"It is now. I took over the lease about a year ago."
"Where's the original renter?"
"Out on tour."
"Is it weird living in someone else's apartment?"
"Nah, in the theatre world, people are always bouncing from one flat to another due to sudden casting, out of town tryouts, or tours. The bathroom is right here, and this is my room." He frowns and rushes to tidy up. "Sorry. I wasn't planning on company." He sweeps the scattered contents on the dresser into the top drawer, scoops up clothes from the floor and tosses them into a chair, then straightens the covers on the bed.
"I'm sorry to barge in."
"Seriously, it's no problem." He frowns at a stray sock on the floor and kicks it under the bed.
"Don't worry. I'm so tired, I'll be asleep in two minutes." But I love seeing his place. It's like a peek behind the curtains into who Tom really is.
He glances at a clock on the nightstand. "Shoot, I hate to ditch you, but I've really got to run."
"Not a problem."
"If you're sure." He scans the room as if looking for anything embarrassing or out of place.
I touch his arm. "Of course. Please go."
His eyes settle on me. "All right, but call or text if you need anything. I'm on stage during most of the show, but I'll check for messages during intermission."
"Thank you."
He runs a hand through his hair. "Geez, this morning went so fast. I'm sorry."
"Would you stop apologizing? Go to work." Which sounds so funny to tell someone performing in a musical to go to work.
"I'll be back between shows and then we'll go out for a late dinner after tonight's performance, so rest up."
"I think you're the one who's going to need the rest."
He grins. "True that." He kisses me on the lips slow and soft, leaving the promise of more. "Sweet dreams," he says. A few seconds later the apartment door closes and locks.
I take off my coat and glance around the living room getting a feel for his space. There's a dead fern collecting dust in the corner as well as giant plant that stretches up to the ceiling where hooks hold up the twining vines. Exhaustion is settling in, so back in his room I sit on the side of the bed. The bedding is dark and masculine. There are wood blinds on the windows. A desk is piled with papers, sheet music, and scripts. There's a stack of papers with his eight by ten head shot. I flip it over and see more pics of him and his bio, height and weight. He must use these when he auditions for a new show.
Tired, I grab his pillow and inhale. I can't help but grin. It smells just like him.
16
I enter my bedroom expecting to find Chelsea watching TV or on her phone, but the room is dark, lit only by the outside light streaking through the open blinds. Chelsea is buried under the covers. I quietly close the door to keep the noise from the living room out, and turn on the nightstand light. She's on her stomach with her face turned to the side, her lips parted in deep slumber.
"Chelsea," I call softly so as not to startle her. Her breathing is slow, her eyelashes rest like butterfly wings on her cheeks, her pert little nose is tucked against the pillow. "Chelsea, I'm back," I say a little louder this time, but she still doesn't stir. I laugh. She is totally out.
I sit on the side of the bed, wishing I could let her sleep, but it's a busy day. Hell, what day isn't, but I've only got an hour before I've got to get back to the theatre. I could put her in a cab to her hotel, but it's her first time in the city and I'd rather see her there myself.
I lift a lock of honey-blond hair that's splayed over her shoulder and draw its feathery softness across her cheek. She twitches, but doesn't wake. I grin at the slumbering beauty and lie on my side facing her and run the hair across her forehead and down her slender nose. Her nose wrinkles in response and she pulls away.
"Good morning, sleepy head," I whisper as her shoulders draw up and she emits a little yawn. When she realizes where she is, she smiles, and I chuckle. "There you are."
Her eyes blink open. "Oh, no! Did I over sleep and miss your show?" She rolls on her side to face me and pushes her hair out of her face.
"No, but you've been snoozing like a bear.
"I'm sorry. I meant to be awake and ready when you got here. I don't want to miss anything, but I was so tired."
She stretches like a graceful cat. Her outstretched arms push the covers away revealing a gray T-shirt. I could swear she was wearing a blue dress earlier.
"What are you wearing?"
Chelsea is confused for a moment and looks down.
It looks like the T-shirt I wore yesterday. "Is that my shirt?"
