Playing With Her Heart (17 page)

She opens the door,
letting in a cold blast of air. I’m about to close it, when a voice
I long to hear calls out, “Hold the door! My hands are full.”

I push back on the door
and see Jill practically sprinting down the alley, holding a cup of
coffee in each hand. She says a quick hello and goodbye to Shannon as
she passes her.

“Good luck with the
hair scene, Jill,” Shannon says. “Make sure you guys finalize the
blocking.”

“Hair scene. I’m on
it,” she answers like a good soldier, following orders.

Jill reaches the door,
and holds up the blue paper cups.

“Coffee.”

“I can see that.”

“I got you one,”
she says, and there’s the slightest flutter to her voice, as if
she’s nervous.

She thrusts a cup at
me, and I take it. It’s just coffee but still, I’m dying to break
into a grin because it’s not just coffee—it’s coffee from her,
it’s coffee for us. It’s a little something she did for our
private rehearsal.

“I’m impressed you
can run and not spill the coffee.”

“It’s all part of
my marathon training. In fact, I teach that skill to the more
advanced runners in my coaching group.”

“But of course. Some
of them probably even want to learn how not to spill a latte, or
perhaps an espresso,” I say with a smirk.

“We’re actually
well past the how-not-to-spill espresso training. By the way, do you
think you can let me in now?”

I laugh, realizing I’m
standing in the doorway and she’s outside, shivering, even with her
coat on. I open the door wider, letting her in. I look briefly at the
dark sky that’s brighter than usual, a sure sign the clouds are
swelling with snow.

“Looks like snow.”
I let the door close behind us.

“You better watch out
then. I throw a mean snowball. My brothers taught me how to throw.”

“I’ll consider
myself duly warned for the vicious snowball attack.” We head down
the backstage hallway toward the wings of the stage. As I watch her
walk, her coat hitting just below her waist, I imagine her naked
again. I love that I know what she looks like without anything on.

I take a drink. The
coffee is perfect. Just black. Nothing added to it. Exactly how I
like it.

“How did you know?”

“How did I know
what?”

“How I take my
coffee.”

“I took a wild guess.
My roommate has this theory about guys and their coffee drinks,”
she says as we reach the stage. She stops at the edge of the
curtains.

“A theory about men
and coffee?” I raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”

She briefly looks at
her shoes, then back at me. “Well, it’s just, she has this theory
that the man who orders just coffee is, you know…” her voice
trails off, and crimson starts to flood her cheeks.

“Is just what?”

“Just…” She can’t
seem to finish the thought.

“You want me to
guess?”

She shakes her head,
her hair falling in a curtain around her face in the most thoroughly
distracting manner. But she seems embarrassed, and the last thing I
want to do is push her past her point of comfort.

“Well, whatever the
theory is, I will choose to take it as a compliment.”

She raises her face,
and meets my eyes. “Thank you.”

“Do you want a tour
of all the secret backstage passageways and doors before we start? Or
did you check everything out already today?” I offer, hoping she
says yes. I want to be able to do something for her that’s special,
that no one else can do. To show her more of the things she
loves—theater.

Her eyes sparkle.
“Secret backstage stuff. Like ghosts?”

“This theater has
many, many ghosts. They say the ghost of Hammerstein sometimes
watches from over there.”

I point past the stage,
to the balcony on the right-hand side.

“Do you think he’s
there right now?” she whispers.

“Oh no. He’s far
too busy. He only shows up on opening night.”

She laughs, and places
her coffee on the floor and unbuttons her coat. She walks to the edge
of the stage, leans slightly, then tosses the coat perfectly so it
lands on a chair in the second row. Right next to my coat. Then she
retrieves her cup.

I tip my forehead past
the wings and crook my finger for her to follow me. I take another
sip of the coffee then show her the trapdoor in the stage, the steps
down to the orchestra pit that also do double duty for quick costume
changes in some shows, and the catwalk above with the spotlights.

“But here’s the
best part. Did you know there’s a dressing room above the stage?”

