Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(29)
Author: Leisa Rayven

Holt exhales. “Jesus, Erika. No pressure or anything.”

Erika gives him a sympathetic smile. “The good news is, I know you’re both more than capable of making these characters come to life.” Holt rolls his eyes. “But you’re going to have to trust me and each other, and give yourself over completely to the experience. Do you understand?”

We both nod. Holt looks like a spooked horse, shifting his weight and ready to bolt.

“This is the party scene where you first lay eyes on each other, and as corny as it sounds, you have to convince us that it’s love at first sight.”

“Holt doesn’t believe in love at first sight,” I say.

“He doesn’t have to believe it,” Erika says, smiling. “He just has to make the audience believe it. Right, Mr. Holt?”

He looks at the floor. “Whatever you say.”

She laughs and positions us on opposite sides of the stage.

“Okay, so you have to imagine the space is filled with partygoers. Romeo, you’re bored out of your mind. Your friends have promised to make you forget all about Rosaline by introducing you to other beautiful women, but you couldn’t be less interested. As far as you’re concerned, Rosaline has ruined you for any other woman, and you’re just counting the minutes until you can leave.

“Juliet, you’re desperately trying to avoid your mother and Paris. When you see Romeo for the first time, it’s like something awakens inside you. Everything and everyone fades to black and all you can see is him. You’re scared by your extreme attraction.”

I nod as nervousness bubbles inside me. I look at Holt. He’s pale as a sheet.

“Do either of you have any questions?”

Holt swallows and shakes his head. I do the same.

“All right, then. Let’s go from when you see each other across the room. I want to see the passion. The sense of destiny. Let’s have a go and see what happens.”

She goes and sits in the front row of the auditorium with her script and notebook. Holt and I are alone onstage. He looks as nervous as I feel.

“Okay, when you’re ready,” Erika calls.

I take a deep breath, then push it out slowly. I look over at Holt. His eyes are closed, and he’s frowning in concentration, like he’s psyching himself up to jump out of a plane or walk over hot coals. He takes several deep breaths and shakes his hands. I can see his lips moving but can’t hear what he’s saying.

At last, he opens his eyes and looks over in my direction, starting at my feet. He seems satisfied with them before he moves to my knees. I wore a skirt today. Denim. Kinda short. His gaze moves higher, up my thighs before continuing over my stomach, my breasts, then onto my neck and finally, my face.

He looks at my mouth for a few seconds then … oh, God … he looks into my eyes. I gasp as I feel our energies connect. It’s like I’m falling into him and absorbing him at the same time.

I can see him trying not to be scared, but he is. For a moment, I think he’s going to run. His body goes rigid while a flash of panic lights his eyes. Then he exhales, and I see Romeo emerge, intense and desperate. He’s channeling his emotions into the character. Using the fear. Transforming it.

I look at him through Juliet’s eyes, and he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

Yesterday afternoon we were screaming at each other. But now …

Now, he’s everything.

We move toward each other. My skin is alive with fluttering excitement. My body, filled with expectation. His eyes burn into mine, deep and intense. When he stops in front of me, I can barely breathe.

He’s looking at me like I’m beautiful. Like I’m some miracle of nature that was made just for him.

I need to touch him, to feel that he’s real and here and wants me, but I know Juliet wouldn’t. So I stand there and drink him in. His strong jaw and high cheekbones. His beautiful eyes and riotous hair.

All his parts have their own unique beauty, but when they’re added together, he’s magnificent beyond my ability to describe.

The fear is still in his eyes, lurking, but he pushes through it. His hand comes up to my face. He touches me gently, but my reaction is intense. His eyelids flutter as he strokes my cheek. There’s heat under my skin, and it builds with every soft pass of his fingers. His fear peeks out a little more, flickering behind his resolve.

His attention is fixed on my mouth, and he clears his throat before he murmurs, “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch … with a tender kiss.”

The words are formal and archaic, yet the way my body reacts to them is timeless.

His fingers are still on my cheek as he leans down, slowly. All I can see are his lips, parted and soft. I know that Juliet would pull away, but I don’t want to.

I remember my purpose and remove his hand from my face. I hold it and softly stroke his fingers.

“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch. And palm to palm … is holy palmers’ kiss.”

I press our hands together, and my voice is airy. My rhythm’s off. I can’t think straight. He’s so close I can smell him—soap, and cologne. The sweet scent of chocolate on his breath.

I can feel him in every part of me, and my hands tremble.

He brings his other hand up to cover mine, then caresses it. The soft hush of skin moving against skin is the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced. The intense current that passes between our hands shimmers in my blood.

It must affect him as well, because his voice becomes low and quiet. “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers, too?”

I can feel the vibration of his voice against my face.

“Ay, pilgrim,” I answer, as he caresses and weaves his fingers between mine, stroking the soft skin there and making me shudder. “Lips that they must use in prayer.”

“O, then, dear saint,” he says, focusing on my mouth again, “let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

The intensity of his energy is filling me up. I barely have enough air to speak.

“Saints do not move,” I whisper, “though grant for prayers’ sake.”

“Then move not,” he murmurs as he moves closer, “while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.”