His gaze switched to the stage where a tiny blond woman on hands and knees pretended to clean the floor with a nonexistent brush. Standing beside her was Darby. She was still in her scrubs but had swapped the ‘cone’ top, which’d made him smile, for an apple-green set that had black paw prints tracking up the front. He’d never thought of scrubs as sexy until he’d seen Darby rocking them two days earlier at their lunchtime meeting. There was something subtly appealing about the way the top loosely skimmed over her breasts and the pants inadvertently clung to her ass.
Seriously, the woman made green cotton and paw prints more appealing than the tiny blonde’s Lycra tank top.
On stage, Darby cocked a hip, fisted her hand clutching the script onto it, and lifted an imperious chin.
“A catatonic sloth could clean those floors faster than you, Cinders. Finish up and get started on our breakfast before Mother shoves that scrubbing brush where the sun don’t shine.”
“Cut!” A woman sitting in the front row leaped up as if she’d been fired out of an ejection seat. “For God’s sake, stick to the script, Darby.”
Darby blinked, faint blotches of pink appearing on her cheeks. “I was making the dialogue a bit more contemporary with some improvisation—”
“Well, don’t.” The woman jerked back down in her seat. “My dialogue is perfect the way it is.”
Reid followed the direction of Darby’s gaze to a man slouched in the seat next to the woman he now presumed was the playwright/director. From Reid’s angle, the man was studying Cinderella’s ass with little regard to the onstage drama. He certainly didn’t seem to notice the slump of Darby’s shoulders or the tightness drawing her mouth down into a straight line.
“Got it. Stick to the script. I’ll try again.” She ducked her chin, and from knee level Cinderella gave her a sympathetic grimace.
Darby lifted the script, and multiple sheets of paper slipped from the pile and scattered far and wide across the stage. She swore and dropped to her knees, fingers scrabbling over the pages to try and gather them. Cinderella picked up a couple, but no one else came to help.
Reid stood and headed for the stage, his spine stiffening as he heard the man say in a posh British accent, “There she goes again, doing a Darby.”
“Time to call it quits, people,” the woman hollered. “Main cast is to hang around for wardrobe fitting.”
Reid didn’t stop at the edge of the stage but instead vaulted onto it. Gathering pages as he went, he made his way to Darby. By the time he reached her, Darby’s cheeks were stained crimson. She managed a weak smile as he held out the remaining pages.
“Thanks.” She took the papers from him. “Welcome to class 101 on how to make a complete idiot of yourself.”
“I think your introductory class needs a better name.” He pitched his voice low and took a step closer to her. “Like Improvising with pizazz when your director requires a personality transplant.”
The weak smile transformed into a grin, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “A slogan too long to fit on a tee shirt.”
“I could make it work, dah-ling.”
She laughed and hugged the script to her chest. “Your Tim Gunn impression needs some work.” Her gaze zipped sideways to the front row. “You’d better come and meet Sally, Claudia, and Hugh.”
“And they are?”
“Sally’s the self-appointed director,” she spoke out of the side of her mouth. “Claudia is Cinderella, and Prince Charming is played by Hugh…he’s, ah, chatting to Claudia.”
He turned to the stage front, scalp prickling from the way Darby had said the man’s name. Chatting wasn’t quite the term Reid would use for the way Hugh had boxed the small blonde between himself and the stage’s edge. The man he’d spotted earlier, but barely glanced at, now deserved closer observation. Due mainly to Darby’s constant darting glances in his direction.
A quick once-over revealed Hugh was probably about four inches shorter than Reid, with a slender build outlined by tight jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt pushed up at the elbows to reveal inked forearms. He had designer stubble running along his jaw, an orthodontic perfect smile, and dark hair long enough to be bundled up into a man bun.
Then Hugh braced a palm on the stage and angled into Claudia. Reid’s douchebag alarm went off. Loudly. Though maybe the buzz came from the nervous energy pouring off Darby, who was now frozen beside him. He sneaked a glance and caught a glimpse of her kicked-puppy-eyed stare before she abruptly turned and headed offstage.
