by Amelia Wilde
“Edgar,” I said.
Another short pause, as if he was lifting the phone again. “Yes?”
“I’ll do another background check, if that’s what you need.”
The line went dead.
This morning at the office, Linda met me with a folder. A complete background workup and a meeting with an investigator from Edgar’s department. That ate up most of the day. The rest was filled with meetings. Even if Edgar’s projects are back in play, I still want to make Bennett Inc. a massive empire in its own right. I never want to feel so vulnerable again.
“I did call you,” I say to Annabel. “Are you—is this a bad time?” There’s a lot of background noise and what sounds like two people arguing.
“I’m actually buying a new cell phone,” she says, and the words sound strange. We should be saying other words to each other. “I’m in the middle of the process.” She drops her voice. “I . . . may have made a bit of a scene. Can I call you back?”
“Of course,” I say. I want to say I love you. Call me any time of the day or night. Better yet, come back to my penthouse and sleep in my bed. The world is a sad, gray place without your face in it. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Bye,” she says quickly, then hangs up.
What do I do with myself during this interminable wait?
Why didn’t I do this earlier?
Because I was wallowing, that’s why, and it was hellishly stupid. She’d been so angry. I’d been so angry. I couldn’t call without an explanation, and until last night I didn’t have one. Now that things are smoothed over, I can beg her for her forgiveness.
It’s forty agonizing minutes before my cell phone rings. For once it’s not West. It’s Annabel.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” she says, and bloody hell, I’m at attention hearing her voice again. “You called.” It’s quiet around her now. She must be walking home or to the subway. I swallow the worry. It’s not fully dark out yet, but it is getting later.
“I did call,” I say, the awkwardness growing painful. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Hmm,” Annabel says. “I don’t know if that’s the greatest idea.”
It’s a stab wound right to the gut, but I’m not going to let it hold me back. I’m going to jump in. That’s the way to live. I know that now. “I can see why you would think that. What I said to you—it wasn’t true. It was mean and terrible, and I’ve never regretted anything more in my life.” I barrel on before she can stop me. “I’ve missed you every single minute, Annabel, and I understand if you never want to talk to me again.” An idea is half-formed in the back of my mind. I can show her. I can show her everything, if she’ll give me a chance. “I’m not asking for you to have a long conversation with me right now or even tomorrow. God, I—” I swallow back a lump in my throat. “Could you meet me at the Pearl on Sunday night at seven?”
There’s a long silence. In the background I hear a sustained blow on a car horn, but over all of it is Annabel’s soft breathing. “I guess . . .”
Everything in my soul hinges on this moment. She could hang up right now, and I might never hear from her again. She could do that. She’s left places before. I would not be the first person to be left behind by Annabel Forester.
“I guess I could do that.”
I leap out of my chair and punch straight up into the air. The idea is fully formed now. I have two days to make it happen.
That’s it.
That’s all I need.
I can do this.
“I don’t want to—” Annabel clears her throat. She sounds shy. “I don’t want to rush you off the phone, not if there is something else you want to talk to me about, but I should get down to the next train. Dinner and all that.”
There’s so much I want to say to her that there are no words to contain it all. “I’ll see you Sunday?”
“I’ll be there,” she says softly. Then she hangs up.
I don’t bother getting my jacket. I sprint for the door of my office, shouting for Linda to call Winston and have the car brought around. There’s no time to lose.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Annabel
Time grinds to a halt.
I swing between furious excitement and cold dread. What if Beau wants to see me one last time so he can tell me it’s over, it never meant anything, and he’s moved on?
But why would we need to meet at the Pearl for that?
Cynthia looks at me in the middle of a wine-soaked viewing of Legally Blonde. “What’s on your mind? Are you considering going to law school?” She swirls her wine in her glass and takes a sip.
“It’s never too late,” I tell her. I hope the same is true for Beau. An excited warmth spreads across my entire chest.
Sleep does not come easily.
On Sunday I put on my best little black dress—my only little black dress—and splurge on a cab. Cynthia watches me collect my purse with narrowed eyes. “Do you have a date?”
“I hope so,” I say, and then I dart out before she can ask any further questions.
My heart is pounding by the time I step out of the cab in front of the Pearl. One question is answered right away. Beau is standing on the steps looking elegant in one of his suits. It looks expensive even in the fading light.
I walk toward him and feel it. I feel what it would be like to walk down the aisle toward him. It’s insane, but I feel it.
He meets me at the bottom of the steps and makes a show of looking both ways. “No bikes,” he says. He offers me his arm.
I take it.
We walk up the steps together, and the excitement becomes overwhelming, so much so that my teeth start chattering. I squeeze my jaw shut, count to five, and start talking. “What is this, Mystery Man?”
He glances down at me, and his eyes are warm and bright and hopeful. It makes me feel warm and bright and hopeful. Surely he wouldn’t look at me like that if this was a breakup scene.
Beau walks me through the hotel lobby and down the long hallway that connects the hotel to the theater. I’ve never been down this hallway before. There’s an identical hallway one floor down, where the costume shop and dressing rooms and green room are, not to mention the hidden closet.
