Playing With Her Heart (Caught Up In Love #4)(50)
Author: Lauren Blakely

“Oh.” He looks perturbed at first. I don’t think he’s used to being turned down. “But I hope we can still be friends,” I add quickly because that’s what you’re supposed to say.

But then he snaps his fingers, and points at me. “You know, I’m not surprised. You’ve kind of had this happy glow about you.” He reaches for me, and with a soft touch, squeezes my hand. It’s such a friendly gesture, and that’s all. “And Jill, of course we’ll be friends. Because that’s how we’ll have a great show, right?”

Right.

That’s all we were. Even if I thought there was something more brewing, maybe being friends simply made him happy. Maybe I was a means to an end too. Yet another cog in the machinery that makes Patrick tick at that cheerful, chipper level he so desperately needs to perform. And maybe I’ll never know if there could have been more. I’ll have to be okay with that.

Patrick was my shield. My bulletproof vest is gone now, and I need to learn to live without it.

* * *

The cream-colored box from Neiman Marcus is so stunning that I don’t want to ruin the beautifully tied bow by opening it. But I’m the kid at Christmas, and I’m dying to know what he picked out. I tug on one end of the gold-trimmed bow, undoing the knot and tossing it on my couch. Excitement races through me as I wiggle off the top, then unfold the tissue paper carefully.

I gasp, and bring my hand to my mouth.

“Oh my God,” I say out loud.

I’m home alone, and am grateful because I need to have a moment with this dress. I lift it up, reverently, because I’ve never had a dress like this, and then I stand, and hold it against me, running my hand along the sapphire fabric, savoring the hourglass shape. I’m about to go check it out in the mirror on my closet door, when I see a note in the box. Gingerly, I lay the dress down in the box, then reach for the note. It’s on stiff cardboard and I open it. Butterflies make a quick visit to my belly, but I shoo them away. I want to know what he’s written. I’ve never had so much as a text message from him, so I don’t know what to expect.

For the most beautiful and captivating woman I know. And hope to know.

Davis

My heart leaps to my throat, and all my instincts tell me to shut it down. To run. To act. A million malformed ideas invade my brain on how to pretend, avoid, hide. My heart is beating rapidly, knocking hard against my chest like it wants so desperately to escape, to stop the flood of feelings this note has unleashed.

But then I flash onto the show I’m doing in one more week. Onto the role I’ll be ready to step into at a moment’s notice. Into Ava. I picture the moments when she lets Paolo in. I see the scenes play out in my mind when she finally can move past the physical and accept all that he wants from her—for her art, for her love.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and remind myself that I am like her. That she is strong. That she is brave. That she is more than the damage she’s done. I open my eyes, run my fingers over his words then tuck the note safely into my purse. This note won’t be locked away. This note will stay with me.

* * *

I gather a small section of the fabric on the skirt as I walk up the red-carpeted steps of the Plaza Hotel on Friday night. I’m in shoes my size. Shoes I bought for myself—my own Louboutins. I wanted to have something I chose for me, even though I can’t fault Davis for his taste. It’s impeccable.

A man in a black jacket with gold piping stands elegantly by the roman columns, then quickly reaches for the door and opens it for us with a grand gesture.

Shelby and I walk inside the luxury hotel and I’m immediately assaulted with images of Eloise, and The Great Gatsby and the history of this icon of New York City. I imagine all the other men and women, in evening dresses and tuxes, who’ve walked through this lobby as we do, across the polished tiles on the floor, the red leaf pattern on the carpet, and through the French doors of the Palm Court to the Terrace Room just beyond.

An attendant takes our coats, and Shelby gives me another once-over, shaking her head in admiration.

“If I had your body I’d wear a Herve Leger form-fitting bandage dress too,” she says.

“Oh stop. You have a perfect body. You’re a Broadway baby, just like me. We have to look good,” I say playfully.

Naturally, Shelby begins humming Lullaby of Broadway, and I join in, but then our little rendition fades out as we head into Terrace Room. I’ve been to The Plaza. I’ve had high tea in the Palm Court. I even stayed in this hotel one night with my mom when we went on a shopping trip when I was a little girl. But I’ve never entered this room as a guest at a formal event, and the word awestruck takes on a new meaning.

Soft light from crystal chandeliers bathes the opulent room in a warm glow. The walls are lined with replicas of Italian Renaissance style paintings, while the archways that ring the main floor bring majesty to this jewel of a room. Steps on each side lead up to another level that wraps the main area so you can stand at the railing and watch the mingling, the dancing, the champagne-drinking, and all the beautiful people below.

We walk down the steps, and I spy all sorts of Broadway star wattage, from my idol Audra McDonald to one of my favorite actors of all time, Michael Cerveris. There are producers and agents, choreographers and music directors, and of course, the money men and women who make the shows go round. I even spy Joyelle Kristy, a rising film starlet who played a leather-clad superhero in a hit film and is said to be on the hunt for a juicy theater role so she can follow in Scarlett Johansson’s footsteps.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

I turn and it’s Reeve. He told me he’d be attending when we worked out yesterday morning.

“Hey gorgeous,” I say, and give him a quick kiss on the cheek then introduce him to Shelby. Reeve is joined shortly by Sutton Brenner, the casting director and the woman who stole his heart.

“So good to see you again, Jill,” she says in her crisp, British accent, and leans in to give me cheek kisses. “How’s everything going with Crash the Moon? We’re so excited for opening night, and I know you’re going to be the best one in the whole show.”

“Well, I’m only in the chorus.”

She blows air through her lips as if to dismiss the thought. “That’s where all the stars begin, my darling. And I have no doubt yours will be the brightest on all Broadway. I can’t wait.”

“Do you ladies need a beverage?” Reeve suggests, and tips his forehead to the bar. We follow him, and I want to tease him that he’s now flanked by three women but then I see Davis talking to a woman with dark hair and a fabulous figure, and his hand is on her elbow and I’m about to get all territorial, until I realize they have the same cheekbones.