“C’mon,” she tossed over her shoulder.
He watched her disappear beyond the heavy curtains. Oh hell. Did Darby actually like this guy? Gut knotted like tangled barbed wire, Reid followed her.
Chapter 5
Having a man size up your boobs, butt, and waist sounded a lot more fun than it actually was. Darby, along with Claudia, Hugh, and Simone, who was playing Ugly Stepsister One, milled around backstage while Reid worked with his handy-dandy measuring tape.
Darby held back, letting the others cut the line in front of her. Not that she was complaining—watching Reid work was an eye-opener. He was quick and unobtrusive as he took Claudia and Simone’s measurements, keeping up a patter of small talk to put them at ease. Or maybe they already were at ease, and it was just Darby starting to break out in a light sweat at the thought of Reid’s fingertips accidentally brushing her boob as he brought the measuring tape together.
Brilliant. She’d have damp armpits and smell like a locker room by the time it was her turn.
Darby aimed a sideways glance toward Hugh, who was draped over the chair next to hers, engrossed in a dalliance with his phone. Reid chuckled at something Simone said, and Hugh’s gaze shot to them then slid right, catching Darby’s eye.
“One way to cop a quick feel,” he said. “Though I’m guessing females aren’t a temptation, eh?”
A sudden picture popped into her brain of Reid smiling at her at Maisy’s wedding, a tinge of curiosity and appreciation on his mouth. She got a scratchy feeling in her stomach, as if tiny things with claws were scrabbling around trying to escape. Nope, Reid wasn’t gay, and the hint of smug superiority in Hugh’s tone rankled. “Not that it matters one way or another,” she said, giving him an arch look, “but I don’t think he’s gay.”
“Then he better keep his hands off my pretty costars.” Hugh spread his knees apart and hooked a thumb in a belt loop. A marking territory with my testosterone position. He sent her a flash of white teeth that made Darby’s stomach quiver again—but this time in a good way—and returned to studying his phone.
Reid finished noting down Claudia’s measurements and signaled it was Hugh’s turn. He blitzed through taking down the measurements and didn’t bother making small talk since Hugh continued to text on his phone.
“Are we done?” Hugh asked while Reid crouched, measuring his inner leg.
Darby caught a glimpse of the expression on Reid’s face like he was tempted to head-butt the groin directly in front of him, but before she could cross-examine it, the bunching of Reid’s jaw loosened and he rose to his full height—towering over the other man.
“We’re done,” he said. “Sorry to hold you up.”
Hashtag: #NotSorry slated through Reid’s tone as he wrapped the length of the measuring tape around his fist like it was a knuckle duster.
“No worries.” Hugh strolled back toward Darby and tugged his leather jacket off the back of the chair. “Didn’t want to be late for my gig at After Hours tonight and keep my groupies waiting.” He slung the jacket over one shoulder. “You should stop by some night, Darbs. I play a mean lead guitar.”
Darb-y, she mentally corrected. He wasn’t to know calling her Darbs made her want to punch a person in the nuts. “I’d love to.”
“See you round.” He winked at her and sauntered off, boot heels clicking on the wooden floor as he exited backstage.
“He’s a winker,” Reid said as Darby rose from her chair to join him.
&nbs
p; Darby gave a double take, instantly thinking she’d misheard. “A wanker? You don’t like him?”
“Wink-er,” he repeated. “Never trust a man that winks at you.”
She peeled off her sweater, revealing the carefully chosen long-sleeve, slim-fitting merino top beneath. She noticed that he hadn’t answered her question but instead unwound the tape measure wrapped around his fist.
“What if a woman winks at you? Have a problem with that?”
“A woman winking is hot.” He crooked his finger at her.
Instant stomach quivers again, this time deeper down in her belly than the previous ones. Nerves—pure nerves.
“That is a double standard if ever I heard one.” She took a step toward him as he shook out the tape measure.
“Wink at me,” he instructed. “I’ll give you my unbiased opinion.”
