Reckless Romance

by Maggie Riley

  I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “It’s a useful skill in the city.”

  “I’m not avoiding the subway because I can’t use it,” he informed me. “I’m avoiding the subway because I like air conditioning.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, knowing only too well how unpredictable the temperature in subway cars could be. And even though it was Spring, today was an unseasonably hot day, the sun high and bright in the cloudless sky.

  “So, what are we doing, exactly?” Josh asked once I had given the cab driver directions.

  I took a deep breath, reminding myself not to ramble and not to stare at his arms. Or his chest. Or his shoulders. Or his abs. Or his thighs. Just stare straight ahead, Reagan, I ordered myself. Stare straight ahead and don’t look over at him at all.

  “We’re going to look at furniture rentals,” I told him. “Or rather, set piece rentals. I’m trying to see what’s available for our next show, and hopefully find some inspiration as well.”

  “You’re looking at furniture for inspiration?” Josh asked, sounding both incredulous and curious.

  “I look for inspiration everywhere,” I said, cringing a bit at how hokey that sounded. “But in this case, it’s a practical form of inspiration. We’re on a tighter schedule this time around and if the rental place has what we need, we won’t have to worry about building set pieces or trying to find something that fits the project.”

  “Doesn’t that put limits on your creative choices?”

  I glanced over at him, unable to help myself. It was a good question and he looked genuinely interested. Besides Allie and Joanna, who were both huge theatre nerds, whenever I spoke about plays and productions to other people, it wasn’t long before their eyes began to glaze over.

  “Sometimes parameters can actually help,” I told him. “Too many options can be overwhelming. Restrictions can narrow your focus and force you to think of creative solutions to problems. And there are always problems. Especially when you’ve put off choosing the material for way too long.”

  “I’m guessing that’s what’s happened,” he noted.

  I nodded. “We should already have the show cast,” I told him. “Not setting up our first round of auditions.”

  When I had figured out what play we were doing, I called Joanna immediately and she got the press release rolling. Things were going to be moving at a fierce clip from this point on. I would be living and breathing the show.

  “So what did you end up choosing?” Josh asked. “What’s the next show for The Hole in the Wall.”

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I told him.

  Joanna had been thrilled with my choice, but I couldn’t tell if it was because of the play I had picked or just the fact that I had finally picked something.

  “A Shakespearean comedy.” He paused. “Is that the one with the guy who has a donkey’s head?”

  “Yes!” Even though Shakespeare was well-known, it was still rare to find people who knew the difference between various shows.

  “Yeah, I know that one.” Josh wrinkled his brown, thinking. “‘I see their knavery; this is to make an ass of me; to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir.’ Or something like that.”

  I turned to face him, forgetting my earlier pledge not to look at him.

  “You’ve memorized Shakespeare?” I asked, openly gaping.

  He shrugged casually as if he did this kind of thing all the time. “Theatre obsessed sister, remember?”

  This was not helping me control my rapidly growing attraction to Josh. A hot guy who knew Shakespeare? By heart? I was a goner.

  “It’s not a big deal,” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little disconcerted by how I was blatantly staring at him.

  “Right, sure.” I quickly looked away.

  “So what made you choose that play in particular?” he asked.

  I blushed hotly. “Uh, it just came to me,” I told him, not wanting to admit that I came to the decision after thinking about the theatrical nature of unrequited affection. And I had been thinking about unrequited affection because of him.

  “Really?” he raised an eyebrow.

  I fidgeted with the handle of my shoulder bag. “I like Shakespearean comedies,” I told him, and it was true. “And they are lots of fun to play with—lots of ways to reimagine them.”

  “And that’s what you’re looking for at the furniture place?” Josh wanted to know. “How you’re going to reimagine it?”

  “Kind of,” I said. “I know I want to do a more modern adaptation, but I haven’t decided exactly how modern.”

