My drawers turned into water droplets and then disappeared, just like Ginny said.
I took the hand he offered, shaking it firmly and trying not to pant like a dog in heat, and then dropped it as soon as possible. After less than forty-eight hours, he had the lowest ratings on my referral website and something unappealing happened between him and Chaney that had sent her running home barefoot. This was exactly why I’d started the damn site—so I wouldn’t be seduced by accents and green eyes and dimples only to be left feeling disappointed and vaguely hopeless for the survival of the species after consummation.
So Cole was hot. That wouldn’t last forever.
Feeling more in control, I stood up and brushed my ponytail behind my shoulders, then shouldered my bag. “My friend Chaney said your full name is Cole Fucking Stuart. Do you go by that all the time, or only when you’re tossing girls out to walk home alone after midnight?”
A startled expression darkened his eyes but he didn’t look away. His balls, at least in this scenario, kind of impressed me.
“You’re a Delta?”
“Bright, too. How did Whitman manage to wrangle you away from Oxford?”
“Look, I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression of me, which is what happens when you listen to idle gossip.”
Oops. I didn’t want him to think Chaney had come home all crying and upset, especially when she’d been more pissed than anything and had seemed fine since that night. Whatever had happened between them, it hadn’t been a broken heart or even ruptured feelings. “She didn’t say anything about it, to be honest. I surmised based on…visual observations.”
He grimaced. “I can see we got off on the wrong foot….”
The pause was obviously meant to be filled with my name. There was no reason to act the petulant child, especially given that we had class together. “Ruby Cotton.”
“That’s where I know you from! I saw you play Rosalind last summer at Shakespeare in the Park. You were pure dead brilliant!”
It was hard to stay surly in the face of compliments. They were like oxygen to any artist, and a smile spread across my cheeks. The way his lips formed the strange phrase pure dead brilliant didn’t hurt, either. “Thanks. I love Shakespeare.”
“It shows.” He shifted his weight, glancing out the window. “I, um. Well. I admit I came over here to ask if you’d like to grab lunch with me, but given your opinion, I’m guessing that’s a no from you?”
My body begged me to say yes. He was gorgeous, he made me smile, and for everything I’d heard said about him, Cole seemed nice. But I wasn’t looking for nice. Michael had been nice, too. Everything about Cole said he would charm me into bed—shit, I already liked him—then realize I wasn’t a girl he could toss on the back of his white horse and gallop home to his castle.
Besides, the girls of Whitman had spoken.
“I’m having coffee with Em.”
He gave me a small smile, flushing me with strange heat. “Another time, then.”
Cole exited the classroom, leaving me alone with the vague scent of chlorine and sweat that must have been clinging to him this whole time. His ass looked great in a pair of khaki shorts.
Get hold of your libido, Cotton. Looking good in khaki shorts is a frat boy requirement.
“So?” Emilie grinned at me and stood up from where she’d been leaning against the wall in the hallway.
“So, what?”
“Do you have a date with Mr. Star Swimmer Scottish Hottie?”
Swimmer. That explained the chlorine. “No.”
“What? Why not? He had that goofy I’m smitten with gorgeous Ruby look all over him.” Emilie pouted, crossing her arms over her boobs in the way that always filled me with envy.
My arms only smashed my chest flatter. All of the sudden, fatigue from the early morning hit me and a yawn escaped. “Come on, Em. You can grill me over coffee.”
We traipsed the two blocks to The Grind, grabbing a table by the front window that reminded me of the day I’d met Quinn here last semester, when he’d first admitted his feelings for Emilie. I would never, ever have guessed they’d end up hopelessly in love.
Emilie pried the plastic lid off her to-go cup, blowing the steam from her nonfat cappuccino toward me. Her long black hair stuck to her shoulders, sweaty from our short hike, and I felt my shoulders relax. It felt nice, to be hanging out.
She raised her eyebrows. “How much do you hate me for dropping off the face of the earth?”
