Playing With Her Heart (25 page)

“Hi Patrick. I wanted
to thank you for the book, and the bowling, and the mini golf
invitation,” I say quickly, the words piling up. I remind myself to
breathe, to slow down. “But I can’t go to mini golf or anything
else.”

He tilts his head to
the side, his golden-brown eyes casting me a curious look. As if my
no
doesn’t compute. “Bummer. I was looking forward to it.
We could have had such fun.”

“I know,” I say,
and my heart hurts to have to say goodbye to whatever this might have
been. But this was only ever some sort of hero worship on my part. “I
had a great time with you. And I know I’d still have a great time
with you. But I started seeing someone, and so I probably shouldn’t
hang out like we’ve been doing.”

“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.

She must be his sister.

But I don’t spend
much time appraising her because he’s so sexy and so sophisticated
at the same time in his tux and I swear when I see him in it, I know
that tuxes were made for men like him. My blood heats as I look him
over, and even from across this spacious room, with all these people
between us, and the piped-in show tunes playing overhead, and the
twinkling lights, I can’t help but want to be all alone with him. I
have to wonder if he can feel the pull through the crowd, if he can
sense that I’m here wearing the dress he picked out for me. Goose
bumps rise on my skin as I remember the last time I walked into a
public place, and he looked me over as if he would only ever have
eyes for me. I lick my lips briefly at the memory, and it’s then
that he happens to look up from his sister and notice me. He raises
an eyebrow ever so slightly and shoots me a quick grin, but then
returns his attention to her as I make my way to the bar.

“So isn’t that
great that he’ll be coming back to New York soon?”

“Hmm?” I ask, when
I realize Shelby’s been chatting with me the whole time as we weave
through the sea of Broadway beautiful and benefactors alike.

“My boyfriend. From
Los Angeles. Hello, earth to Jill?”

I shake my head, as if
I can quiet all these thoughts of Davis. I tell myself the curtains
are rising and I am shedding myself and becoming a character. Tonight
I’m playing the part of someone who has supreme focus on her
friends, not on the man across the room who’s slowly, carefully,
wonderfully hooked his way into her heart.

“That’s awesome.
I’m sure you’re totally psyched,” I say.

“He’s going to
concentrate on his commercial work and voiceovers for a while since
pilot season didn’t pan out.”

“That’s too bad
about pilot season, but it’ll be nice for you to see him,” I say,
and then Reeve turns around and hands me a champagne glass. The
bubbles tickle my nose, but it tastes crisp and light.

Then I can feel a
tingling in my neck, and a quick ribbon of desire has been unspooled
in me. For the briefest of moments, fingertips graze the exposed skin
on my back from the V in the dress. But then they’re phantom
fingers, and they’re no longer on me. I turn around, and Davis is
at the far end of the bar, his back to me, as he chats with Michael
Cerveris.

How does he do that?
Just set me aflame with one touch? I down the rest of my champagne
and Shelby gives me a wide-eyed look.

“I’m thirsty,” I
say. “I need another.”

“You go, girl,” she
says, “Besides, I see Jane Black setting up over there for her set.
I worship the ground her high-heeled boots walk on, so I need to go
kowtow.”

“She’s pretty
rocking,” I say, referring to the singer who just won a Grammy for
an absolutely epic breakup album she wrote. Reeve and Sutton are
engrossed in each other’s company, so I squeeze past a gray-haired
man in a double-breasted suit and snag a spot near the end of the bar
so I can people watch.

“I’d love to go see
your band,” Davis says to Michael in his smooth and friendly voice.
“Heard great things about Loose Cattle. Great name for a band, by
the way.”

I smile privately as
Davis talks to actors in his professional demeanor, and I feel like I
have a delicious secret because I know all the other things he says.
I know how sexy his voice is when he tells me how to touch myself, I
know how it goes low and husky when he’s taking my clothes off, I
know how he can be sweet and tender when he’s tucking a strand of
hair behind my ear and asking to see me again.

I know how he sounds
when he’s not the director.

When he’s not the man
in the tux.

When he’s not this
incredibly powerful presence in the world of New York City performing
arts.

I know how rough and
hungry he gets when he’s desperate for me to want him as much as he
wants me.

“Absolutely. Next
Thursday, I’ll be there,” he says, then he shakes Michael’s
hand, and turns to me. “Oh, by the way, Michael. Do you know Jill
McCormick? She’s the understudy for Alexis in
Crash the Moon
.”

Michael takes my hand
and gives me a quick peck. “Alexis?” he raises an eyebrow. “My
condolences,” he teases. “But it’s a pleasure to meet you, and
may she give you no trouble at all.”

“Good to meet you as
well,” I say, avoiding my least favorite topic—Alexis.

“And on that note, I
should go prepare for my song with Ms. Black.”

“A duet with Ms.
Black? How lucky can we possibly be?” Davis says to Michael, as if
they know something I don’t.

Then Michael says a
quick goodbye, and it’s just us at the bar. Well, us and five
hundred other people. But he’s the only one I notice.

“I knew you’d look
stunning in this dress,” he says casually as he surveys the room,
standing side to side with me, so he’s not looking at me. He’s
playing by my rules, acting as if we’re two colleagues who happen
to be checking out the human scenery at this gala. He speaks as if
he’s saying something as mundane as
nice weather
, but that’s
why it’s such a turn-on, because it’s our secret. “And the slit
up the side could come in handy.”

I bite my lip, so I
don’t start breathing loudly from all these excruciatingly
delicious feelings racing through my bloodstream and turning me all
the way up. I try to gather myself, to play it as cleverly as he is.

“Yes. You never know
when you might have to run,” I fire back, as if the quip can help
me regain the equilibrium, but then I’m face to face with him and
it’s as if all the air has been sucked out of the room and
everything stopped, and no one is moving, and it’s just us. I want
to run my hand across his face, and play with the collar on his
shirt, then smooth out the lapel. I want to slide my hand inside the
jacket, touch his back. I want to mark him, so everyone knows this
man is taken. This man is mine.

For a second I can’t
breathe when the realization hits me. How much I want him to be mine.