A Midsummer Night's Fling (Stage Kiss Series Book 1)

by Beth Matthews

  Nicola folded her arms and waited, cool and collected as a queen.

  That's my girl.

  Judith stopped at the foot of the stage and, without even glancing at Nicola, said, "I'm sorry, but I need to cut this short. Ms. Charles, can you come in tomorrow to read for me again?"

  Max gaped. What is wrong with this lady? Sure, artistic directors were allowed to be prickly divas, they ran the show, after all. All the shows. Nicola had nailed the audition, the director wanted her, so making Nicola audition again just felt like some weird power play.

  Nicola worked her jaw, clearly offended, but fighting to stay professional. "Of course. What time?"

  "No. Nonono no nono no." Rita sliced her arm through the air. "No, Judith. That is not acceptable. We need to settle this today."

  "We need a Titania," Max put in, not glancing at Nicola as he said it. "Ms. O'Fallon, do you honestly think you'll find someone better for our production than Nic – than Ms. Charles?"

  Judith's nostrils flared, her cool gray eyes narrowing to slits. Finally, she flung her hands up. "All right. You, Nicola, come in tomorrow to sign your equity contract." With a dramatic flair not quite on par with Isabelle's, Judith whirled around and pretty much stormed out of the theater.

  Rita let out a shrill victory cry and threw herself on Nicola for a hug. Max grinned, big and goofy. He had a Titania again. He had Nicola again.

  Her gaze met his over Rita's back, and Nicola stilled, her face blanking out.

  What the –

  Nicola had the part, she should be thrilled. So why did she look like she had to barf again?

  She eased away from Rita and murmured something. Rita pointed to the backstage area. Giving the group at large a reassuring wave, Nicola hurried off stage left toward the dressing rooms.

  "Maxim, I need you to – "

  He waved Rita to silence. "Give me a second?" Gut churning with unease, Max jogged backstage, following – OK maybe chasing – Nicola.

  He found her in the green room leaning in the doorway, half-in, half-out, with a faraway expression in her eyes. In his younger days, Max had learned to recognize that look, and put as much distance between himself and The Look as possible. Avoidance had always been his favorite way to solve conflicts. But not now. Five years hadn't only made him older.

  When she saw him, she held a hand out to stop him walking closer. "I'm fine."

  "Bullshit."

  She flashed him an irritated glance but didn't say anything.

  "Nic, what's wrong?"

  She looked up, her eyes soft, her mouth half-parted. Awareness of her body flamed over him. Memories of the taste of her skin and the softness at the base of her throat had his lower self springing to attention.

  Real professional there, Max. He shifted, uncomfortably aware of what a schmuck he was. Still, he wasn't going to walk away. "Nicola. Tell me."

  She sucked in a deep breath and, when her gaze flicked to his mouth, he thought he might explode. "This, Fiesengerke." She cupped the back of his head, yanking his face down to her. "This is what's wrong."

  Then she kissed him.

  As her mouth touched his, he thought, This is a bad idea.

  But still Max grinned against her lips. After all, he'd sort of been hoping this was the problem all along.

  Chapter Six

  As soon as her lips touched his, Nicola knew she'd made a terrible mistake.

  But, wow, did she not give a shit.

  This kiss was an inevitability, the climax of the sexual tension that had been kindling inside her since they began the scene. Since I opened the door this afternoon and saw him. She sighed into his mouth, her eyes prickling.

  Five years. Five years and it might as well have been a second. Or a lifetime. I don't know him anymore. Didn't know what he'd done for the last few years, didn't know how he'd changed, who he was.

  And yet.

  Skin remembered skin. And her mouth opened against his with the ease of tender familiarity. She didn't really know him anymore, but her body remembered every inch of his, every touch, every breath they breathed together, every feeling.

  His mouth was soft and warm as his tongue swept into her mouth. Heat pooled between her thighs, a greedy, selfish want for all he could give her.

  Don't start this again. But she wanted to give in, to let go, to lose herself to him. I don't care. I don't care. With a small sigh, she deepened the kiss, her tongue clashing with his. Delicious friction. Primal need. Yes.

  Max groaned into her mouth and pushed his body close to hers, backing her against the doorframe. Backing her up hard enough her head knocked into the doorframe.