Her eyes dart away and she swallows. "My dress was uncomfortable."
"But why are you wearing my old shirt? You should have grabbed a fresh one from my dresser." I have to admit, it's damn flattering that she's wearing my shirt.
Her face turns a shade of pink.
"What?"
"I like how it smells," she says and shrinks under the comforter covering her face.
I stare at the lump in my bed and tug the covers back, not sure I heard correctly. "You like how I smell?"
She nods and ducks back under. I laugh. "Well, that's a first."
And it's adorable as hell. I nudge the covers down to reveal her hiding behind a mass of hair. With my index finger I lift the tousled hair away and look into lovely amber eyes smiling back at me. I glance quickly at the clock and notice her dress draped across the chair next to the bed, and freeze.
"Chelsea, what else are you wearing under there?" She bites the edge of her lip. "You are wearing something other than my shirt, aren't you?" A rush of heat shoots south.
She nods. "Panties."
"Bloody hell." My eyebrows must hit my hairline as I picture her long bare legs sliding between the sheets of my bed. This fact pummels me in the chest.
I clear my throat. "A gorgeous woman is sleeping in my bed, wearing panties and my T-shirt." And then I add, "Because she likes how I smell." This image of her is blazoned in my mind never to be erased.
Her cheeks flush. "Oh God, you must think I'm throwing myself at you." She pushes up onto her elbows. "I wasn't. I mean, I'm not. I just wanted to be comfortable."
"I know you weren't." Which is another reason it's so hot. The power of her innocence is intoxicating. "So, what color?" I ask with a sly grin.
She's confused for a second. "Color? Oh!" She laughs when she realizes I'm asking the color of her panties. She concentrates for a second, her brow furrowed. "Lavender."
And now the vision of her beneath my sheets is complete. "I like lavender."
"Oh yeah?" she raises an eyebrow.
I can't resist her a second longer. I lean over and nuzzle her neck. She giggles. "You know every possible way to drive me crazy. Do you realize that?" She smells pretty damn good too.
She shakes her head.
"And, you have no idea you're doing it." I run my hands over the bedspread feeling her bare thighs beneath, but the downy filling won't let me close enough. "Oh God, you're killing me."
Chelsea giggles. Her eyes gaze into mine. "I'm sorry. I was only going for comfort."
I can't resist caressing her cheek, but I need to get a hold of myself before things get out of hand. "You can get comfortable in my bed anytime you want." But I roll to a sitting position with my back to her. "I'm giving you exactly five seconds to get out of bed. After that, I'm not sure I can control my actions."
She must believe me, because the bed dips as she gets up. Suddenly she whips past me with her dress in hand.
"Where are you going?"
"The bathroom."
She dashes to the door, distracting me with a great view of her long slender legs.
"Chelsea, wait!" I put up a hand to stop her.
But she's already opened the door. The talking in the living room halts. She freezes just outside my door. I step up behind her and imagine her shock to find three startled guys staring at her.
She takes a step
back. "I'm sorry," she says with a squeak to the guys while tugging the front of my T-shirt lower and giving me a nice view of lavender in the back.
"No apologies necessary," says Justin from the couch with a guitar across his lap.
I lean against the doorframe and push a hand through my hair. Here we go.
"Hey, Tom, how long have you been hiding her?" Paul says, grabbing a beer out of a six-pack on the table.
"A month or so." I answer with a straight face.
"No kidding? I've been wondering why you're so blasted happy," Ryan says.
Chelsea turns and stares at me in disbelief. Her hair is totally mussed and looks like we've been through ten rounds of bedroom gymnastics.
"Chelsea, this is Justin, Paul and Ryan. Guys, this is Chelsea."
Her shocked eyes search mine, and I suddenly realize her concern at being half dressed in front of a bunch of strange guys, so I put her at ease. "Don't worry they're all gay."
"I'm not gay," says Paul, cracking open his beer.
"Sure you are," says Ryan, his hair slicked back from a recent shower.
"Justin is about to leave on tour, and Ryan is trying to find a job," I explain.
