Chapter Thirteen

Annabel

That went well. That went so well that my cheeks are still on fire two hours later. I can’t stop reaching up to touch my lips where they brushed against Beau’s, which is such a teen movie cliché that it’s almost as mortifying as the kiss itself. What was I doing, swooning in the middle of the sidewalk because he offered me a free hotel room?

I’m going to take it. For sure. From Cynthia’s constant stream of texts, it appears that the building owner is offering to put us up in the World Hotel. That text came with seventeen exclamation points and six noes. She’s going to stay with her old college roommate. And me? I’m not going to turn down a room that makes my commute nonexistent.

It’s almost hard to feel affection under the complete and utter mortification, but this job is growing on me. It makes me nervous, in a way, because I’m so into the work that the sweet spot might come early. For once in my life, I don’t want to bail. I’d like this beginning time, this time full of stress and late nights and small explosions from Marilee, to last a while longer. I can’t explain why. The fabric feels good under my hands. I like bantering with the cast of the production, who have begun to stream in ahead of rehearsals, which began this weekend. Bethany, the woman playing Juliet—they’re calling her Julie, in this show—has the most exaggerated expressions I’ve ever seen. As my mother would say, she is a hoot.

I’m on my knees, adjusting the hem of the gown she’s going to wear in the opening scene, when she puts her hands on her hips and looks down at me.

“You look like you’re about to have heat stroke.”

“It’s hottinhrr,” I mumble around the pins in my mouth.

“What?” She holds a hand up next to her ear, careful not to move her hips. I appreciate her well-thought-out theatrics.

I take the pins out of my mouth. “It’s hot in here.”

“You’re a bad liar, or my name isn’t Bethany Kirke. It’s freezing in here.”

“That’s because of the tulle.”

“Come on,” she needles. “I’m a stranger in a strange town, and you have a secret.”

“You live in Queens,” I say with a laugh.

“It’s not the same as Manhattan. Spill it. I’m dying here. Most of what I hear all day is”—she purses her lips—“the greatest love story of all time. Terrible ending, though. Your face is like a fire engine, Annabel.”

“Hot flash?” I stick another pin into the hem and resist the urge to touch my bottom lip with my fingertips. I might as well be in high school again. That’s how giddy and stupid I feel, and it’s all because of a kiss that was derailed right before the good part by Beau’s longtime friend West.

What is that guy doing here? I know he lives in the city—that much I gathered from our conversation last night—but Beau definitely mentioned something about him being out of the country. And a reunion? I don’t know. I entered a fugue state from the kiss and had no control over my reaction. 

“Annabel,” Bethany says firmly. “We are close friends.”

“We met a week ago.”

“We are close friends, and it’s offensive that you would keep a secret like this from me. The smiling, Annabel. The smiling.”

“What smiling?” I pretend to be shocked, but she’s given me another reason to grin like an idiot. I am an idiot. I shook his friend’s hand and then ran away to my job instead of leaping onto him like I wanted to. Like I still want to. It’d be stupid to get involved with a man like Beau. Certain heartbreak. But I want to. My whole body is alive with the anticipation of it.

I can always leave when the sweet spot hits, before we get in too deep.

If I can recover from that scene on the sidewalk.

I focus on the hem, but I can feel Bethany’s eyes on me. Ever so lightly, she taps the toe of one foot on the wooden pedestal. 

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “There may be . . . someone I’m interested in.”

“Man or woman?”

“A man.” Good. If it’s going to be twenty questions, I can drag this out indefinitely without giving her any real details. The less everybody knows about this—and everybody includes the cast of The Lovers—the better it will be when it’s time to duck out.

“Did he take you home with him last night?”

If only. “No, I spent last night in my own home. And then my ceiling caved in.”

“What?” she gasps. “Okay, that’s a good one. That’s a really good one, Annabel, but I still want to hear about this man.”

“He’s a Mystery Man,” I tease.

“Is he admiring you from afar?”

Beau was standing so close on the sidewalk. “I don’t know if afar is the right word to—”

“My apologies for interrupting.” Four words. Four words in that smooth, low voice and all of me is on fire, tensed and ready to pick up where we’d left off. “A minute of your time, Ms. Forester?”

I turn away from Bethany. Beau is standing at the doorway to the costume shop, leaning against the frame and looking every bit a Greek god. “Mr. Bennett,” I say, trying to keep it casual. “Absolutely.” A smile flickers across his face. This game—this one sends a surge of excitement up my spine. I look back up at Bethany. “Do you mind?”

Mystery Man, she mouths at me, her eyes shining. “Not at all,” she says out loud and steps off the pedestal, pulling her phone from a pocket under her skirt. Two graceful steps later and she turns, collapsing onto one of the prop sofas. It’s a pretty picture, and I know it was staged for us by the way she smiles to herself.

I brush past Beau on the way into the hallway, trying to play it cool. “What’s going on?” I ask him, keeping my voice low.

He leans down. “I’d like to show you your suite.”