She grins widely, as if
I’ve just revealed the location to buried treasure. “How did I
not notice it today?”

“It’s kind of
hidden behind some of the crates with the set pieces we haven’t
unpacked yet. The star usually claims it; it’s actually in Alexis’
contract. But it’s still worth a look.” I show her back to the
wings, and open a black door that’s painted to match the walls.
“Right there. Stairs lead up to it. Like a fire escape.”

“Can we go up?”

“We can’t go
inside. But you can go up.”

She walks up the steps
to the top where a small metal balcony looks out over the quiet
stage, with the door to the dressing room behind.

“It’s quite a
view,” she says drinking in the majesty of the St. James from this
hideout spot that few people ever see. She surveys the expansive
place as if she’s privy to a gorgeous sunset, and I love watching
her reaction because I feel the same. She turns to me, and we’re so
close in this tiniest of balconies that I could easily grab her and
kiss her and do so many other things to her, with her, for her up
above the floorboards, only the stage below knowing our secrets.
“Davis,” she says in a low and sexy voice that nearly obliterates
my self-control. “Would you go down to the stage? I want to see
what it looks like from up here with a person on the stage.”

“Okay,” I say
warily. “But I’m not going to perform.”

“I won’t ask you to
tap dance or twirl in circles.”

“Good,” I say, then
oblige by heading down the metal stairs to the middle of the stage.
I’m still holding my coffee, so I look up at her, and hell if she
doesn’t look like the most romantic woman ever written leaning on
the railing in the balcony, her long hair framing her face, a wistful
sigh fluttering from her lips.

It’s a moment that
shouldn’t be ruined by words. Besides, she wanted to see how the
stage looks, not how it sounds, so I say nothing. I take a drink of
my coffee. I wait for her to go next.

Even from this
distance, I can see her swallow and exhale as if she’s about to say
something that’s hard for her. “Your coffee?”

“Yeah?”

“All the hot guys
take their coffee black. So that’s how I knew.”

For the first time in
my life, I am speechless. I am reduced to nothing but this buzzing in
my bones, as if every cell inside me has been dialed all the way up.
My skin is hot all over and my body feels like it’s shaking as she
turns down the stairs, crosses the stage, and stands in front of me.

I want to crush her
against me. I want to smother her in kisses. I want to taste her,
touch her, feel her.

Her lips are slightly
parted, and if I stare at them any longer, I will be claiming her
mouth with mine, pushing her up against a wall and owning her body.
So I glance down, and that’s a worse decision.

The red sweater taunts
me. Those pearl buttons are beacons calling out to me, and my fingers
twitch with the desire to twist hard on one and let it rattle to the
floor, then the next, then the next, exposing her breasts to me, so
full and creamy.

I scrub a hand across
my jaw, then somehow find the will to turn away from her because if I
start something now we’ll never rehearse. I won’t be able to stop
making her come. I force myself to focus on my job.

“We should probably
get to work on that scene,” I say hoarsely.

She raises an eyebrow.
“The show must go on.” She walks to stage left then tosses me a
look over her shoulder. “As they say.”

I love that she can
shift back to this playful side, and it’s one more thing that is
going to ruin me.

* * *

There is only an easel
on the stage. It’s a temporary one, a fill-in prop from an art
supply store. When the show begins, the real easel will be bigger,
larger than life in many ways, befitting a Broadway show. But for
now, this easel does the trick. It gives Ava a focal point for her
work. She has been painting all day, working and reworking her newest
piece under Paolo’s direction. The young painter, barely into her
twenties, and the world-renowned artist who’s taken her under his
iron-fisted wing at art school.

Paolo returns to the
studio to check on her progress and finds her a painted mess.

I enter from stage
left. Ava doesn’t notice me at first; she’s so engrossed in the
work. I am quiet, walking on cat’s feet to her side.

She startles. “Oh.”

“You are…” I
don’t finish the sentence. Instead, I make a circular motion around
her face.

“I’m what?”

“You’re covered in
paint.”

She shrugs. “What
else should I be covered in but paint?”

