Playing With Her Heart (Caught Up In Love #4)(39)
Author: Lauren Blakely

“You know what would be cool?” Patrick muses as we turn into the alley that runs alongside the St. James. “If we did a movie together someday. I’ve got a few things I’m looking into, and it’d be fun to work on a film with you.”

“Um, yeah!”

“But I also think we need to find mini golf somewhere in Manhattan,” Patrick says as we reach the stage door.

“Randall’s Island,” I tell him, as he holds open the door for me. “There’s mini golf on Randall’s Island.”

“Then, Jill, that’s exactly what we’re going to do the next time we get together,” he declares as he bounds up the steps and into the hallway. I’m right behind him as we round the corner, but I freeze when I see Davis at the end of the hall, head down and enrapt in a conversation with Shannon who’s holding her clipboard and taking notes.

He doesn’t even see me, but an icy dread spreads through my bones, as if I’ve been caught. I’m ready to turn around, run, hide. Then I remind myself I did nothing wrong. There’s no reason I can’t hang out with my cast mate. No reason at all. So I tell myself to pick up my boots and put one foot in front of the other and walk on.

I keep pace next to Patrick, who’s musing about whether the mini golf range at Randall’s Island has one of those crazy, macabre clowns for the final hole, and I force a smile on my face, and then I even manage a laugh, because I’m sure I’ll feel as lighthearted as I possibly can while whacking a small white ball into a clown’s face.

The sound of Patrick’s voice carries in these cramped hallways, and it’s enough for Davis to look away from Shannon. He appraises the scene instantly—Patrick and I coming from outside, Patrick and I gone for two hours, Patrick and I chatting. His blue eyes turn dark and steely, and I can almost feel the anger radiating from him as we pass by. He’s like a high tension line, and his jaw is set hard, his eyes narrowed.

“Hey Milo,” Patrick says amiably, giving him a quick salute. “I’m all ready to start on whatever you’ve got for me this afternoon.”

“Great,” Davis says through gritted teeth.

Patrick points with his thumb to the stage. I tell Patrick I’ll see him out there, and then duck into the bathroom. I lean against the wall, take a deep and shaky breath. I press my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose, wishing I could erase that encounter. Wishing I knew what I wanted to do differently. But I can’t go out and face Davis right now, so I lean forward, my hands on my thighs, as if I’m winded and need air.

Then I stand up straight, open the door, and head back into the hall. It’s empty—everyone must be gathered on the stage now. I hold my head up high, my spine straight, and remind myself that everything is fine.

There’s a hand on my waist. Gripping me. I spin around, and Davis is staring hard at me. He pulls me into a dressing room and shuts the door behind me. It’s empty, but the exposed bulbs are bright and glaring on one of the mirrors. Makeup and brushes are littered across the counter.

He backs me up against the closed door, caging me in, his arms on either side of me as he presses his hands against the door. My pulse speeds up.

“You were out with him weren’t you?”

I narrow my eyes. “Yes,” I say indignantly. “What difference does it make to you?”

“Were you on a date?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Did he take you out? Did he romance you? Did he kiss you?” he asks, and his face is tortured as he asks the last question. He breathes out hard, almost feral. I don’t answer him. He doesn’t deserve an answer.

But he wants one badly. His eyes are blazing at me, and his hands are shaking. He’s so mad he’s shaking. His voice is low and measured as he bites out the next words. “Did. He. Kiss. You?”

Anger rises up in me like a thick plume. I don’t like being talked to this way. “Why should I tell you? You don’t take me out. You don’t call me. You don’t even text me,” I say as if that proves all my points.

He scoffs. “I should send you texts with smiley faces? That would change things?”

“No,” I spit back. “But you’re acting like you own me. And you don’t. You don’t own me just because you want to f**k me.”

He heaves a rough sigh and looks away, his lips pressed tight together as if he’s trying to collect himself. He looks back at me, almost forcing himself to calm down. “I can’t stand the thought of him kissing you. I can’t stand the thought of his hands on you. I can’t stand the thought of anyone’s hands on you.” He brings a hand to my shoulder blade, traces my collarbone with his knuckles. “Except mine,” he says in a rough voice, as he trails his fingers down to my waist then wraps them around my hip. He bends his head to my ear, and whispers harshly. “I can still taste you.”

His words make me lightheaded, and my knees nearly buckle. I feel like my world has been twisted inside out, and I’ve lost all sense of direction. I can’t find my way through anymore. “Why are you doing this to me?” I ask him in a strained voice.

“What am I doing to you, Jill? Tell me. Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

“Acting like this.”

“How am I acting?” His question is half-curious, half-demanding. As if he can’t go on until he knows the answer.

He’s still inches away from me. His eyes are so dark they’re nearly black now, but they don’t let me go. Won’t let me go. And he’s so near to me that I can smell his anger, his heat. I can smell how much he wants me too. His shirt collar is open, unbuttoned once, exposing a patch of skin below his throat. I could press my lips to him, taste him, run the tip of my tongue over him. See how he reacts to me.

“Like a jealous lover,” I answer, and I don’t bother to mask my anger either.

He pushes a hand through his hair then lets go, his fingers now touching my face. Gently. Tracing the outline of my cheek. Then my jaw. Then across my lips. I wish it didn’t feel so good.

“Maybe I am,” he whispers. “Maybe that’s how I feel about you.”

I clench my teeth, place a hand on his chest, ready to push him away. “But don’t you get it? You don’t have the right to be. All we do is find each other in the dark. In hallways. In dressing rooms. In stairwells. You’re not allowed to be jealous about what I do.” Then I pause for effect and add bitterly, “You don’t even date actresses. You’ve told me that. You said that to me. Hell, even Shelby knows that.” I hold out my hands wide as if to say so there.