Playing With Her Heart (Caught Up In Love #4)(43)
Author: Lauren Blakely

“Maybe not to you. But to me it would be,” she says and there’s the slightest note of hurt.

“Why?”

She pulls back to give me a curious look. “Really? You can’t figure it out?”

“No. Maybe you could just say it,” I say, a bit irritated.

“I don’t want anyone to think I got the part in the show because I’m sleeping with you.”

It dawns on me that she’d want to protect her reputation as a rising star. I get it. I do. Still, it’s a reminder that actresses put their careers first. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t know why I’m chasing a woman who has erected so many barriers for me—from her job to her love of another man.

But I’m doing it because she’s worth it. Everything about her, from her talent to her beauty to her gorgeous heart, is worth all the obstacles. She makes me want to clear every single one.

“You’ve already made it,” she continues. “You have three Tonys, an Oscar, you have producers probably falling at your feet to have you direct. I’m just starting out, and I want to have a long career in this business.”

“I guess I don’t worry that much about what people think about my private life. And I don’t think you should either,” I say, and then, because I can’t resist pointing out the flaw in her logic, I add, “But I’m not sleeping with you.”

“Not yet,” she says, and her hands are still on my shirt. I glance down at the way she’s tracing the buttons, as if she’s dying to take my shirt off.

“But if you don’t want anyone to think that, then why are you touching me like this?”

“Because it’s hard for me to keep my hands off of you.” But she says it in a brusque voice as she turns away to pick up the menu. This woman is hot and cold, and almost impossible to read.

“Let’s figure out what to order,” I say.

After the waiter brings our drinks, Jill orders the wild salmon with green beans and I opt for the sautéed filet of sturgeon. I hold up the glass. “To the long and ridiculously successful career I know you’re going to have.”

She smiles, softening once more, then clinks her glass to mine. “And to dinner.”

Her eyes stray, and she looks at my hand. She takes a drink, puts her glass down, and reaches for my hand, tracing a soft finger across the scar. Her tone shifts to a more serious one, as if she’s let go of the sexy Jill and now she’s a more emotional one.

“You said this happened when your parents died. You punched the glass window of the door. Can I ask what happened to them?”

I like that she’s direct. That she’s asking me without hesitation in her voice because I don’t want her or anyone to feel sorry for me. “They died in a car crash one February night. They were in the city. They were huge theater fans—that’s where I got it from—and had actually been seeing a play the night they died. It had started snowing, and my dad was driving them home to where we lived in Westchester. A car coming the other way lost control on an ice patch, and they died instantly on impact. Police came later that night. Told me what happened,” I say, and as I recount that awful night, my chest tightens, remembering opening the door to be greeted not by my parents, but by the solemn-faced officer come to bear bad news. It’s been more than a decade since that night, and I’ve dealt, I’ve managed, I’ve moved past it the only way you can—to go through it. Still, the memory is like a knife reopening an old wound, letting it bleed out yet another time. “I didn’t believe it at first.”

“You were in shock,” she says softly, and there’s something in her voice that says she knows the feeling all too well. She runs her finger across the scar.

“Yeah, exactly. I was that way for a few days. Then pretty soon enough, I was angry. That’s when I slammed my fist through the glass pane on the door. Not my brightest decision especially if I had ever wanted to have a professional boxing career,” I say, managing a slight laugh to lighten the mood.

“Did you? Want that?”

I shake my head. “No. Theater is in my blood. My dad was a theater history professor. Mom was a choreographer, and there was never any question about what I wanted to do.” Then I shift back to the story. “The worst part, though, was having to tell my younger sister. It was only us then. It’s only us now.”

“You took care of your sister?”

I nod. “I delayed college for a year to stay home with her, get her through the rest of high school.”

“You’re a good brother,” she says in a kind voice, and squeezes my hand tight.

“Thank you for saying that. What about you? You said you have two brothers?”

“My brother Jay is working in Europe for a company there. And my oldest brother, Chris, lives in San Francisco and is this huge video game guy. Hosts his own TV and Web show about video games, and just started getting serious with this gal who’s a fashion blogger. He’s actually coming here soon for work, so I get to see him and to meet her. I can’t wait.”

“You’re close to him?”

She nods, but then holds up her hand and moves it back and forth like a seesaw.

“Close, but maybe not so close?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as I try to understand her.

She chews the inside of her lip as if she’s considering the question, and it’s fascinating to see this side of her. To learn more about her. The way she seems to genuinely connect with people and care about them, but yet how she can be so guarded too.

“No. I mean…we’re close,” she offers, but that’s all. Then in a small, fragile voice, she adds. “Maybe you can meet him.”

All my frustration from earlier, all my fear vanishes in a second with those words. I don’t know that I will ever meet her brother, but the fact that she makes the offer at all is huge for Jill.

“That would be nice,” I say, and now her eyes have gone glassy as if she’s sad and is drifting off someplace. But before I can ask what’s wrong, I follow her gaze back to my hand.

“I’m sorry you have this scar,” she says as she strokes a finger across the top of my hand. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. But since you do have this scar, and you can’t change the past, is it okay if I tell you I think it’s kinda sexy that you just told me all that? And maybe because it’s so real. And the scar is this visible reminder of who you are, and what you went through, and you don’t hide from it. You own it.”