"I have a job, just not the right job," Ryan says.
"He's a cater waiter for the beautiful people," Paul volunteers with a smirk.
"Paul's girlfriend threw him out again." Justin strums the guitar.
"See! I'm not gay." Paul says.
"But everyone thinks you're gay," says Ryan.
"Nice to meet you," Chelsea says politely.
"And nice to see Tom with a girl,” Ryan says. “We were starting to worry he'd never find another woman willing to put up with his eccentricities. You see, the poor guy's been alone since—
"Ignore them.” I interrupt before he regales her with the sordid details of my last failed relationship. Chelsea glances at me with raised eyebrows.
“The bathroom's there." I point to the open door. Chelsea smiles weakly and disappears, locking the door behind her.
Justin says, "You actually found a girl who'd come home with you?"
"She likes me," I say puffing out my chest.
"Not any more!" Chelsea hollers through the closed door, and the guys burst into laughter.
17
Times Square is lit up brighter than the Celebrity Dance Off ballroom as our cab crawls to the theatre in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“Hey, check it out!” Dominic points to a three-story high billboard of Tom's show, Crossing Lines.
I gawk at his familiar silhouette filling the side of a building. “I had no idea.” My eyes trail the sign as the cab rolls by more billboards, ticker-type news reels, and souvenir shops before turning. There are brightly lit theatre marquees on every block. We pass Hamilton, Wicked and numerous other shows before arriving at the theatre for Crossing Lines.
The cab pulls up and I let Dominic pay the fare. The show is paying our expenses for two days in New York and then I’m on my own. We’re needed back for the finale rehearsal on Saturday, but Dominic and I both agreed we wanted a couple extra days to enjoy New York.
We step onto the sidewalk into a crush of theatregoers bustling up and down both sides of the street with anticipation. Taxis and town cars drop off more ticket holders. We take a selfie in front of the marquee with Dominic looking his normal amazing self, and me grinning like an idiot. I don't care. Who would have guessed that the first Broadway show I see, the leading man is actually my friend? Date? Boyfriend? I'm not really sure I can call him that yet, but he's certainly more than a friend.
After texting the photo to Tom, so he knows we made it, we find the Will-Call line. I give them my name, and sure enough, the ticket agent hands me an envelope with two tickets. I wave them at Dominic and squeal.
A woman interrupts my euphoria. “Excuse me. You’re Dominic and Chelsea from Celebrity Dance Off? Could I get a picture?”
Dominic shifts into performance mode. “Of course.” We quickly pose with her standing between us as her husband takes the picture.
“Can I get one with just Dominic?” She asks all gooey eyed. I quickly step away, a little embarrassed that I stood in the first shot when he’s the one she’s really interested in. “Thank you, so much!” she effuses to Dominic after her hubby snaps another shot. And as we’re walking away, I hear her say, “I can’t believe I just met Dominic Yardley.”
I laugh. “See, it’s you the viewers were voting for all this time.”
Inside, we follow a grand staircase, and an usher leads us to first row balcony seats. I stare at the grand stage. The massive curtain is lit with the logo of the show. I soak in the ornate decor of the opulent old theater. There are gorgeous frescos on the ceiling, gilded box seats, and glittering chandeliers. I open the program and see Tom's picture, the first one at the top of the page. I elbow Dominic and grin.
The lights dim and the audience goes quiet as the overture begins. It's a relief to watch a show, versus having to dance in one, but my nerves are still as jumpy as if I were performing. I wonder how Tom is. What is he doing at this moment? Is he right behind the curtains? Or in the wings? What's he wearing? I know so little about this show, just that one song I saw on the Tony awards.
The curtain rises, and I grab Dominic’s arm. The stage lights come up, and the opening number begins. I search the stage, but can't spot him. It's a big group number with colorful costumes, and a rousing song. Just as it ends, Tom makes his entrance and my stomach flips. He's playing a younger man and it shows in the way he walks and acts. I'm surprised when he speaks his first lines with an American accent, but it sounds perfectly normal, and the rest of the world falls away, as I'm mesmerized by this new side of him.
