Playing With Her Heart (Caught Up In Love #4)(5)
Author: Lauren Blakely

A strange sort of awkwardness sweeps over me. I don’t know what to do or say in front of this man—if I should act friendly, or pretend I don’t see him. He’s the director—he might as well be called the Decider. My hands feel cold and clammy.

“I’m looking for M. J. Kim,” I hear him say, and I stop in my tracks. That’s my agent’s name.

I say something. I’m not sure if it’s a word or a squeak or a bark that comes out of my mouth. Davis looks up and, as if it’s occurring in slow motion, a grin forms on his lips. They’re nice lips. Soft and full, and utterly kissable.

From an empirical point of view, of course.

“Hi,” he says, and I think it’s both to me and to my agent on the phone. I smile. Dumbly. Should I keep moving? Walk around him? But my damn boots are glued to the ground because every muscle in my body is in a state of coiled tension. Is he calling my agent at six in the evening with good news or bad news?

“Kim, it’s Milo,” he says in a commanding voice, a deep, rich voice, and I wonder if he’s ever performed or sung. “I’m standing on Forty-Fourth street where I just bumped into the actress I want to cast in the chorus, but more importantly, as the understudy for my lead.”

Jet fuel ignites in me, and I take off for the moon.

I clasp a hand over my mouth, my eyes widen and then I am grabbing Davis Milo and hugging him hard. I pull him against me, and his phone clatters to the ground, and I hear my agent say ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ but I don’t care, because Davis Milo has given me my biggest f**king dream ever—and it’s a double whammy of amazingness. Not only have I booked my first Broadway show, I’ll have the chance to act with the man I’ve been in love with since the summer I turned seventeen—the worst year of my life that ended in the best way—when I saw Patrick Carlson on stage, and fell into a pure love, a perfect love, the way love should be.

Chapter 3

Davis

This woman is strong. Her arms are wrapped all the way around me, and she’s gripping me as if she won’t ever let go. For a second—okay, several seconds—I picture all the things that could happen next if she moved closer because her body feels fantastic against mine. I peel myself away because I’m not going to entertain a single thought about her that slips beyond the professional.

Directing a show is like Fight Club.

The first rule of directing is you do not fall for an actress. The second rule of directing is you do not fall for an actress.

But her hair smells ridiculously good, a pineapple scent that lingers in the cold December air as she breaks the embrace, and my hand twitches because I have a sudden instinct to twine my hands in her dark blond hair. I am steel, though, and I will not let the way she smells affect me, either as the director or as a man. Besides, I don’t date actresses anymore. Haven’t in years. I broke the first two rules of directing once before and have the battle-scarred heart to prove it.

She’s shaking. Or bouncing. Or bounce–shaking. A tear rolls down one cheek. Then the other. The whole time her smile could launch ships. It’s infectious, and that’s the problem. It’s working on me already. “This is the best thing that has ever happened to me professionally. Ever. Thank you, Mr. Milo.”

“Really. It’s just Davis.” I bend down to pick up my phone from the sidewalk.

“Davis,” she says, as if my name is the sweetest word she’s ever uttered. Funny thing is, hardly anyone calls me Davis. Most of the actors I’ve worked with over the years have called me Mr. Milo. Most of the time I prefer that, too. You don’t call your doctor by the first name, nor your teacher, nor your director, as far as I’m concerned. But Davis just sounds right on her lips, so I find myself letting her use it.

“We’ve got a lot of work to do before the show opens. Rehearsals start in a month and you’ll be shadowing Alexis Carbone, who’s been cast as Ava,” I say, reverting to cool professionalism, though her reaction—so pure and genuine—to being the understudy melts a tiny piece of my icy business-like heart.

Some days, it seems as if there’s so much entitlement in this business. It’s nice to see a little gratitude.

As another tear rolls down her cheek, I correct myself quietly. A lot of gratitude. Then I do something entirely out of character. I swipe the pad of my thumb across her cheek to wipe away a tear. Her skin is soft to the touch. I could get used to this.

“Can I take you out for a drink or something? A coffee, or a bagel or a cookie, to say thank you?” She asks with the most hopeful look in her eyes, and I want to say yes. But that would be a huge mistake. She is off limits, according to every definition of the term. I can’t go there again.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Okay, so scratch that. Because the cookie thing sounded really lame. Can I take you out for milk and cookies?” she says in a sing-song voice, clearly making fun of herself. “And coffee! Argh. When did coffee become the thing of our world?”

“I don’t know. But it is. The thing of our world,” I say and a grin tugs at my lips. Her self-deprecating humor is far too alluring for my own good.

“Screw coffee. What if I bought you a drink to say thanks?”

“I swear you don’t have to take me out for a drink, Jill. I’m just happy you’re going to do the show.”

She holds up a hand as if to say she’s retreating. “Then I’ll go to Sardi’s by my lonesome. Because my roommate is out tonight, my best guy friend is with his woman, and I always vowed that if I ever landed a Broadway show I’d go to Sardi’s to celebrate.”

She tips her forehead to the restaurant that’s a Broadway institution itself. The neon green sign flashes, beckoning tourists and industry people alike, as it has for decades. The place is old-school, but it’s venerable for a reason—it’s the heart of the theater district, and a watering hole teeming with history, having hosted theater royalty for dinner and drinks for nearly one hundred years.

She raises her eyebrows playfully, as if she’s waiting for me to acquiesce. A cab squeals by, sending a quick, cold breeze past us that blows a few strands of blond hair across her face. She brushes the hair away and arches an eyebrow. “The breeze is blowing me to Sardi’s.”

She turns on her heels, heads to the door and saunters inside. It feels like a challenge. Maybe even a dare. I shake my head, knowing better, but following her anyway.