Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(64)
Author: Leisa Rayven

I swallow a lump in my throat as pride for Holt wells up inside me. I turn to look at him, bright eyed and emotional. I want to hug him and whisper how proud I am, but that will have to wait until later.

I look back at Jack who’s now staring at me. “Cassandra Taylor as Juliet is equally as compelling and truly epitomizes a heroine of the twenty-first century. Beautiful and bold, her Juliet is no shrinking flower. She’s a headstrong, passionate woman whose strength of purpose will make the audience fall in love with her every bit as much as her doomed Romeo. Miss Taylor displays a stunning emotional range in her finely tuned performance and has what can only be described as ‘star quality.’”

I try to swallow, but I’m too choked up. I clench my jaw to stop myself from crying, and when I feel Holt’s fingers gently brush mine, I’m grateful he’s there.

“But,” Jack says, coming into the home-stretch, “as exceptional as these two young performers are in their own right, it’s their astounding combined chemistry that really makes this production soar. For in our modern, cynical world, filled with a staggering divorce rate and disposable ideals, it’s not easy to convince an audience to believe in the power of true love. Well, I’m here to tell you these two pulled it off beautifully, and I defy anyone who witnesses their onstage love affair to leave untouched by their extraordinary passion. It certainly made this somewhat-jaded reviewer wish there was more true love in the world.”

The entire crowd “awwws” in unison, and when I look at Holt, I swear he’s blushing just as furiously as I am. The room explodes with chatter as everyone discusses the review and what it all means, but I’m too stunned to even make conversation..

Jack pulls out his phone, and orders Ethan and me to pose for a photo. Without even thinking about it, we put our arms around each and beam for the camera.

After the flash pops, Jack shows us the picture.

It’s beautiful.

Our smiles are so dazzling, it makes me believe that no two people in the history of the world have ever looked happier than us in that moment.

We’re stars.

FOURTEEN

PUSH AND PULL

Present Day
New York City

Marco’s apartment is a bit like him—large and flamboyant. It’s filled with plush velvet and opulent antiques, making it feel like it’s inhabited by an eccentric Prussian czar instead of a theater director.

We’re celebrating the end of our third week of rehearsal, and Marco has invited the entire company to a cocktail party. It’s the first time in over a week that I’ve seen Holt outside of rehearsal. He often asks if I’d like to get a drink after work, but I’ve always declined. While I’m more and more drawn to him, the idea of spending time alone with him makes me sweat. I only agreed to come tonight because I knew we’d be surrounded by people.

I watch him on the other side of the room, talking to Marco’s partner, Eric. He’s attentive and enthusiastic as Eric points out his favorite antiques and tells of how he found them.

Holt asks questions, smiles, laughs, and I get a twinge in my stomach as I realize how different he is from the impatient, sullen man he used to be. I wonder if he ever looks at me and notices how different I am. How jaded I’ve become. How fragile.

I wonder if he ever thinks that after all the effort he’s gone through to be with me again, I’m no longer worth it.

“A toast!” Marco says, and we all mill around the living room as Cody refills our champagne glasses. “To this remarkable company and our wonderful play. May the finished product be as incredible as I predict. I haven’t had a Tony nomination in two years, and I’m starting to suffer withdrawals! So please, dear colleagues and friends, raise your glasses—to us!”

I smile and raise my glass before glancing across at Holt. He looks at me warmly as he makes his toast. “To us.”

See? This is why I have to stay away from him, because with two words he can make me feel like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

I seek out the bathroom, but on the way, I come across Marco’s study. Just inside the door is a huge glass-fronted cabinet filled with brightly colored glasses.

I walk into the room and gaze at the goblets and tumblers, wine and champagne flutes, all glinting in every color of the rainbow, some with gilt work in gold and silver.

“Ah, Miss Taylor, I see you’ve discovered my pride and joy.”

I turn to see Eric enter the room, with Holt following close behind. “I was about to show Mr. Holt my most passionate indulgence. Marco keeps threatening that we’re going to need a bigger apartment if I don’t stop buying antique glass, but I can’t help myself. The Internet makes it entirely too easy to feed my addiction.”

Holt stands behind me, and the heat from his body leaches into my back.

“You have an amazing collection,” Holt says as he examines the display case. “Have you been collecting long?”

Eric nods. “About twenty years. I prefer Italian glass, anything from Murano in particular. But I also have some Russian and English pieces, some dating back to the early eighteenth century.”

“Really?” I ask. “How did they survive that long?”

He smiles. “Well, to be honest, quite a lot of it is chipped or damaged in some way, but that’s part of the appeal. It speaks of its history. Knowing that it’s had a life—maybe many lives—before I discover it is the wonder of antiques. Let me show you what I mean.”

He opens the door and retrieves a tall, thin wine glass. It’s not brightly colored like most of the others. It’s plain, clear glass, and the only decoration is some light etching on the bowl.

“This is one of my favorites,” Eric says, holding it reverently. “It’s said to have belonged to Lady Cranbourne of Wessex. Her tumultuous relationship with her husband was infamous. One year, he gave her a set of six glasses as an anniversary present. Later that night, it’s alleged he made a comment that offended her. I believe it was in relation to her relationship with one of the stable-hands. It’s said this is the only glass that survived. The rest were smashed to pieces when she threw them at him.”

He holds the glass up to the light and points at a thin line that runs the length of the bowl. “Do you see that crack? It occurred when Lord Cranbourne caught it after his wife flung it at his head. That was in 1741. For nearly three hundred years, this glass has survived, despite the damage. Remarkable, no?”