Two and a half hours later, the show culminates with Tom belting out raw passionate vocals laced with angst, grief, and even hope. His powerful tenor voice fills the theatre giving me goose bumps, and when the song ends, I swipe away tears I didn't realize I'd shed. The theatre erupts into applause.
The stage goes dark and I can't believe the journey I've just been on. When the lights come up, Tom is gone. The cast comes out for bows in small groups. First the ensemble, then the smaller roles, to the principal players, and finally Tom runs out for his bow. I'm immediately on my feet along with the rest of the audience. He smiles and bows, back to the charming guy who occupies all my thoughts. The rest of the cast join him, gesture to the orchestra, and take a final group bow.
He gazes up to the balcony, and even though I'm sure he can't see me beyond the bright stage lights, he smiles and waves. I wave back, as the curtain closes, not caring if I look silly.
"Oh, my God." I turn to Dominic.
He’s just as razzed by the show as I am. “That was incredible.”
“I want to see it again.”
It takes a few minutes to file outside. The stage door is surrounded by a mob of people. Dominic leads the way past stanchions set up to keep the crowd back. I feel rude barreling past people, but I guess this is how it’s done. I hear comments, “Is that Dominic Yardley and Chelsea Barnes?”
Dominic knocks at the stage door and a security guy opens it a crack. The people in the crowd are craning their necks to see who we are. More people call out to us. I smile politely as Dominic gives our names. The security guard is a middle-aged guy wearing a flannel shirt and beat up boots. He swings the door open.
We step into an entryway of concrete steps, scuffed gray walls, and exposed pipes. It’s pretty bland after all the glamour of the show.
"Tom's dressing room is on the second floor at the top of the steps." The security guy points to the narrow staircase. This place is a lot like the studio in L.A. with a barren, industrial feel, except this theatre has got to be a hundred years old.
Dominic gestures for me to go first, so I climb the stairs, my pulse racing faster with each step. Tom was amazing, and the show was epic, leaving me moved beyond words.
A couple people wearing street clothes and stage makeup pass us goin
g down. I know they were in the show but don't recognize them out of costume.
We reach the second floor landing and a grey door marked Thomas Evan Oliver, Crossing Lines. I hesitate and turn to Dominic.
I chew at the edge of my lip. Tom is now more than the guy who sang for me on Celebrity Dance Off. He's more than the cute guy I flirt with long distance, or steal kisses with now that I'm here in the same city. He's a huge Broadway star who just carried this show. Intimidated doesn't begin to describe my feelings.
Dominic raps on the door.
Tom opens it with a grin and tousled hair. "You made it!"
“Great show, man. Incredible.” Dominic shakes his hand.
I say, “Wow.” Because no words can express my feelings.
His eyes soften. "Thanks. Come on in." He holds the door wide.
He's lean and lanky wearing a fitted navy T-shirt. His costume is draped over a chair and he's wearing dark jeans but no shoes or socks. "Sorry, I'm running late. I got caught up by the stage manager."
"The show was amazing. You were...I don't even know what to say, other than phenomenal," I gush.
His smile is tender. "I'm glad you liked it."
"I don't know how you do it. I'm wrung out from the experience. You must be exhausted."
"Usually I am, but tonight I'm jazzed to have you guys here." He pulls a black button-down shirt out of his closet and slips into it.
I take in all the chaos and coziness of his dressing room. There's a love seat and two comfortable chairs around a coffee table, art on the walls and a colorful rug on the floor.
"Pretty nice space you've got," Dominic says.
"It's the nicest dressing room I've ever had. My sister decorated it. I spend enough time here, so I wanted it to be comfortable." He buttons his shirt.
I notice a Drama League Award on a shelf and another for opening the show.
He sits down to put on his shoes and socks. "Are you guys still up for a late dinner?"
"Absolutely." I squint at pictures of Tom with true A-list celebrities tucked into the side of his mirror. There's the lead guy from Star Wars, a couple of people from Game of Thrones, and is that T-Swift?
If Ever Page 15