The farther we get, the more I see them: decorations.
It starts with a vibrant red carpet about halfway toward the theater. Then lights. Fairy lights hang delicately from the ceiling.
“Too much?” Beau says, looking up at them.
“No. As long as there aren’t giant red hearts or something coming up next.” I take another look. “I lied. Red hearts might be okay. But what is this?” It hits me. “Are we going to see The Lovers?”
He grins slyly. “In a manner of speaking.”
“What manner is that?”
We step into a narrower hallway, which opens up into the lobby of the theater.
It’s practically empty.
The entire place is mood-lit—more fairy lights—and the only other people are two ushers in black tuxedoes waiting by the theater door.
“Are we early?”
“We’re right on time,” Beau says and leads me to the entrance.
They open the double doors as we move past, and one of them hands me a show program. On instinct I fold it in half and tuck it under my arm. Those things are slippery. I hate to leave litter. Beau laughs.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says.
The theater is empty.
The stage is gorgeous.
I never came out to see the set of The Lovers, but it’s breathtaking. Juliet’s villa—Julie, whatever—looks like it’s actually been built on the stage. It’s all I can do not to run up and touch it to see if the bricks are real. On stage right is an authentic street from Verona. Downstage is a bench.
“Front row seats.” Beau takes us right to the front, right in the center. A shiver runs down my spine. “Are you ready?”
“What is this?” I crane my neck around. There’s nobod
y here.
“Annabel.” I turn back to Beau. His lips are pressed together in utter seriousness. Underneath all his confidence is a raw flash of pain. I want to lean over and kiss him, and never stop kissing him, but now might not be the time. “This isn’t a regular performance.” He gives a nod downward.
“What—oh.” The program. I unfold it. On the front it says The Lovers, but instead of a photo of Bethany leaning out her villa’s window, there’s a sketch of a bike.
My heart breaks. My heart soars. “What kind of performance is this?” I whisper.
“Watch.”
The lights go down, and music swells. There’s an orchestra. We’re not alone in here—they were silent, waiting. The stage lights come up in full, the music settles into a happy, thrumming rhythm, and people pour on from the wings. They’re dressed in costumes from the show—the most understated gowns. The men, as always, look dapper as hell.
From the chaos comes order. Oh my god. They’re acting out a New York City street.
I know what’s going to happen next.
Bethany, dressed in a stunning dark wig dyed pink at the ends, steps out from the Verona street. Another actor—the woman who plays Julie’s nanny—is playing the part of Marilee. I laugh out loud. The sheer amazement is too much to contain. Bethany has me down pat.
I watch myself being offered the job at the Pearl. I watch myself directing all those men in a line, carrying crates from old-time Italy. And I watch the hero of the show see me for the first time. The look on his face when he sees Bethany is all pain, all hope, all determination. Oh. My. God.
He saves her from a speeding bicycle that whizzes off the stage.
Everything is there. Everything. To my delighted horror, there are even a couple of tasteful bedroom scenes.
Then things take a turn.
I watch Romeo-Beau take a stressful call at work. I watch my character come home late, a dead phone. My heart cracks open. Jesus, are we going to watch the breakup, too?
The music has gone quiet.
The two stars of the show meet in the center of the stage, tension coiling between them. “Beau!” she cries, her smile too big. “You won’t believe what happened. It was as crazy as that time you saved my life.”
The scowling Romeo glares at Bethany until her face is drawn and white. “Where have you been?”
“Beau, I—” I slide down in my seat. This is painful. Bethany digs into a pocket, searching for a phone. “I’m sorry. I was out with my old roommate, you remember—” She trails off, knowing it’s not enough. “I’m sorry, Beau, I ran into her and—”
My entire body goes tense and tight. I’m waiting for the eruption from Romeo. The acid words.
“I was worried sick,” he shouts. Bethany’s eyes go wide. “I thought you’d gone, Annabel, and I thought you were never coming back. You love your freedom,” he says, stepping toward her. “You love it so much that I could never take it away from you. Not knowingly. I was beginning to think—” He turns away, running a hand through his hair. “I was beginning to think we could do this together. Be free together. But when you weren’t here, I lost my mind.” Then he’s stepping toward her, taking her face in his hands. “There are going to be hard times, that’s what I’m trying to say, damn it. But my life is never going to be right without you. Never.” Then he draws her in for a long, lingering kiss.
When they finally break apart, he speaks again. “I’m sorry I was angry.” Their faces are inches apart. I’m hanging on every word. “Will you let me spend my life making it up to you?”
She gasps. Then she reaches up and curls her hands around his wrists.
“Will you?” Beau murmurs in my ear. “Will you let me erase that awful day and make it up to you?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Yes!” Bethany cries out, and the lovers are caught up in a swirl of music, in a closing scene that shows them dancing in the middle of New York City, life rushing all around them, life rushing through them.