“Not at all,” I said, without hesitation. “Totally normal. I mean, I miss seeing you every day, but it’s not like we were going to end up like the Golden Girls or anything. It was going to happen eventually.”
“We’re still roommates, Rubes.”
“Em. It’s okay. Yes, you technically still room with me, but you haven’t spent the night there in two weeks. Frankly, I’m not convinced you and Quinn spend more than two consecutive hours out of bed.”
“Don’t be silly. We managed four the other day.” She grinned, her cheeks pink and dark eyes sparkling.
The jealousy that stabbed my heart didn’t have anything to do with my begrudging Emilie this amazing outcome—she deserved every bit of her happiness. It had everything to do with my wanting something amazing of my own and knowing it wasn’t here.
“Remind me to give Quinn a gold star the next time I see him.”
We sipped the blessed caffeine in silence for a few minutes, people watching through the window as kids hustled through the first day of the new semester. It always felt exciting for about a week, until new classes turned into old classes and homework piled up.
“Did you get that e-mail about the sex referral site where girls can rate the Whitman guys? It’s equal parts crazy and brilliant.”
I hid a smile. “You don’t say?”
“Quinn checked every hour waiting to see his five stars start showing up.”
I snorted. Typical Quinn Rowland. “You can tell him to give it a rest. He’s not going to be on the site.”
“What? How do you….” A lightbulb flashed in her eyes and she leaned toward me. “It’s you?” She hissed.
“Yeah.”
“Ruby! How could you not tell me! When did this happen?”
“I swear it was like, twenty-four hours between idea inception and execution. I paid a computer science geek to set it up for me. But I’m filtering Quinn’s referrals.”
“I don’t care about that. Trust me, I don’t need a referral for him. But…tell me how you came up with the idea.”
The mischievous grin on her face delighted me. We’d discovered a shared interest in playing amateur detective shortly after becoming roommates, and neither of us had issues scheming to get our answers. We’d had a ball freshman year figuring out who slept with our philosophy prof and got him fired, who kept leaving nasty used condoms in the showers, and whether or not the girl next door was a lesbian.
The latter had involved both Emilie and I ending up in a rather compromising situation that would probably get us into next month’s Penthouse, if we wrote it up. But we always got our info.
She’d run a brilliant one of her own on Quinn’s half-brother Sebastian last semester.
“The other night, some of the girls were telling horror stories about sex gone wrong. Oh! Plus, I caught Chaney Robbins on a walk of shame, all pissed off and coming from Cole Stuart’s—he’s also got a bunch of low ratings on the site already. After two days. That’s why I said no.”
“Hmm. Good call, then.” She grinned. “I love this so much. Stupid guys always get away with shit like this, judging us for our boobs or whether we gained five pounds over the holidays. Why shouldn’t we expect them to at least try? Trust me, after the last—”
“Emilie, stop. Do not finish that sentence, or I’m going to have to kill you.”
“Sorry. What’s going on with Liam? I bet he’s no disappointment.”
“Oh, shit.” I flew out of my chair, checking the time on my phone.
“What?”
“I’ve got to go. I have a costume fitting at one. Totally slipped my mind.”
“Okay, well, see you at the meeting!” Emilie shouted as I raced out the door of The Grind and onto the street.
Chapter Three
My life had been a struggle to fit in since fifth grade, when I’d traded my comfortable, country classroom for the scratchy woolen uniforms of Saint Jude’s Academy, and the friends who ran amok and barefoot for the miniature grownups who didn’t take to newcomers.
My mother had lectured me for seven years that money spent the same no matter how old it was, and by now I should have felt more comfortable among my financial peers. I was smart enough to realize my own discomfort caused at least fifty percent of the issue, but it didn’t stop me from longing to trade the caste system of Whitman—ranked by family and pedigree—for the masses of the New York theatre world. I liked the idea of starting from nothing, clawing my way up, and eventually stepping on the heads of lesser actresses to make a name for myself because of my talent.
I’d done that in the community theatre, and Geoff Parsons, the director for this show, didn’t give a shit who my parents were or weren’t. He cared that I delivered a kickass performance.