  Just then, we pulled up to the rental shop. Josh paid the cab before I could even offer, refusing the cash I tried to hand him. I shoved the money back in my bag and quickly gathered my things as he got out of the cab. Before I could do the same, he circled around the car and came to my side, opening the door and extending his hand. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had helped me out of a cab—especially since I really couldn’t remember how Josh had accomplished it when I had been drunk.

  I stared at his hand for a moment before taking it. A jolt of electricity went through me.

  “Come on,” Josh said, pulling me to my feet. “I might not be able to jumpstart your creativity, but I can definitely lift heavy objects for you.”

  I nodded, deciding to keep to myself exactly what he had jumpstarted inside of me.

  JOSH

  The furniture warehouse was massive. Five floors of rooms jam-packed with all sorts of random things. And Reagan was in heaven. Her face lit up like a Christmas tree, she went up and down the aisles making notes and taking pictures. I followed behind, occasionally stepping in to help lift one piece off of another. All under the watchful eye of the owner, Mr. Foster, who seemed to have a soft spot for Reagan.

  “I don’t usually rent to Off-Broadway theatres,” he told me.

  He was a small man, slight and extremely well-dressed. His gray hair was neatly combed, as was his trim mustache. He wore a suit with a vest and had tiny round glasses that perched on the edge of his nose. It was a Tuesday and he was dressed like he was going out for a Saturday dinner date. In 1954.

  “But you’ll rent to The Hole in the Wall?” I asked, watching as Reagan knelt down next to a dresser to take a photo of the drawer handles.

  “I’ll rent to Reagan,” he said. “Her Great Aunts were good friends of mine. Did you know them?”

  I shook my head. “Reagan’s told me a little about them.”

  Looking back towards the dresser, I noticed that Reagan had disappeared, now lost among the stacks of furniture and art.

  “Yes, I’ve known Reagan since she was little, though it wasn’t until she moved in with her Great Aunts that we became close. She’s a very special young lady with a lot of talent.” He gave me a look. “I’d do anything for her.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Mr. Foster was at least a foot shorter than I was and had a few decades on me, not that any of that was evident in the ferocity of his gaze.

  “I’m just here to lift heavy things,” I told him.

  He gave me a once-over, but didn’t say anything else. Just then, Reagan popped up in front of us, flushed and breathless.

  “Fuck, Reagan,” I muttered, slapping a hand against my racing heart. She had appeared out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of me. “Give a guy some warning.”

  “Sorry!” She was practically bouncing in place with excitement.

  Mr. Foster, on the other hand, seemed nonplussed by her surprise appearance.

  “Did you find something, my dear?” he asked.

  “Oh my gosh!” Reagan’s eyes were round. “I found the most perfect thing. Come on!”

  Her camera hanging around her neck, she grabbed Mr. Foster’s hand and then mine, our fingers linked together. With a tug, she led the way, down the narrow aisle that had been created between stacked furniture.

  I tried to ignore how soft her hand was, knowing that my own palm was rough and covered in call
ouses from years of handling baseballs and bats. I’d never been self-conscious about it, but for whatever reason, I found myself untangling my fingers from hers. Reagan glanced back as I did and I saw her bright happiness dim for just a second, but she soon lit up to full capacity as we reached our destination.

  “Tah-dah!” she said, releasing Mr. Foster and making spirit fingers in the direction of her prize.

  It was an enormous snow globe. At least four feet tall, it was sitting on top of a table, with a small wintery town captured inside. There were even little carolers in the little town square. The whole scene was very cozy and somewhat reminiscent of It’s A Wonderful Life, without the whole attempted suicide-thing.

  “Lovely choice,” Mr. Foster said, clasping his hands together. “Very imaginative.”

  I looked at the two of them.

  “Hate to be the bearer of bad news,” I said, crossing my arms. “But isn’t the play called Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  Reagan frowned. “Of course it is,” she said, clearly confused.

  I gestured towards the snow globe. “This doesn’t feel very summer-like.”