“Your hair is full of
paint. It’s getting in the way.”

With one sweep of her
hand she brushes her hair off her face, leaving behind an imaginary
streak from the paintbrush.

“Oops,” I say,
because Paolo feels playful right now.

“It’s on my
forehead now, right?”

I nod, then trace a
quick line across her forehead. “A bright yellow streak. And your
hair is the color of the sun too.”

“I’m a mess,” she
says in a sweet, self-deprecating tone.

“Here.” I hold out
my hand. “Give me the brush.”

She hands it to me, and
I lay it on the easel. “Come with me.”

She follows and we move
to the middle of the stage. “Sit,” I tell her.

She bites the inside of
her lip then sits cross-legged. I kneel behind her, so the audience
will be able to see both of us. “Let’s get your hair out of the
way.”

“Okay,” she says,
in the softest, sweetest voice.

She leans her head
back, closes her eyes, and lets me run my fingers through her hair. I
gather her hair at the top of her head, the thick strands laying
across my palms like silk waterfalls. I begin weaving one strand into
another, then gathering another layer, recreating the French braid I
saw her wearing the other day. The one that made me think of a moment
of intimacy, when Paolo and Ava come closer together through touch
before they kiss in the next scene. A tender moment, where he wants
to take care of her, get her painted hair out of her face.

I reach the point in
the braid where I’m at her neck, and now I’m simply looping one
strand over the other. There are no more lines in this scene until
hers at the end, and as I finish I stare at her neck, at the way a
vein seems to be beating harder, and then I listen, and her breaths
sound like tiny little sighs.

I stop moving for a
second, trying to collect myself. I am fighting everything in me
that’s dying to touch her. I somehow find the strength to return to
character, pulling a rubber band from my pocket, and fastening her
braid. She turns around and looks at me.

That’s not in the
blocking. That’s not how she did it this afternoon with Patrick.
She didn’t look at him. She uttered the last lines while gazing out
at the audience, her body language saying how she felt as she leaned
into him, showing that she trusted him.

But now, she’s
leaning back against my chest, and turning to look up at me. A tiny
whimper escapes her throat, before she says, “It feels so good.”

I have no idea if she’s
acting. If she’s Ava, or Jill, or both. If she’s acting, she’s
so fucking convincing because her face says she’s never been more
aroused in her life.

My hands are still on
her back, my thumbs tracing the tiny strands at the end of her braid.
She doesn’t break her gaze, nor do I. I don’t know what’s going
on. I don’t what’s happening. But for the first time I don’t
feel like I’m in control anymore.

She is.

I stay completely
still.

She counters me by
shifting closer. “What is happening here?” Her voice is unsteady
as she says a line that’s not in the script.

“You tell me,” I
say, and I’m not even sure where my own voice is coming from.

She turns around,
uncrosses her legs, and mirrors me, kneeling. “You wrote that scene
for me, didn’t you?”

I nod. My throat is
dry. I can barely speak.

“That day you saw me
with Shelby outside the theater, right?”

“Yes.” I swallow.
I’m a fucking open book now.

“Did you write it
because it makes the show better? Or did you write it for me?”

I close my eyes
briefly. I’ve never had an actress question me like this. Then I
look at her. “I put the scene in the show because the show needed
it,” I answer with as much confidence as I can muster, grabbing the
reins from her.

“But you’re also
kind of into my hair, aren’t you?”

Now she’s in control
in again. My chest rises and falls and she’s looking at me with
such a challenging stare, and so much want in her blue eyes. Her
breath is staccato, like mine. She raises her hands behind her head,
pulling out the rubber band, shaking out her hair, and letting it
fall around her face.

I am undone by her.

My hands are twitching
to touch her. I am aching to taste her lips.

“Do it,” she
breathes out in a voice so low it’s barely audible, but it’s all
I need.

I place my hands on her
face and cup her cheeks, and she closes her eyes and sighs. Then my
hands thread through her hair and I pull her to me, pressing my lips
to hers again. I am unable to stay away from her.