There was a good chance he’d invite some of his high-powered friends down for opening night in a month, and a performance that stuck in their minds could mean work after graduation. At the very least it meant being remembered, and that was never a bad thing.
I sped across town, pushing the speed limits as much as I dared in an effort not to piss off the man with serious Broadway connections. One more speeding ticket and my dad’s head was going to spin off into another dimension, not to mention he’d promised he wouldn’t pay a lawyer, but make me go to court instead. That would be real waste of a day.
When I traded the muggy Florida August for the air-conditioned costume room, the clock on my phone said I’d made it with a minute to spare. The space was functional, with white walls, linoleum floors, and three large cutting and sewing tables in the middle surrounded by racks and racks of clothing. Shelves of hats, wigs, shoes, suspenders, feather boas, and a plethora of other accessories stacked against the back wall. I loved it in here, actually. It felt like I could slip into a hundred different bodies, be anyone I chose.
I could be happy, sad, in love, a murderer…but at the end of the day, I could hang the feelings up with my costume and leave their troubles behind. Ruby’s troubles stayed.
Shae, the girl in charge of costume design and wardrobe, didn’t look up from her sewing machine, but pointed a finger back toward the door. “Geoff wants to see you first.”
My stomach tightened. I hadn’t done anything wrong that I knew of, and his feedback had all been positive and constructive, but those six words made me question my instincts.
The steps back downstairs seemed to go on forever under my shaky legs. Geoff’s office was backstage, situated under the lofted costume room, and stayed completely bare but for his cluttered desk and metal folding chair. It always made me hold my breath, the idea that he could pack up and leave inside of five minutes and never look back.
He glanced up when I rapped on the open door, then went back to scratching notes inside a bound script. “Just a sec.”
I loitered in the doorway, feeling awkward, but there wasn’t a second chair. Geoff didn’t believe in private chats and he wasn’t the casting couch type. He tossed the script aside after another couple of notations, then waved me closer.
“I have an opportunity for you.”
His typical get-to-the-point personality unknotted my stomach and relieved the tension balling between my shoulder blades. “What are you thinking?”
“You’re a talented actress, Ruby, and unlike most of these artsy idiots, you’re also good with people. I’m on the board of directors at a local children’s theatre, and they’re doing a Shakespeare session with their advanced students. I know how you love it, and wanted to ask you first if you’d be willing to work with the kids.”
“What does that entail, exactly?” And why would I want to do that?
I kept that thought private, knowing he would take it the wrong way. I didn’t hate kids or anything, but between classes, West Side Story, and my DE duties, my calendar was already full to bursting.
“It’s a two-week session, so it will end before we open, which will be good, and you’ll still have time to prep for the fall production at Whitman. The curriculum is already set—we’ve picked out certain scenes from different plays, because honestly, a lot of ol’ Willie’s stuff isn’t appropriate for fifth-graders—so you’ll demonstrate, then work with them on understanding the words, facial expressions, projecting, characterization, all of that. Nothing too stressful.”
“Okay…”
He gave me a wry smile that said he heard my earlier unasked question. “You should work on your offstage acting skills, Ruby. If you want to know what’s in it for you, the board of directors includes a couple of very influential casting directors out of Miami, and a couple more that work steadily in New York. It’s a great networking opportunity for a girl with Broadway ambitions, and it’s always good to have people like you both on and offstage.”
Excitement replaced my original lack of enthusiasm. Connections were half the battle, and as long as I’d be there anyway, introducing a new generation of kids to Shakespeare started to sound like a worthwhile cause. I nodded. “Sounds good. When do I start?”
“Are you busy this afternoon?”
I ran my calendar quickly through my head. “No, I guess not.”
“Here.” He handed me a business card with an address. “They’re expecting you at four.”
“You were sure I’d agree?”
“You’re smart, and also, you’re not as shallow as you seem to enjoy letting people think. That will be all.” He dismissed me with the words, tugging a different script toward him and grabbing his pencil.
