he replies, striding off into the wings of the small theater to retrieve his gift. I haven’t the slightest idea what it could be—or what could ever make this evening lovelier than it already is.
But then, he reappears, and I see that he’s holding a huge bouquet of flowers in his arms. And not the typical roses, either. No, this bouquet is far more eclectic: pansies, columbine, rue, and even a sprig of rosemary. This is no random assortment of flowers. These are the flowers that I carried across this very stage in my final monologue as Ophelia in Hamlet. The exact same flowers, straight from Shakespeare’s text:
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts...There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me...
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