  He broke away. "Shit. I'm sorry."

  "Ow?" Nicola rubbed her sore spot and shot him a laughing glance. "Boy, this really is like old times."

  "Ah, intermissions." He grinned. "The one time I could kiss you as much as I wanted."

  "Until you inevitably knocked me into a wall."

  He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I never meant to bang you into that wall backstage."

  "Old habits. Ha. Is this a kiss or a concussion?"

  "Both?" He leaned toward her, so warm, so familiar.

  He'll never be what you need him to be. The thought seared into her mind, sucking all the sweetness out of her surrender. She drew away, her body tingling in anticipation of the delights which would never come now.

  "Nicola?"

  She ducked, dodging his hands when he tried to stop her retreat. "I have to go."

  "Nic?"

  "I have to go." That was all she could say. Not 'Why are we kissing?' or 'What does this mean?' and, most especially, not 'Do you want me back?'.

  His answer to any one of those questions could flatten her more efficiently than a falling piece of scenery. No matter what Max said, good or bad. Each answer could be equally devastating when Max entered the game.

  Better to run. Anything else would be cracking open the Pandora's box of break-up baggage.

  "Nic – "

  "I have to go." But, before she went, she made the mistake of glancing back. His gaze crossed with hers, and he looked vulnerable, sweet, the shadow of the boy she'd loved shining in his eyes.

  Swallowing fear and regret both, she rushed out and tugged the door closed behind her.

  ***

  After Nicola kissed him, Max used the side exit to leave the theater, not wanting to talk to or see anyone.

  Which, of course, meant that as soon as Max reached his car and pulled onto the road his cell rang. Inwardly cursing, he activated the hands-free. "Hello?"

  "Tag, bro! Wie gehts?" his brother's voice boomed over the speakers.

  Max blinked at the German, readjusted his brain, then he answered his brother in the same tongue, "Hi, Pete. Are you on set?" They'd grown up speaking only German at home with their immigrant mother. But these days the Fiesengerke brothers only used the language with their mother or when they wanted a private mode of communication in the midst of other people.

  "Ja," Peter's voice bobbled on the word, as if he were walking. "There's a reporter from E.W. running around. Nice kid, but you know how it is."

  Actually I don't, Max thought in mild irritation. His brush with a film career, with even a tiny smidgeon of fame, had been brief and painful. Nothing like his brother's meteoric rise to A-list movie star. Nevertheless, Max made sympathetic noises.

  "So, was Mom pissed that I missed Passover?" Peter asked.

  "What do you think?"

  Peter made a neutral sound in the back of his throat. "Moment mal?"

  "Ja."

  Peter dropped his cell down so it thunked over the line.

  While he waited for his brother to get on the phone again, Max counted back, trying to remember the last time he'd seen Peter in the flesh.

  The phone thunked again as Peter scraped it off whatever surface he'd placed it on. "OK. We're cool." Peter shifted to English, and Max swiftly forced his brain to code switch. "I'm in my trailer," Peter said, sounding put-u
pon. "Hey, tell Ma I'm not entirely irredeemable; my director's Jewish so he and I did the whole Passover thing together with some of the crew."

  "That's good." Max huffed his breath out, still reeling over the holiday math he'd done. "Pete, we haven't seen you out here since October."

  Peter groaned. "I know I'm a bad son. You think Mom doesn't lay that on me with a trowel when I call her?"

  Max gripped the steering wheel, restraining an urge to yell. Peter had time to spirit his hottie costar to the Bahamas, and yet he could never manage flying home for Passover. Or Thanksgiving. Or his mother's birthday. Peter was good about calling and keeping in touch, but that wasn't quite the same, was it?

  "How's life at the playhouse treating you?" Peter asked.

  Max stifled a sharp retort. No surprise his illustrious brother should rub him wrong after the bitch of a day Max had had. Still, whenever Peter asked about work it always set Max off, because it always felt like Peter was asking, 'Did you get a real acting job yet?'

  "Work is fine," Max said. "We started Midsummer rehearsals."

  "Mom told me your Titania bugged out?"

  "Uh. Yeah." Crap. Max made the turning into his driveway and sat in the car, letting the motor run. How had he overlooked his family with regards to the Nicola Issue? Crap. "We recast the part today. I think the new actress will be great. Better than the first girl."

