Playing With Her Heart (Caught Up In Love #4)(32)
Author: Lauren Blakely

More lines from Chris. More lies to Patrick.

“Do you have his newest?”

I shake my head.

“Let me get it for you then. As a gift.”

“Okay,” I say in a strangled voice. But he doesn’t notice, because he’s grabbing two copies of the Hiassen from the shelves and happily heading to the counter with books to buy. Soon, he’s presenting me the book, and a part of me is over the moon because Patrick Carlson—the love of my life—is giving me a gift, but another part of me feels so unworthy. He’s such a good guy, and I’m so messed up.

“So your homework is to read this, and next time we get together we can talk about it. I bought myself a copy too. But it might have to wait a few days because I’m going to have to tear through this memoir first.”

I clutch the book against my chest. “Thank you. I can’t wait for our book club, Patrick.”

At least that’s the truth.

At least, I think it is.

* * *

My heart pounds and my legs burn, and my breath is visible in the frozen morning air. It’s Monday, still early in the dawn, and the sun is barely peeking over the wintry New York horizon.

I turn around and run backwards for several paces.

“Almost there,” I call out to my crew of mommy warriors as we run behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They are a resilient group, decked out in nylon running pants and fleece jackets. This group is my most advanced set, and they’re the ones training for the upcoming 10K to raise money for breast cancer research. It’s their third year doing it, and if they improve their times they’ll land more matching money from corporate sponsors. “Keep up your pace. Keep your elbows at your side, and don’t forget to breathe.”

I flash them a smile and I turn back around as we run towards the reservoir in Central Park. The women are quiet in the home stretch and so am I, as I let the running do what it does: wash away the little while lie I told yesterday. I run it off, and leave it all behind me.

I tell myself I’m starting over. That I’m a new kind of person starting a new kind of life, one where I don’t feel so damn responsible for all that went wrong. Maybe this new me likes Carl Hiassen.

I should give Carl a chance, right?

When we reach the end of the reservoir, I raise a fist in the air, encouraging all of my ladies as they slow down and finish a hard morning run.

“You’re amazing. You’re going to do great on Saturday.”

I hug them all, and soon we go our separate ways. As I walk across Eighty-Sixth Street towards the subway, I fast forward to tonight. To the next private rehearsal. Should I wear my hair up or down? Should I wear that black V-neck sweater that hugs my br**sts just so? Or maybe the navy blue one since it matches my eyes? Wait, I know what to wear.

My red sweater with the little buttons up the front.

I bet he likes red.

Then I realize I’m about to walk into traffic because I’ve been daydreaming about tonight. I stop at the curb, and press the crosswalk button, and tell myself to stop thinking about Davis.

Chapter 15

Davis

I unlock the stage door to let myself in. I’m the first to arrive, and I’ll be the last to leave.

I use these moments before the stage manager, choreographer, music director and cast arrive to walk through the theater, a more intimate setting than many others on Broadway. It’s not as small as some playhouses, but it’s not a cold, heartless theater like some of the newer ones. It’s the perfect size for a show like this since Crash the Moon isn’t about the extravaganza and spectacle; it’s about the relationships between the characters, about lives changing, hearts breaking, and passion. This theater is the only one that can handle the intensity and the sexiness of this production.

I head down the center aisle, trailing my hand over the creaky upholstered chairs that theatergoers will pay top dollar to park themselves in soon. Tickets went on sale last week, and Don emailed to tell me the show is already sold out for the first two weeks and counting. That’s 1,600 seats filled every night with people expecting to be blown away by this show. I tap the stage for good luck then turn to the empty house, picturing it full of faces, chatting, eager for the show, brushing up on actors’ credits in the Playbill then tucking away phone, closing purses and focusing as the overture to the newest Frederick Stillman show begins.

Four more weeks to get it ready.

My thoughts are interrupted when Shannon marches across the floorboards, clipboard in hand. “Alexis called. She has a cold and can’t make it in today.”

“Color me surprised,” I say dryly.

My stage manager rolls her eyes. “Shocking. I know.”

“Does that make it two missed rehearsals already, Shannon?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Indeed it does.”

“Remind me not to tell Don that I told him so when this keeps up during the show.”

She laughs once. “Of course. Should I let Ms. McCormick know she’ll be playing Ava today?”

“Yes. You can give her the new pages when she arrives. Same for Patrick. Give them an hour to read them over first and we’ll have them on at ten.”

She nods. “Absolutely.”

Minutes later, the actors trickle in and I work on a scene with two of the supporting cast members first. Then the stage manager calls Patrick and Jill to the stage.

I’m instantly hard when I see what she’s wearing. Tight jeans and a red sweater. She looks edible in red. Then I notice it has tiny little pearl-shaped buttons on it. I can hear the sound of them clattering across the floor if I were to rip it off her.

It’s going to be a long f**king day, watching her rehearse this scene with Patrick.

* * *

Shannon has one hand pressed against the stage door later that evening. “Alexis called. She’ll be back tomorrow. She said she—her words—simply cannot wait to rehearse the new scene.”

“I’m so glad she’ll grace us with her presence.”

“If we’re lucky, she might even try to reconfigure the blocking,” Shannon says in a deadpan voice as she zips up her coat. The weather forecast earlier today called for snow after midnight. Shannon taps the doorframe, as if an idea just took shape. “Maybe you could nail down some of the blocking tonight when you work with Jill. So there’s no wiggle room.”

I tamp down the mischievous grin that’s forming. I’d certainly thought of that myself, but hearing the suggestion from my stage manager makes my task tonight feel all the more necessary.