"No rehearsal?" Judith asked.
"I needed to get something from the admin building."
"Ah."
Max waited, but Judith continued staring at him, a flirty smirk curling her mouth. Was he pumping pheromones this week or something? With Nicola jumping him yesterday and Judith undressing him with her eyes, he felt a bit overwhelmed. He didn't want to flirt, not before coffee, but he couldn't shove past Judith either.
"I wanted to get some time alone with you, Max," she said, forehead furrowed with thought.
"Excuse me?"
She shot him a startled glance then gave a throaty laugh, patting his arm. "Oh no. Max, honestly. I wanted to talk to you for a bit about some stuff coming up the pike for the fall."
"Oh. Sure. Whenever." Maybe that hadn't been an invitation earlier? Maybe Judith just had a flirty personality?
"Tonight," she said. "After your rehearsal? The two of us could – "
Footsteps shuffled in the hallway and Judith eased back. Max seized his chance and started through the doorframe. He nearly bounced off Nicola as she rounded a corner fast.
Nicola stumbled then let out a relieved laugh. "Oh, thank goodness. I was scared I'd be late for rehearsal. Or, actually, I was scared I was going to be lost in the hallways forever and die of starvation."
"Rita sent me to find you," he lied.
Nicola raised an eyebrow but didn't contradict him. "Come on then, help me find my way to the main stage."
"Right. We'll talk later, Judith?" Max waved 'bye' to the director then hurried from the admin building.
As soon as they cleared the stairs, Nicola broke into an angry stride, her feet picking divots out of the gravel with each step.
"Hey," he called.
"Hey yourself," she tossed over her shoulder. "'Oh, Max,'" she cooed in a high falsetto. "I want some alone time with you."
Great. Max rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah." Nicola just didn't like Judith. Which he didn't really blame her for. Judith definitely seemed . . . complicated.
Nicola whirled on him, stopping so abruptly on the path he had to grab her arms to stop his own momentum and steady himself.
She flung his hands away. "You're too talented to pull that casting couch crap, Max."
"Thank you so much for implying I have to sleep with people to get parts."
"That’s not what I – "
"Anyway, not that it's your business – but I'm not sleeping with her."
"Yet."
"And you care why?"
A flush fanned over Nicola's cheeks, but she continued to glare. She worked her mouth a few times but failed to make sound.
She knows she's wrong. Max bit the inside of his cheek, fighting not to grin. Some trace of amusement must have leaked onto his face though because Nicola threw her hands into the air with exasperation. "You are such a jack ass," she snarled.
"No. I'm the fairy king," he pointed out, infinitely reasonable. "Gil is playing the jack ass."
Nicola crimped her mouth, acknowledging the joke but obviously wanting to hold onto her anger.
"Are we going to talk about yesterday?" he asked.
She froze and he thought she might say, Talk about what? but then resignation leaked into her eyes. "Fine." She made a You start gesture with her open palm.
"Why did that happen yesterday?" His gut was prickling, waiting to hear her answer.
"I don't know," she said. "We did the scene and it was just – and you kissed my neck first. I guess I – I had a relapse in judgment."
"A relapse? Gee thanks."
"You kissed me back. What were you thinking?"
"That I wanted to kiss you." He shrugged, uncomfortable.
"And?"
"And what?"
She studied him, brows furrowed, then tipped her head back to gaze skyward, her voice impatient. "It was the scene. We've always had good chemistry. The . . . thing . . . yesterday was residual of that. I needed to burn it off, I guess."
"Burn it off?"
"Get it out of my system."
"You make it sound like the stomach flu."
She soft-punched him on the arm, but she chuckled as she did it.
At the sight of her smile, something that had constricted in his chest loosened, making it easier to breathe. "So, Nicola Charles?" he asked.
"Yeah. 'Charles' is my stage name. I didn't want every casting director in Hollywood slaughtering Czerwinski for the rest of my life."
"Oh." Max used to have to worry about that, but his brother making it big had helped with the whole unpronounceable last name problem. One of the few upsides to his brother's fame. Maybe the only one. "A stage name. Good."