  "Awesome."

  Max held his breath, mentally chanting, Don't ask. Don't ask. Don't –

  "Anyone I know?" Peter asked.

  Max bared his teeth at the phone and emitted a voiceless growl.

  Well, his family would find out eventually. His mom always went to opening nights, and he should give her a heads up about Nicola before then. Max stiffened his arms against the steering wheel, bracing himself. "It's Nicola."

  Silence again. Crushing silence for several long heartbeats and then, "Bullshit."

  Max sighed. "It was Rita's idea. You know: the director of the play. She heard Nicola was in town and between acting jobs. It was good luck. Kismet."

  "Shit. Maaaax."

  Max writhed at the come-on tone in his brother's voice. "It was Rita's suggestion." I just didn't say no.

  "You're not going to get together with Nicola again," Peter declared. "You're not."

  What is with everybody? "I'm not."

  "She drove you crazy. You screwed up your film career because of her."

  Max clenched his jaw, reining in all the retorts he could make to that fucking spectacular piece of spin from his brother. Peter wasn't totally out of line but, "You didn't exactly help my film career either, asshole."

  "Fuck." Peter sighed. "See? It's already starting. Seeing Nicola has you dredging up all that old shit."

  Max squeezed the steering wheel – not the best substitute for his brother's neck, but he had to make do. "Pete, it's happened. So drop this."

  "Max," Peter softened his voice, and the tone conveyed a sense of stepping back, ratcheting down. "You two tried before. Twice. I like her. I always did. But, man, come on."

  Max thumped his head back on the seat. The memory of her lips burned against his, and tension gathered low in his belly. He didn't know what he wanted from her, but he sure as hell wanted something. "Peter, I'm telling you to let this lie."

  "You're my baby brother, and I know it's against the Code of Manliness or whatever to say so, but I don't want you getting hurt again."

  Max grinned. "Ah, Petey, I'm all verklempt."

  "Asshole."

  "Look, I'm not going after Nicola." She doesn't want me to anyway, Max thought, and was suddenly very depressed. "But if I do go after her, then you have my permission to fly here and whack me upside the head."

  "Deal." Peter's voice was hearty, cheerful again. "Just substitute 'whack me upside the head' with punch you in the face and we're golden." Murmurs sounded in the background on Peter's end of the line and. All of a sudden, Max's brother switched to German. "They need me on set. Remember what I said."

  "Yeah, yeah."

  "Don't sleep with her."

  "Awww. Ich liebe dich auch, Peter." Not wanting to give his brother an opportunity for the last word, Max hung up. He grinned and dusted his hands. Done and done.

  But really, what was with everyone? He and Nicola weren't Burton and Taylor here.

  Of course, they had had the occasional fight. Toward the end. A few stuck out like particularly sore spots on his head. He'd been drunkenly spouting Romeo to her, and she'd locked herself in the bathroom at a party. Or that time she'd thrown a hissy fit over one of the love scenes in a movie he was shooting. The time he'd called her clingy and accused her of not having her own life –

  Max finally remembered to turn off the engine in his car, but he still sat there for a long while, thinking. Remembering . . . Working with her. Playing. Fights. Make ups. Missing her. Wanting her. Hating and loving, wanting to stay, wanting to go. He groaned. "Damn you, Peter."

  If Peter hadn't brought up all their old drama, Max could have ignored that random, electrifying kiss today. Max was, after all, a master of the let's-pretend-this-never-happened school of life. But now, thinking of the sheer accumulated avalanche of history between himself and Nicola, Max realized his usual go with the flow strategy wouldn't work.

  He was going to have to break the Code of Manliness.

  He was going to have to talk to Nicola.

  About his feelings.

  "Shit."

  ***

  The next morning, Nicola showed up to her first day at the RSF bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to storm the castle. She pulled into the theater's parking lot way early for her appointment and heard her phone chime. She dug it out to see a text from Cassie: How'd it go yesterday? Audition, etc.

  Nicola grinned. I got the part!!! Starting rehearsals today.

  Awesome! :D And the Max . . . thing? Cassie wrote back.