Glad of a little distraction before he got any closer inside her personal space bubble, Darby tilted her chin up and winked.
A sharp smile cut across his face. “You blinked. Which is cute, but not hot.”
Her eyes narrowed and she went fist on hips. “I didn’t blink.”
“Try again, like you mean it,” he said. “And lift your arms out a little more.”
With a laugh, she did. In a smooth, quicksilver move, Reid moved in and had the plastic tape around her breasts before she could think please don’t draw attention to my girls.
“Still blinking,” he said and glanced down at the tape, totally missing another of her sauciest come-hither winks.
The measuring tape dropped away and he reached for his phone. His fingers flew over the keypad then his gaze flicked back to her. “I know it’s rude to ask, but what cup size are you?”
Oh God.
For a moment the question completely erased every number combination in her brain. Cup size? Um, was that BC—Before Cancer—or ARSE—After Reconstructive Surgical Event? Then she’d been a 12DD. Now, after the twelve-hour nipple-sparing mastectomy and reconstruction, she’d been left with two thin half-moon scars and a perky set of C-cup boobies.
“Um.” She stalled, memories whirring like an old movie reel played in reverse in her mind. Waking up, groggy as hell. Machines beeping. Pristine white bandages wrapped snugly around her chest. Thin tubes that snaked beneath the bandages to drain excess fluid.
A slick, slimy feeling crept up her throat and throttled back to coat the lining of her gut. Months of stuffing that particular train of thought back into a deep lightless tunnel made it possible for her to choke it back.
“14C,” she said.
He nodded as if it were no big deal and typed in that little nugget of information.
“Not too big, not too small; a perfect handful.” The words plummeted from her mouth like tiny bombs off a cliff, the momentum too great to prevent them from exploding on the way down. Tiny bombs that detonated and transferred the heat gathering in her cheeks to flush down her throat.
Reid’s gaze shot up from his phone. “Depends on the size of the hands, I reckon.”
With her face hot enough to warrant a radiation warning, Darby stared at a spot beyond his shoulder. A man’s hands on her breasts still evoked the memory of her boyfriend at the time spooning her, his hand caressing her right breast. The shiver that rippled over her bare skin as his fingers continued to explore and gently squeeze her flesh. Then his hesitation, his ragged inhale, and the seven words that changed her life: Babe, I think I feel something weird.
“Sorry.” Reid clinched the measuring tape around her waist. “That was a little inappropriate. Didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“No more inappropriate than me describing the volume of my boobs to a complete stranger,” she said.
He made a rough sound in the back of his throat and shook his head. “You’re going to go with strangers when I’ve already saved your ass and seen your taste in panties? Aren’t we beyond strangers now?”
“I thought you weren’t trying to embarrass me?”
“My bad.” He grinned up at her. “Your blush is almost as cute as your winks.”
Cute. She was cute to him—well, of course she was. Girls like her ended up as mates with guys like Reid. Nice guys. And that was A-OK with her. She’d done her time with a man who’d shed his nice-guy skin the moment her cancer diagnosis was dropped like a bloody mess in her lap, forgetting that only weeks before he’d been hinting about them moving in together. So nice guys could stay in the friend zone where there was little risk of being hurt when they calculated that she was just too much trouble long term.
“Great. Just measure my butt and finish up, friend.”
His grin faded, eyes narrowing to stupidly long-lashed slits. “Got somewhere to be?”
“Maybe.” Perhaps a spot of some live music was just what the doctor ordered. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, which—duh—because all her long chestnut-colored hair had vanished via a ‘shave Darby’s head’ barbecue and was only just growing back, didn’t have the same effect.
“Darby.” The way he said her name, all deep and rough and urgent, forced her to meet his gaze. “As a friend, I’ve got to warn you. That guy’s a player. He’ll break your heart.”
“Not a chance.” She tapped a finger high up on her chest at the spot where she’d finally had her portacath removed and had the scar to prove she was a survivor. “My heart’s unbreakable.”
“Is that so?” The tape measure dropped away from her hips. “We’re all done.”