She scoffed. "Were you worried I was married?"
"No." Not really. Not much.
"You honestly think I would have kissed you yesterday if I were married? You are such a jack ass." She started down the path, shaking her head. "I should have asked for more money to do this play."
"Probably."
"And my own dressing room."
"Definitely."
"And some sort of cabana boy to feed me grapes in the breaks between scenes."
"Well," Max paused, putting on a thoughtful expression. "We don't have anyone like that on staff, but maybe one of the interns."
She shoved him, laughing. He caught her hand and pulled her close, slinging a playful arm around her waist. The movement was half-instinct, half-memory, but as soon as he pulled her close all of her softness molded to his body. The playfulness between them melted, steaming away. Something dark and needful settled in its place.
Her face stilled, going thoughtful, but she traced her palm up his spine, bending herself into him. Through the fabric of his shirt he could feel the heat of her hand, the gentle vibrancy of her touch. He couldn't help imagining bare skin and sweat, and that dainty, familiar hand touching him . . . everywhere. He leaned toward her, dipping his head. The need to complete this moment, to seal it with a kiss, became an actual hunger, an ache in his teeth.
But then she lurched backwards, breaking their embrace. As she shook her head, a thick lock of dark hair tumbled loose from her bun. "It doesn't work like this, Max."
Rattled, horny, frustrated almost to screaming, he released her and raked his fingers through his hair. "I know." And he did. He didn't want her back anymore than she wanted him. Not really.
Now if only his muscle memory would get that No-kissing-No-Nicola-No-way memo.
"We haven't spoken to each other in five years," she said, voice shaking. "We can't just pick up where we left off."
"I know."
"We cannot do this."
"Nicola." He waited, and when she looked at him he said again, slowly, "I know."
He moved away, scuffing a toe against the gravel path, avoiding her gaze as he tried to figure out how they could recapture their earlier companionship. How could he be close to her, but still keep her at arm's length? "So, um." He fought for a casual tone. "What have you been up to for the last five years?"
"Ah. Well." She rubbed the back of her neck, restless. "I've pretty much been on tour for the last few years."
"Tour?"
"Musicals."
"You always did want to do more singing."
"Oh, I don't know if you heard: my mom re-married and moved to Florida. The new guy's a rabbi."
"Is he?" Max laughed. "Your mom has a rabbi fetish."
"Tell me about it." Nicola's dad had been a rabbi. He'd left her mom for another woman and abandoned Nicola to move to another state.
Max kicked a toe through the dirt. "Is your dad . . . do you see him much?"
"Nope. He's still in DC. He calls at Passover and Yom Kippur. Is your mom still in town?"
"Yes." He blew a quick breath out, which was a bit easier now the air wasn't charged with the electricity of their attraction. "With his paycheck from Fortune's Fool, Peter bought Mom a house. Actually, he bought her two houses because the first one was too big for her. I live in the big one now. It's sort
of become a boarding house for the RSF. Lachlan and one of the other company members, this guy Abe, rooms with me. You haven't met Abe yet." The key was to keep talking. Or babbling. Whatever it takes.
Kissing her would be fatal. Neither one of them could walk away from that. Not again.
She peered up at him, her brown eyes bright and beautiful. "And your acting career? I mean I – once Peter made it so big I was surprised you didn't get more work. Hollywood loves siblings."
"After you and I . . . " He winced and chewed the side of his cheek. Did he really want to tell her about his fall from grace? His blacklisting in Hollywood? How he couldn't get a job outside the RSF? All the ways he had so spectacularly fucked up his life when they broke up?
No. Not really. "Few years ago I decided I wanted a break from the screen," he said. "I wasn't exactly getting juicy roles. High school football player . . . "
"The love interest in that coming of age weepy. What was it called? Summer Kisses?"
Warmth flushed through him. "You saw that?"
She cleared her throat. "Well no. But a bunch of my friends were obsessed with it when I was on the Wicked tour."