  Nicola chewed her lip. Yes, she'd been up half the night worrying about Max, but she'd spent almost as much time worrying about Judith and the company dynamics and starting a new job and –

  She sucked in a deep breath then blew it out through her teeth. She did not need to get herself worked up right now. She typed back, Whatever issues the whole Max thing might present, I am totally excited about the acting portion of this job.

  OK. Well good. Talk later?

  Yeah. :) Nicola turned off her ringer, sure she would forget to do so if she waited, and dropped the phone in her bag.

  She rolled out of her car and leaned against the door, beaming at her new place of employment. The RSF buildings and theaters were housed on what had once been the estate of an infamous Hollywood spitfire, the red-headed siren Armina Elton. But the grounds didn't resemble anything like someone's home now. The admin offices were housed over the box office in a tall, narrow building with wood planked walls and a green shingle roof. A boxy staircase zagged up one side with a hand-painted sign saying "Offices".

  The top of the main stage poked over the line of trees down the hill, and as Nicola stared at the company's grounds, her insides buzzed with a singsong of opportunity, opportunity. If she did well in this show, then she was setting herself up for the chance to do all kinds of things, to play all kinds of parts. The RSF could become a safe haven for her, the sort of home every actor longs for but few ever find. Or keep.

  A car turned into the space beside Nicola's, and she jumped at the sound of the door opening.

  I need more coffee. She wheeled away from the theater to get her rehearsal bag out of her own backseat and came face to face with Isabelle Elton.

  Nicola swallowed. "Good morning, Ms. Elton."

  "Call me Isabelle. Please." Isabelle flashed her a polite, distracted smile. "Pretty view, isn't it?"

  "Very pretty." Nicola turned back, drinking in the sights again, admiring the soft gray beauty of the overcast sky, the rustic line of tree and building – mostly so she could avoid looking at Isabelle. The artistic director rubbed Nicola's nerves raw, as i
f a 7.0 earthquake were trembling beneath the other woman's cool façade – a surplus of feeling which could break at any moment.

  Isabelle jerked her chin toward the admin building. "If you follow me into the office we can get your contract signed before you see Tierney for your costume fitting. This way." The artistic director started toward the admin building. Nicola shrugged the strap of her rehearsal bag onto her shoulder and followed Isabelle up the stairs to the offices.

  The interior of the admin building was painted a soft champagne color with modern light fixtures and plush leather seats in the waiting area. Framed shots from dozens of the RSF's shows graced the walls, and Nicola had to restrain an urge to linger.

  "Look around if you want," Isabelle said, poised in her office door.

  Not needing to be told twice, Nicola dumped her rehearsal bag into one of the guest chairs. The photos were pretty standard fare: record shots from past productions at the RSF showing comical scenes or a stunning tableau, anything that had made a good picture.

  She caught a glimpse of Armina Elton's famous face and leaned nearer to that image, surprised to find herself staring at a shot of the movie star and a young Isabelle onstage together. Isabelle sat at a vanity table, staring shakily ahead as she put on lipstick. Her mother stood behind her, arms waving, a manic expression on her face.

  "Gypsy," Isabelle explained. Nicola jumped to find her standing so close. Isabelle nodded toward the frame. "Gypsy was the last show Mother did before she retired. The entire run of that show sold out. Only time that's happened in the RSF's history."

  "Your parents founded the RSF together, right?"

  "Yes. After Mama stopped making films she got so bored, waiting for parts to come along. And she had this huge estate. The RSF literally got its start when my parents put together a production of As You Like It in the barn with a bunch of friends. Rosalind was always Mama's favorite Shakespeare part. Here." Isabelle pulled one of the pictures off the wall and handed the frame to Nicola.

  The picture showed Armina Elton and her third husband, the famous opera singer Bastian DeMarco, clasping each other in the kind of passionate embrace you only ever saw onstage. Or pirate movies. Armina was in some kind of harem girl costume as she tried to twist away. Bastian wore a long and very red cape with a matching mask as he held her close to him. "This is from the RSF's first season ever," Isabelle said. "My dad made her do The Desert Song so he could have a chance to sing. Tierney keeps bugging me to put that show in the season again." Isabelle puffed her breath out on a small hmm, then lifted the picture from Nicola's hands and stuck the photo back on the wall. "Let's get your contract signed, eh?"