  She stared at me for a moment before bursting out laughing.

  “Oh Josh,” she patted me on the arm. “You’re so funny. Isn’t he funny, Mr. Foster?”

  “Hilarious,” Mr. Foster responded drolly.

  I had no idea what was going on.

  “It’s not the snow part of the globe that interests me,” Reagan pulled me closer to the set piece. “It’s the town inside.”

  “You want to set the play in a town inside a snow globe?”

  Reagan’s eyes went wide. “That is such a good idea,” she told me, her hand digging through her bag until she came up with a pen and notebook. “Can you imagine doing a Christmas show, but the whole thing is inside a snow globe?” she asked Mr. Foster, who nodded. “Isn’t that just brilliant? A Christmas Carol. But in a snow globe. I love it.”

  Reagan threw her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss on the cheek, pulling away before I could even process what was happening.

  “You are so clever,” she said, writing some more in her notebook. “Joanna will love this for our winter show.”

  I put my hand to my face, as if I could capture the fleeting kiss, the soft press of her lips against my skin. I felt like I was in a snow globe, one that kept getting jostled around, all the snowflakes flying around me, unable to get my bearings. I genuinely had no idea what was going on.

  “But what about your current play?” I asked.

  Reagan was still frantically writing notes, looking up briefly.

  “What are you talking about?” she gave me a confused look. “I already know what I’m doing for that show.”

  I ran a hand through my hair. “And it’s related to the snow globe?” I asked, feeling completely lost, as if Reagan was speaking a totally different language.

  “Not the snow globe,” said Reagan. “The town.”

  “The play will take place in a town?”

  “In a small town,” said Reagan, her face lighting up as if she could already picture it. “A small town in the 1950s. It will be a commentary on fantasy and nostalgia.”

  “Brilliant,” said Mr. Foster, crossing his hands over his chest, his expression filled with pride. “Absolutely brilliant.”

  “You think so?” asked Reagan, a little bit of doubt creeping into her voice. She turned to me. “What do you think, Josh? Is it a good idea?”

  I hesitated. Despite knowing more about theatre than the average straight male, I had no clue what made a good show good. Reagan’s idea sounded cool, but I also had a hard time actually visualizing what she was planning on doing.

  Unfortunately, my pause was enough to cause Reagan’s smile to slip, disappointment filling her eyes. Mr. Foster glared at me.

  “I think it’s a great idea,” I said quickly.

  Some of the smile came back. “Really?” she asked.

  “Really,” I told her. “If anyone can pull it off, you can.”

  She blushed at that, and I felt a weird little tug in my chest, somewhere near my heart.

  “Well, that’s—that’s very nice of you to say,” Reagan ducked her head, directing her attention to the notebook in front of her. “Now that I have my inspiration, I guess we should go looking for pieces to help it come to life.” She looked up at me through her thick black lashes. “Unless you have somewhere you need to be,” she said. “I don’t want to keep you here all afternoon if you’ve got plans.”

  “No plans,” I told her, giving her a nudge forward. “Lead the way.”

  Chapter 11

  REAGAN

  I couldn’t tell if Josh was just being incredibly polite and accommodating or if he was actually having a good time among the dusty stacks of Mr. Foster’s furniture. Either way, I was glad he was there. I loved Mr. Foster like an uncle, but sometimes he was a little too complimentary. There was something to be said for people who treated you as if you were geniuses and I always appreciated his support, especially since I got so little from my parents, but there were times when I needed someone to be honest and critical of what I was doing.

  To my great surprise, Josh ended up providing exactly that. Not that he was critical in a judgmental way. He just asked a lot of questions. Questions which ended up being helpful in revealing what things might not make sense to someone outside the world of avant-garde theatre. Which is what I wanted. Even though I wanted to make theatre that was for everyone, I still had a tendency to forget about the audience outside the one I was used to.

