Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(48)
Author: Leisa Rayven

After a while, the yoga morphs into tai chi. I close my eyes to concentrate on my breathing. In. Out. Move slowly. Synchronize air and movement. Exhale the fear. Breathe in confidence.

I concentrate on images that bring me pleasure. Inevitably, my thoughts turn to Holt. The strong line of his jaw peppered with stubble, masculine and sexy. His lips, unbearably silky and soft. His eyes. Fiery. Nervous. Scared and terrifying at the same time.

My whole body heats up as I think of him.

Staying away from him this week has been torture. I try not to look at him too long, even during scenes, or else the ache gets to be too much. I focus on the wall behind him, or a piece of set, or the top of his hair. Anywhere but in those deadly eyes that make me want to do bad, bad things to him for hours on end.

As I push out a final exhale, I feel calm. Focused and ready.

When I open my eyes, I almost pee my pants because Holt’s face is mere inches away.

“Jebus freaking shit!” I scream as I flail like a sky-diving octopus.

Holt jumps several feet backward and holds his hand over his chest. “Fuck, Taylor! You scared the crap out of me! Jesus Christ!”

“I scared you?!” I walk over and shove him hard in the chest. “You nearly made me urinate!”

That makes him crack up.

“It’s not funny!” I say as I slap at his chest.

“Yeah, it is,” he says, and backs away as I continue to hit him.

“What sort of freak are you to just sneak up on someone like that?!”

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he says while trying to grab my slappy hands. “Fuck, stop hitting me.”

He pulls my hands against his chest, but I’m having enough trouble coping with my pounding heart to acknowledge the warm hardness of his pecs under my fingers.

I yank myself free before striding over to the bedroom set and flopping onto the bed.

“What the hell are you doing here? I thought I was alone.”

He stands in front of me, his laughter dying as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I thought the same thing. I like to be in the theater for a few hours before opening night. Helps my nerves.”

I run my hand through my hair. “Yeah? How do you feel now, Señor Scare Tactics? Calm?”

“As hilarious as it was, it wasn’t my intention to scare you. I just wanted to … watch.”

As my shock dissipates, I take a moment to register what he’s wearing.

White wife beater, long navy running shorts, and silver/black Nikes.

What the hell?

He’s not allowed to wear that.

I mean … That’s just … He’s …

Dear God, look at him!

Broad shoulders. Beautiful arms. Wide chest. Narrow waist. Muscular calves.

Unfair! Obscenely sexy. Not allowed!

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, and shifts his weight.

“Like what?” I manage to ask through my haze of lust.

“Like you want to spank me.”

My tongue tries to choke me at this point. I cough and sputter. “Why are you wearing that?”

He glances down at himself and shrugs. “I jogged here. Thought it might help clear my head.”

My brain seizes on an image of him jogging—arms pumping, face flushed, long legs striding, hair blowing in the breeze.

“You … jogged?”

“Yeah.”

“In that?”

He looks at himself again and frowns. “Yes. What’s your issue? It’s just a tank and a pair of shorts.”

“Just a … You think that is … just a … No! Bad Holt!” My brain has stalled.

He looks at me like I’m a crazy person, yet I can’t stop staring.

What genius decided to call that particular piece of clothing a “wife beater?” It’s not a wife beater. It’s a vagina arouser. A drool inducer. A panty destroyer.

Fricking hell.

“Taylor?”

He takes a few steps toward me, and all the lust I’ve been suppressing floods my body. I jump off the bed and step back.

I will not lose this damn bet, just because he decided to dress like a hot-bodied edible man treat. I will freaking not.

I need to get very far away until the urge to push him down onto the stage and grope him disappears.

“I have to go … do stuff,” I say as I stumble offstage.

“Taylor?” he calls after me, but I don’t stop. I can’t look at those shoulders again. The biceps. The forearms.

Fricking frick!

I run up to my dressing room and slam the door before spending the next two hours doing breathing exercises. The whole time I tell myself that begging Holt for sex on our opening night is a really bad idea.

At five thirty I start getting ready. I want to get it done quickly, so I can put all my opening night cards and gifts in people’s dressing rooms before they arrive.

Good luck cards are traditional to give cast and crew on opening night. I’m also giving them little heart-shaped chocolates to represent the love at the heart of our show.

Yeah, it’s lame, but I’m poor, and the chocolates were cheap.

I finish my makeup, brush out my hair, secure my lucky silk robe, and grab the bag that contains all my goodies. I move through the dressing rooms quickly, all the while pondering that I haven’t finished writing on Holt’s card yet. All I have so far is ‘Dear Ethan.’ After that, I’m at a loss for what to say.

“Good luck on opening night,” seems lame and impersonal, and “Please have sex with me” just seems wrong. I need to aim somewhere in between, but that’s easier said than done.

I’ve delivered most of the cards when I pass his dressing room. I poke my head inside. The room’s empty.

Working quickly, I sneak in and put Connor’s and Jack’s cards in their spots, telling myself I’ll finish Holt’s and give it to him later.

As I turn to leave, he appears in the doorway, his face in shadow from the dark hall.

“What, no card for me?” he asks, and something about his voice is wrong.

“Uh … there will be. I just haven’t finished writing your message yet.”

I go toward the door, but he steps inside, cutting me off. He’s still wearing the panty destroyer. His shoulders look amazing. I want to bite them.

“You’ve written messages to everyone else, Taylor, why not me? Am I not good enough for a card from you?”

His face is dark and a little sweaty.

“Holt? Are you okay?”

“Nice robe,” he says as he stares at my breasts. He touches the tie around my waist. “Wearing anything underneath?”