Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(2)
Author: Leisa Rayven

“Excuse me, Miss Taylor?”

I look up to see a cute African American boy holding out what smells suspiciously like my favorite green bean macchiato.

“Wow, you look stressed,” he says, with just the right amount of concern to prevent me from ripping off his ears with my teeth. “I’m Cody. The production intern. Coffee?”

“Hey, Cody,” I say while eyeing the cardboard cup. “Whatcha got there, sport?”

“A double-shot green bean macchiato with mocha and extra cream.”

I nod, impressed. “That’s what I figured. It’s my favorite.”

“I know. I made sure to familiarize myself with the likes and dislikes of yourself and Mr. Holt, so I could anticipate your needs and facilitate an enjoyable rehearsal environment.”

An enjoyable rehearsal environment? With me and Holt? Oh, you poor, deluded child.

I take the coffee from him and sniff it while I continue digging in the Tardis of Crap. “Is that a fact?”

Where the fuck is my lighter?

“Yes, ma’am.” He pulls a lighter out of his pocket and hands it to me with a crazy-cute smile.

I sigh and drop my head back.

Sweet Jesus, the boy has been sent from God Himself.

I take the lighter and resist the urge to hug him. Tristan says I can be a little too touchy-feely. Actually, his term is touchy-fucky but I modify it to make myself feel better.

I smile at the kid instead. “Cody, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, because I know we’ve only just met, but … I think I love you.”

He chuckles and lowers his head. “If you want to duck outside, I’ll come get you when they’re ready to start.”

If he didn’t look like he was sixteen, I’d probably kiss him. With tongue.

“You’re a rock star, Cody.”

I see a dark shape in my peripheral vision, slouching in a chair on the opposite side of the room, so I draw my shoulders back and strut like I don’t give a crap.

The heat of his gaze follows me until I hit the stairwell, then I just go numb.

I tell myself I don’t miss the burn.

The stairs are steep and dark and lead to an alley behind the theater. Before the door even closes behind me, I have a lit cigarette in my mouth. As I lean against the cool bricks, I inhale and look up at the thin finger of sky visible between the buildings. The nicotine does little to calm my nerves. Pretty sure nothing short of hospital-grade sedatives are going to help today.

I finish my cigarette and head back to the stage door, but before I can grab the handle, it opens, and the trigger for all my anger issues steps out. His dark jeans hug him in ways I really shouldn’t be noticing.

His eyes are the same as I remember. Pale blue, mesmerizing. Dark, thick lashes. Intensity to burn.

Everything else, however …

Oh, Lord, I’d forgotten. I’d made myself forget.

Even now, he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. No, that’s not right. Handsome doesn’t do him justice. Soap actors are handsome, but in a completely predictable, bland way. Holt is … captivating. Like a rare, exotic panther; equal parts beauty and power. Enigmatic without even trying.

I hate how good he looks.

Strong, furrowed brows. Sharp jaw. Lips that are full enough to be pretty, but in the context of his other features seem powerfully masculine.

His dark hair is shorter than it was when I last saw him, and it makes him seem more mature. And taller, if that’s possible.

He’s always towered over me. Six foot three to my five foot five. And going by the width of his shoulders, he’s been working out since college. Not a huge amount but enough for me to see clear muscle definition beneath his dark T-shirt.

Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I want to slap myself for the reaction.

Trust him to show up looking more attractive than ever. Douche.

“Hi,” he says, like I haven’t spent the last three years dreaming of punching him in his gorgeous bastard face.

“Hello, Ethan.”

He stares at me, and as usual, I feel the vibration of him in the marrow of my bones.

“You look good, Cassie.”

“You, too.”

“Your hair is shorter.”

“Yours, too.”

He takes a step forward, and I hate the way he looks at me. Appraising and approving. Hungry. It draws me in against my will, like he’s flypaper, and everything inside me is buzzing and trying to wrench itself free.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” I’m trying to sound bored out of my mind. I don’t want him to know what he’s doing to me. He doesn’t deserve this reaction. More importantly, neither do I.

“How’ve you been?” he asks.

“I’ve been fine.” Automatic response. It means nothing. I’ve been anything but fine.

His gaze stays on me, and I really want to be somewhere else, because right now he looks like he used to, and it hurts to remember.

“And you?” I ask with white-knuckle politeness. “How have you been?”

“I’m … okay.”

There’s something in his tone. Something buried. He’s left just enough of it poking through to make me curious, but I don’t want to dig to find out more, because I know that’s what he wants.

“Wow, that’s awesome, Ethan, “I say with just the right amount of perky to piss him off. “Good to hear.”

He looks at the ground and runs his hand through his hair. His posture tenses into the familiar form of the jackass I know so well.

“Well, there it is,” he says. “Three years, and that’s all you have to say to me. Of course.”

My stomach rolls.

No, asshole, that’s not all I have to say, but what’s the point? It’s all been said before, and talking in circles isn’t my idea of a good time.

“Yep, that’s it,” I say cheerily, and push past him. I fling the door open and clomp down the stairs, ignoring the tingle on my skin where we touched.

There’s a muffled “Fuck” before I hear him hurrying after me. I try to outrun him, but he grabs my arm before we reach the bottom.

“Cassie, wait.”

He turns me to face him, and I expect him to press against me. To ruin me with his skin and smell like he has so many times before. But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, and all the air in the narrow, dark stairwell is as thick as cotton. I feel claustrophobic, but I won’t let him see.

No weakness.