I can’t take my eyes off them. Beau’s hand is in mine, holding it tightly. When did he take my hand? All I care about is that he never lets me go.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Beau
This is the part where we’re supposed to kiss and make up, but Annabel is staring out into the theater behind us. Onstage the actors and actresses from The Lovers are taking their bows. There are probably forty people in the theater behind us, whooping and cheering and giving a standing ovation.
“Who are these people?” Annabel laughs over the noise.
“Extras,” I tell her. “Too much?”
“Extras?”
“For the effect. It was an excellent performance.”
She laughs again, loud and long, and the corners of her eyes are damp in the light from the stage. The house lights stay down because this is our show, too, and I’ve been waiting for this since she got out of the car.
“Did you mean it?” she asks, squeezing my hands.
“Are you kidding?” I pull her up out of her seat and wrap one arm around her. “These people are all here because I begged them to help show the love of my life how much she means to me.”
Annabel lets out a pleased giggle, but then her smile fades. “Wait.”
“You heard me,” I say, the moment weighing heavily in the air between us. Is she going to back out? Is she going to run?
The extras don’t nearly make up a full house, but the noise is thunderous.
Annabel’s eyes are dark and deep. “You’re the love of my life, too,” she says. It sounds soft, but she’s nearly shouting to be heard.
My heart cracks open, but this time it’s with pure joy, pure relief. I take her in my arms then, and she throws herself into my embrace, locking herself tight around my neck. Her lips are so sweet on mine that I’m sure I’ll never taste anything to rival it. The dirtiest part of my mind whispers that I might taste something as sweet, but it’ll also be Annabel.
Kissing her doesn’t make me want her any less. It makes me want her more.
She growls into my mouth, her cheeks damp with tears, and the sound of everyone else in the theater disappears. It goes completely silent. There is nothing here but here, nothing but me and our clothes between us. God, it’s sweet. God, it’s sinful. God, I want it every day for the rest of my life and then some.
The sound crashes back in as Annabel pulls away, laughing.
“They’re calling for us,” she says.
I don’t know what she means, and then I hear it. The extras are chanting, “Encore, encore, encore,” and the actors onstage are joining in.
Annabel grabs my hand. “Come on!”
She pulls me behind her to the steps on the side of the stage and runs up, her body lithe and perfect under the black dress she’s wearing. We leap right into the stage lights. It’s hot up here and blinding, but Annabel stands at center stage like she was born to be here. Every minute of her life has led to this. That’s how it seems when she’s up here, poised, head held high, hand in mine. She looks at me, beaming, and we take a bow together. I feel utterly ridiculous. I feel utterly alive.
More cheers, more applause, but now the cast surrounds us. Bethany, in her elegant blue gown, comes and wraps Annabel in a hug and whispers something in her ear. A bunch of the men are clapping me on the back. I’ve never met any of them, but you wouldn’t know it. Annabel is in her element. What have we been doing all this time, being so cautious? She belongs on a stage. She belongs in the spotlight.
She belongs to me.
Finally she disentangles from Bethany, only to be swept up in another hug by Marilee, who has tears running down her face. “I’m so sorry,” she’s saying over Annabel’s shoulder. “Really, Annabel. You’re the sweetest.”
Annabel pulls back, another laugh escaping her. “Bethany made me seem sweeter.”
“I didn’t,” Bethany says, putting a hand on Annabel’s shoulder. She cocks her head in my direction. “He did.”
Annabel turns
to me, and the rest of them disappear. I have eyes only for her. And her eyes? Her eyes are alive, aflame. For me.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says. There’s no shame. Why would there be? This is our night. Everyone onstage around us bursts into cheers. It’s like a wedding night send-off, only the bride is wearing black and isn’t the star of the show.
She’ll be the star of that show. I can guarantee it. She’ll be the star of any room we’re in for the rest of our lives. I’ll make it so.
Annabel doesn’t waste any time folding herself back under my arm. We take the shortest path off the stage and leave down the center aisle.
We’re past the lobby ushers in a flash, Annabel leading the way. She never hesitates. The doors are nothing to her. She pushes them open, and we’re tumbling out onto the steps, onto the sidewalk, and she pulls my hand.
“Where—”
“Here.”
There’s an alcove off to the side of the door, and Annabel grabs my lapels and pushes me back into it, kissing me hard, fierce, like there’s no tomorrow, like there’s never been a tomorrow until the day we met.
I stop her when she goes for my belt. “You’ll get us arrested.”
“Sounds like an adventure.”
“My car is fifteen feet away.”
“How fast can he drive?”
“I’ll do you one better,” I say, raising her hand to my lips and kissing her knuckles. “I’ll put up the privacy partition. No waiting until we get home.”
Annabel’s eyes sparkle in the glow of the streetlight. “Home?”
“My penthouse. Or we can go to your suite at the Pearl. I’ll give you the whole thing, if you want it. Anything, Annabel. Anything.”
She takes in a deep breath, and I lose myself in the color of her eyes.
“You,” she says simply. “That’s all I want.”
Then, with a laugh, she runs for the car, dragging me with her all the way.
Epilogue
Annabel
Four months later
“We should go.”
Beau wraps one arm around my shoulders. “We’re not going.”
“I don’t like it here.”