"Oh." He worked to keep his voice normal and not at all disappointed. After all, would he have gone to see a movie starring Nicola right after they'd broken up?
Yes. His brain replied at once. Hadn't he watched that one Pringles commercial she'd done on endless repeat on YouTube for months? Missing her. Torturing himself –
She was staring curiously at him, maybe worrying she had hurt his feelings. He hurried to fill the conversational lapse. "After Summer Kisses my agent suggested I try some theater. I auditioned here at RSF for a part in King Lear. I got to play Edgar." His first part sober and he'd tackled Shakespeare. No wonder his reviews had sucked but still, "I loved it. It was like coming home."
She bit her lip, her voice flattening out. "Home."
"Yeah. I mean, I do other work when I can get it. I've got a big hamburger commercial coming out soon. But this is the place I'll always return to. This is home."
"I shouldn't have taken this part," she murmured.
He touched her shoulder, just a small brush with his fingertips, and he softened his voice. "Maybe not. But you're stuck, Nic."
She nodded, not looking at him.
"So," he said, "how do we make this work?"
"I guess we get through it as best we can. And remember all the reasons we're apart."
"Right."
She jabbed his chest with her finger. "Like you're irresponsible."
He caught her hand and held it. "And you're controlling."
"And you party too much."
"And you're antisocial."
"And we make each other miserable when we're together." She blinked her gaze up to meet his and gently tugged her hand free.
He grinned. "I'm not miserable right now."
"When we're dating, jack ass."
"I did miss you, Nicci." He reached to tuck that errant strand of hair behind her ear.
She slapped his hand back and jabbed him in the chest again with her finger. "That. None of that. Look at me." She grabbed his chin and dragged him down to her level. "I'm a bad-tempered, needy, controlling harpy. Right?"
As she released him, he rubbed his jaw and shot her a dubious expression, but she just jutted her chin out, forcing him to play along. With a sigh, he pointed at himself. "And I'm an immature, reckless emotional-fuckwit."
"Yes."
"Right."
Her face screwed up in an adorable frown. "Are we really going to try this? Be friends?"
He studied her, and fought his first instinct which was – OK yes, to kiss her. Instead, he tried to project as much confidence as he could into his voice. "Yes. We are friends now." He grabbed her hand and gave it a loose, flapping shake. "See. We shook. It's official. Just friends."
"OK." Nicola flashed him a weak smile then strolled off down the path. He watched her go, forcing himself not to ogle her so-pattable ass in its tight jeans.
Because friends don't ogle friend's asses.
Friends. He sighed. Great.
"I quite like her, Max." Lachlan's voice floated out from the tree line behind him. "What is an 'emotional-fuckwit'?"
Max let out a grunt of annoyance. "Lachlan."
Lachlan leaned around the edge of the tree trunk he'd been lurking behind. He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, stuck it in his mouth and used what looked very much like Tierney's lighter to set the end aflame.
"Does Tierney know you have that?" Max asked.
Lachlan blew a stream of smoke out through his nostrils. "She knows I pick her pocket when she pisses me off." He offered Max the pack of cigarettes.
Max shook his head 'no,' even as his nerves jolted, craving the nicotine so bad his mouth watered. Damn. He hadn't had a cigarette in three years and now he was craving them? Stress no doubt. He glanced over in the direction Nicola had disappeared. Maybe a little sexual frustration too. "Shouldn't you be at rehearsal, Lach?"
"Would Rita start rehearsal without her star player? I think not."
Max rolled his eyes. "I have as many lines as you do."
"Actually, I have four more lines than you do. Better speeches too. Hem. 'If we shadows have offended – '"
"And the chick playing Hermia has more lines than either of us."
Lachlan studied the burning end of his cigarette, almost posing, before he shot Max a quick sideways glance. "The word's out Henry V is going to be the tent-pole production for the fall season. Judith O'Fallon is directing."
Max sucked in a deep breath. Suddenly, his meeting with Judith was a lot more important.
Hamlet was, of course, supposed to be the Great Part for every young male actor. But Max, for his money, had always harbored a secret preference for Henry V. Henry V as a play also had action, romance, and those great bombastic speeches specifically written to stir a man's blood. The Harfleur speech. St Crispin's Day.