  And this was all in addition to performing the task he had been asked to do in the first place—lifting heavy things. Something he was really, really good at. And something I really, really liked watching.

  I observed the pull and stretch of his muscles, straining against his shirt as he pulled a painting down from a high shelf. It was hypnotic. He had on a pair of workman gloves Mr. Foster had loaned him and he was covered in dust and sweat. My mouth practically watered. If he looked this good just moving furniture, I could only imagine how good he had looked in his element. On the baseball field in those tight white pants, winding up to throw a pitch and—

  Oh no.

  “Stop!” I told him, rushing over.

  But he had already pulled the painting down. He put it down on the ground, and looked at me with a wary look.

  “Is it the wrong one?” he asked, a drop of sweat sneaking down his temple. He brushed it away with the back of his hand.

  “No, it’s perfect,” I said. “But your shoulder!”

  How could I have forgotten that the whole reason Josh wasn’t playing baseball was because he had injured his shoulder? And here I was, asking him to do things that were probably very bad for said shoulder.

  Josh arched an eyebrow. “My shoulder.”

  “Yes,” I pointed first at one, and then at the other when I realized I had no idea which arm he threw with. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  “We’ve been at this for a few hours,” he reminded me. “It’s a little late to worry about that.” He rotated his right shoulder. “But it’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?” I had my fingers linked together, pressed against my chest. The last thing I wanted was to cause him strain of any kind.

  “Yep,” he said. “Unless you need me to throw a curveball. Then I can’t help you.”

  The look on his face made it clear exactly how much that pained him. It was the first time he had mentioned baseball and now I felt terrible for bringing it up. Desperate to change the subject, I looked at my phone.

  “It’s getting late,” I observed. “Maybe we should call it a day.”

  “Did you get everything you needed?” he asked, leaning the painting up against an antique bedframe.

  “Uh-huh,” I managed, my mouth going dry.

  Having Josh anywhere near a bed—with or without a mattress—put a lot of very naughty ideas in my head. Such as stripping off his tight t-sh
irt and pressing my body up against his, feeling the heat from his muscles and feeling them taut beneath my hands. Pressing my mouth to his throat, kissing downward until I came to his belt. Undoing it and slipping my hand inside his pants, finding—

  “Reagan?”

  Josh’s voice startled me out of my vivid fantasy and I realized I was once again staring at his chest. I looked up at his face and found that my observations had not gone unnoticed. Also, he had clearly been trying to ask me something.

  “Huh?” I managed.

  “I asked if you need to take any more pictures before we go,” he repeated, pulling off the gloves.

  I tried to put my tongue back in my mouth.

  “I think I’m good,” I choked out. “Got everything that I need.”

  “Ok,” he said, brushing past me, his arm bumping against mine. “As long as you got everything you needed.”

  My pulse was jackhammering in my wrist and my throat. I told myself that he wasn’t flirting, and that even if he was, he didn’t mean it, but when I looked over my shoulder, I found that he was waiting for me, his eyes hot and intense.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked, hoping he didn’t hear how my voice cracked. “The least I can do is buy you dinner after you put in all this time and effort to help me out. And you must be starving after doing all that lifting and moving of things—”

  I was rambling again. Great.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked again.

  Josh’s eyes caught mine. “Starving,” he said.

  I felt my knees go weak.

  “But I need to change out of these clothes,” Josh told me, pulling his shirt away from his torso, giving me a peek at the six pack he had beneath the thin cotton.

  “Ok,” I squeaked. “Want to meet somewhere in an hour or so?”

  “Or you could just come back to my place,” he suggested. “I’ll be fast.”

  But the look in his eyes told me that when it came to other activities, he preferred to take things slow. Very, very slow. I was pretty sure I was going to pass out from the tension that had filled up the room. When I didn’t say anything, he came back to me, standing so close that I could smell the clean scent of his soap. I forced myself to keep my eyes open, not close them, lean in and take a deep sniff, which was exactly what I wanted to do.