I backed out, unable to stop my happiness at the fact that he’d thought of me—he must think I have a real shot at continuing my career after college. His parting words bothered me, though. The fact that he saw through my carefully forged smokescreen scared me.
I shook off my worry. Geoff had a way of really seeing people. It made him a great director, being able to judge talent in the face of nerves or an off day. Normal people weren’t so intuitive.
When I stepped through the door to the costume room a second time, Shae tossed a calf-length powder blue dress at me, then pointed me toward the makeshift fitting rooms. There were two, created by pulling racks together and draping them with sheets, providing questionable privacy. Modesty and acting didn’t really mix, anyway.
The “room” next door revealed a shadow that had to be Liam—tall and lean, but ripped—pulling on a long-sleeved shirt and doing the buttons. My fingers itched to reach through the barrier and undo them, but instead I took my time changing out of my shorts and tank top, then sliding the dress over my head. Just in case I had an audience in him, too.
Liam waited outside the dressing room, his thick, honey brown hair tousled from changing clothes and his chocolate eyes trained on me. They slid down over my chest and hips, then back up to my face, a heat in them that hadn’t been there until now.
My heart pounded but I hid it with a sardonic smile. “How’s the dress fit?”
“I’m not interested in the dress, honestly.”
The suggestion was clear, and even though the sudden shift in his attitude made me wonder at why, I didn’t question it. Maybe he had just broken up with a girlfriend or something.
I raised a playful eyebrow, feeling very much in my element now that he’d broken down and shown the interest that had been too long coming, given the chemistry between us onstage. “Oh?”
He winked. “What did Geoff want?”
“He wants me to help out at a children’s theatre for a Shakespeare section.”
“Gross. You going to do it?”
�
�Yep. Maybe you should come. I could teach you a few things.”
A cocky smile spread his lips. “I don’t recall any complaints last summer.”
“True, but it’s always good to keep those skills nice and sharp.”
“You can put my skills to the test anytime, pretty girl.”
“Guys, hurry up! I have to pick up my kid at daycare but I need to make sure those fit today,” Shae called from the front of the room.
I brushed past Liam, letting my hips swing and sidling closer than necessary. Excitement flushed my cheeks at our exchange, and the way he looked at me. Maybe my patience was about to be rewarded after all.
Shae picked over my dress, which fit a little tight but otherwise fine. It actually pressed my boobs up and gave me a little cleavage, which was nice, and the color set off my tan and eyes. Liam looked every inch the clean-cut Tony in his pressed khakis and navy blue button-down, but he’d always had a glint in his dark eyes that promised he wasn’t clean-cut at all.
Shae dismissed us twenty minutes later, after sticking a few pins in my hem and choosing a tie for Liam’s costume, and the two of us headed back to the dressing area. I waited until we’d gone to separate sides of the curtains and he’d stripped off his shirt before making a move.
“Liam? This dress has a tricky clasp at the back…any chance you could help me out of it?”
He paused, then took a moment to hang up his shirt. Liam had been a working actor longer than I had, and had even done some commercials and day parts on a few police procedurals, so he knew that pissing off the behind-the-scenes players was a big no-no.
Shae hated ironing. She would have ripped into him if that shirt had ended up wrinkled.
A moment later he shoved the curtain aside and stepped into my space, letting it fall behind him until we were both bathed in shadows. Windows let natural light into the room up front, but allowed only suggestions of sunshine back here, in beams that quivered weakly around dancing particles of dust.
“It’s at the back of my neck.” I spun around, putting my back to him and hiding my smile.
Liam stepped closer, brushing my hair out of the way with confident hands, then flicked open the easy metal clasp at the base of my neck. He didn’t stop there, tugging the zipper all the way down and pushing the flimsy material off my shoulders until it landed in a puddle at my feet. Thank goodness I’d grabbed matching underwear today, even if they were just plain white lace.
Heat Up the Fall: New Adult Boxed Set (6 Book Bundle) Page 66