Unbidden, the words unspooled from the back of Max's brain, and he could taste the lines on his tongue, rich and satisfying as a gourmet feast . . . 'I am not covetous for gold. Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive . . . '
Max swallowed with difficulty. Somehow all the spit in his mouth seemed to have dried up. Damn, I want that part. "Henry V?" Max said. "That's interesting."
"Yes, I think I'll quite like playing Henry." Lingering over his cigarette, Lachlan puffed out a smoke ring then tossed the butt onto the path and stubbed it out with his sneaker. With a jaunty salute, he wandered down the hill to rehearsal.
Jerk. After Lachlan left, Max's blood raced inside him as if he'd been punched. Appropriate enough reaction; Lachlan had just thrown down the gauntlet at his feet. The arrogant Brit was giving notice he thought King Henry belonged to him, and was probably planning to do everything he could to get the part.
Not gonna happen.
Max jogged away with new purpose. He was going to play King Henry. And to do it, he was going to charm the pants off Judith, jump through whatever hoops she set in his way. He was going to get that part.
No matter what it took.
Chapter Eight
Fortunately for Nicola's emotional equilibrium, the morning of her first rehearsal was devoted to scene work with Gil, running Bottom and Titania stuff. For whatever reason, Rita was saving the Oberon and Titania scenes for after lunch. Max was around, running to get props, helping Rita troubleshoot on some of the blocking. Nicola was surprised to see him acting almost as an assistant director for Rita. He'd never been that responsible before. Still, the busier he was the better. Less chance for anything to happen.
Unfortunately for Nicola, about three hours into rehearsal Judith O'Fallon slid through the doors of the theater and plunked herself into the back row of seats. She sat there and watched rehearsal, like a silver-haired Opera Ghost, until Nicola's shoulders started to itch from the power of Judith's frowning star
e alone.
Great. Nicola thought. Fumbling through her first rehearsal, being four weeks behind everyone else, wasn't bad enough? Nicola got to have an audience for her screw-ups? A hostile audience.
Nicola and Gil were re-running their first scene together, Nicola trying to remember her blocking without the script notes when Judith's throaty alto erupted from the back row, filling the theater. "Rita!"
Nicola fought to keep her face impassive. She'd felt good running that scene, like she was making smart choices, finding her rhythm. Then Judith caroled out from the back row and stopped everything. Like train cars piling up in a wreck, Nicola's concentration, her confidence, staggered and shattered.
Rita stomped halfway down the stage steps, her jaw rigid as she faced the new artistic director. "Yes, Judith?"
"I'm so sorry to interrupt rehearsal." Judith hopped to her feet and sauntered down the aisle. "Can I borrow your Titania for some private coaching? I want to work on the verse with her. Make sure she hits the ground running."
Judith didn't glance Nicola's way once during this whole speech. As if Nicola weren't standing there while one of the artistic directors insulted her in front of the whole cast. And I get to keep standing here and take it because Judith is the boss. Anger buzzed through Nicola's veins, gathering like fire behind her breastbone, but she forced her lips to curl into something resembling a smile, forced her eyes to kindle as if pleased.
When Judith faced Nicola, the other woman had a smile as sweet as snake venom on her own lips.
Rita pinched her nose, the wrinkles on her tanned face deepening. She cast a glance of apology at Nicola then waved her hands, bracelets chinking together. "Fine. Fine. Not too long. I want to get through Act Two today with Nicola."
Judith made no reply other than to take Nicola by the arm and drag her backstage to one of the underground rehearsal rooms. The room was small, with rolling mirrors parked in one corner and a wooden floor that was slippery under Nicola's low friction flats. Judith strode to a position in one corner, arms folded, and watched her.
Nicola fluttered her eyelashes and waited. Just waited. I can play chicken too, lady. And she could take whatever torture Judith decided to dish out.
A Midsummer Night's Fling (Stage Kiss Series Book 1) Page 7