“Yup,” she said. “It’s all titanium steel in there.”
More than enough protection from someone like Hugh. There were no layers, no hidden depths to a man like him. Unlike Reid. Whoa, boy. She suspected he had more layers than a kids’ party game of pass the parcel.
“Have a good night,” Reid said, keeping his gaze focused on rerolling the tape measure.
“You, too,” Darby muttered and quickstepped to the exit doors. She snuck one last glance over her shoulder at him, but he’d turned away, chatting with Sally who’d sidled up to him with her ever-present clipboard.
Hugh wasn’t a guy to make promises Darby would believe meant everlasting love. Whereas Reid? If a woman was lucky enough to have him stare at her with those big gray-blue eyes and declare he loved her, that woman would have a hell of a time not believing in forever.
Before Reid had a chance to knock on Darby’s single-story house at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, barking and the skitter of claws exploded from behind the front door. Figured that someone who worked with animals would have their own personal alarm system in the form of a yappy canine. Small mercies, he figured as the barking reached new heights of alarm, that the high-pitched barks likely didn’t come from something barrel-chested and weighing more than he did.
From somewhere inside the house, a woman hollered, “Chill, Duke. I don’t hear the delivery van.”
Ah. Was he to assume that the barker had a grudge against delivery drivers or just visitors on the whole? He shifted the satchel of fabric samples in front of his groin just in case.
The barks descended in volume and petered off to a low growl. He heard the click of a lock disengaging before the door swung open to reveal a tousle-haired Darby wearing blue jeans and a slim-fitting tee shirt with Puppy Whisperer printed across her breasts. “You’re fifteen minutes early.”
She followed his gaze down and he could’ve sworn a tinge of pink started to rise on her cheekbones. “I haven’t had time to get changed.”
Another low growl dragged his gaze away from the center of her chest to the side—where a salt-and-pepper-colored shaggy-furred dog about the size of an overweight house cat bared its teeth at him. The dog was tucked into her waist with its front paws draped possessively over Darby’s arm. Keep your eyes and hands off my human, the mutt seemed to be saying.
“Sorry about that.” But not really, if it meant he would’ve arrived to find her in the boring beige skirt again. “But, ah, I don’t think your dog is ready for company.”
&
nbsp; “Whatever makes you think that? Duke is a lamb. He loves company.” She jiggled the dog in her arms, and he rewarded her with a whuff of agreement, swiveling his head to swipe a pink tongue along the side of her breast.
Lucky lamb.
The thought popped into his brain before he could censor it.
“He just takes a little bit to get used to strangers, and he doesn’t really like men much.” Opening the door wider, she stepped aside and set the dog at her feet. The animal immediately trotted out to sniff at his shoes. “Just come on in and ignore him while he gets used to you.”
“Is he going to bite my ankles?” Or lunge up and latch onto my balls?
Darby laughed. “He’s fourteen years old and missing a few of his teeth. I think you’ll survive a good gumming should you piss him off.”
“Good to know.” He gave Duke the side-eye as he inched past, taking care to keep his satchel in position. Just in case. He was fond of his junk without dog gumming indentations in it. “You’re a puppy whisperer, huh?” he asked, going for a conversation starter and explanation of his earlier breast-level examination.
Her chin and gaze dropped, as if she’d just remembered what tee shirt she wore. “Oh. Yeah. I help with the clinic’s puppy preschool every second Saturday morning.”
“Sounds like fun. Does Duke assist, too?” Since Reid had refused to make eye contact with the mutt since he stepped into Darby’s house, the dog had waddled off down the hallway and disappeared into another room.
“Sometimes. He’s very patient with the pups.”
“You’ve had him for a long time?”
“Four years.” Darby gestured he follow her and retraced the dog’s path, leading him into a small but airy kitchen. “His original owner died and the woman’s grandson didn’t want him. He brought Duke into the clinic where I worked at the time to have him put down, but I fell in love with him.” She turned, shooting him a thoughtful glance. “Even if he does look like the perfect dog for an ugly stepsister.”
Love Everlasting Page 5
