Screw you, Ethan. Not even going to look at you.
I pick up my bag and throw it back on the chair.
The chuckle happens again, and I swear to the Almighty God of Justifiable Homicide, I’m going to murder him with my bare hands.
Although he’s on the other side of the room, he might as well be right next to me, because his voice vibrates through to my bones.
I need a cigarette.
I glance over at Marco, resplendent in his cravat as he flamboyantly describes the play. This is all his fault. He’s the one who wanted Holt and me to do this project. I convinced myself it would be a great career move, but in reality it’s going to be the last show I ever do, because if the chuckling idiot in the corner doesn’t shut up, I’m going to go on a murderous rampage any second and be put away for life.
Mercifully, the chuckle stops, but I can still feel his gaze searing my skin.
I ignore it and rummage through my bag. I have my cigarettes, but my lighter is MIA. I seriously need to clean this sucker out. Jesus, is there anything I don’t have in here? Gum, tissues, makeup, pain-killers, old movie tickets, small bottle of perfume, tampons, keys, a one-legged WWF action figure—what the hell?
“Excuse me, Miss Taylor?”
I look up to see a cute African American boy holding out what smells suspiciously like my favorite green bean macchiato.
“Wow, you look stressed,” he says, with just the right amount of concern to prevent me from ripping off his ears with my teeth. “I’m Cody. The production intern. Coffee?”
“Hey, Cody,” I say while eyeing the cardboard cup. “Whatcha got there, sport?”
“A double-shot green bean macchiato with mocha and extra cream.”
I nod, impressed. “That’s what I figured. It’s my favorite.”
“I know. I made sure to familiarize myself with the likes and dislikes of yourself and Mr. Holt, so I could anticipate your needs and facilitate an enjoyable rehearsal environment.”
An enjoyable rehearsal environment? With me and Holt? Oh, you poor, deluded child.
I take the coffee from him and sniff it while I continue digging in the Tardis of Crap. “Is that a fact?”
Where the fuck is my lighter?
“Yes, ma’am.” He pulls a lighter out of his pocket and hands it to me with a crazy-cute smile.
I sigh and drop my head back.
Sweet Jesus, the boy has been sent from God Himself.
I take the lighter and resist the urge to hug him. Tristan says I can be a little too touchy-feely. Actually, his term is touchy-fucky but I modify it to make myself feel better.
I smile at the kid instead. “Cody, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, because I know we’ve only just met, but … I think I love you.”
He chuckles and lowers his head. “If you want to duck outside, I’ll come get you when they’re ready to start.”
If he didn’t look like he was sixteen, I’d probably kiss him. With tongue.
“You’re a rock star, Cody.”
I see a dark shape in my peripheral vision, slouching in a chair on the opposite side of the room, so I draw my shoulders back and strut like I don’t give a crap.
The heat of his gaze follows me until I hit the stairwell, then I just go numb.
I tell myself I don’t miss the burn.
The stairs are steep and dark and lead to an alley behind the theater. Before the door even closes behind me, I have a lit cigarette in my mouth. As I lean against the cool bricks, I inhale and look up at the thin finger of sky visible between the buildings. The nicotine does little to calm my nerves. Pretty sure nothing short of hospital-grade sedatives are going to help today.
I finish my cigarette and head back to the stage door, but before I can grab the handle, it opens, and the trigger for all my anger issues steps out. His dark jeans hug him in ways I really shouldn’t be noticing.
His eyes are the same as I remember. Pale blue, mesmerizing. Dark, thick lashes. Intensity to burn.
Everything else, however …
Oh, Lord, I’d forgotten. I’d made myself forget.
Even now, he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. No, that’s not right. Handsome doesn’t do him justice. Soap actors are handsome, but in a completely predictable, bland way. Holt is … captivating. Like a rare, exotic panther; equal parts beauty and power. Enigmatic without even trying.
I hate how good he looks.
Strong, furrowed brows. Sharp jaw. Lips that are full enough to be pretty, but in the context of his other features seem powerfully masculine.
His dark hair is shorter than it was when I last saw him, and it makes him seem more mature. And taller, if that’s possible.
He’s always towered over me. Six foot three to my five foot five. And going by the width of his shoulders, he’s been working out since college. Not a huge amount but enough for me to see clear muscle definition beneath his dark T-shirt.
Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I want to slap myself for the reaction.
Trust him to show up looking more attractive than ever. Douche.
“Hi,” he says, like I haven’t spent the last three years dreaming of punching him in his gorgeous bastard face.
“Hello, Ethan.”
He stares at me, and as usual, I feel the vibration of him in the marrow of my bones.
“You look good, Cassie.”
“You, too.”
“Your hair is shorter.”
“Yours, too.”
He takes a step forward, and I hate the way he looks at me. Appraising and approving. Hungry. It draws me in against my will, like he’s flypaper, and everything inside me is buzzing and trying to wrench itself free.