“I’m ready to do whatever it takes,” I say, completely earnest and serious as I match his stare. Then I add, almost mischievously, “Mr. Milo.”
Because I want to get back to where we were.
He turns to stare out the window, but there’s the slightest grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s trying hard not to smile. He wins, keeping his expression stony as he returns to the task at hand. “I want you to take the script home. I want you to start learning it. By heart.”
“Absolutely. I would be thrilled to.”
“I’m going to ask a lot of you, Jill. I have ridiculously high expectations for the show, and everyone has to meet them, and that includes the understudy for the leading role.”
“I won’t disappoint you.”
He leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands clasped together. “Do more than not disappoint me. Exceed my expectations.”
The room seems to compress, to tighten into this one tense line from him to me as he holds my gaze, but his dark eyes give nothing away. I’m not sure if he’s trying to break me down, or to see if I can withstand the pressure. “I will give you everything, Mr. Milo.”
At last, a smirk plays on his lips. Then he whispers in a low, sexy voice that makes me heady for a moment, “It’s Davis. Just call me Davis.”
“Okay,” I say, then, as if I’m trying it on for size, I repeat his name. “Davis.”
He shakes his head twice and breathes out hard, and for some reason, I like the way he responds.
He walks over to his desk and I try to look elsewhere—at the walls, at the table, at the floor—but I can’t seem to stop checking him out, from his broad shoulders to his deliciously sculpted ass. I try to remind myself that I should not, under any circumstances, be looking at his fine ass as he grabs a spiral-bound thick set of pages.
The script.
It’s like a treasure. The book and music for the newest Stillman musical, and he holds it as such, as if it’s a great and powerful thing. I’ve only seen the pages from the audition scene. Now I’m about to dive into the whole story. I cannot wait, and when he hands it to me I take it reverently.
“Spend the next few weeks immersing yourself in it,” he says, and he’s still standing, so it’s clear that the meeting is over. I stand up, tuck the script in my purse and loop the strap over my shoulder. He walks with me to the door and as I’m reaching for my coat, I wobble in the too-big heels.
Stupid shoes.
But then his hand is on my elbow, instantly. He steadies me as I’m reaching for him so I don’t fall. When I look up at him, I can feel the flush of embarrassment creeping into my cheeks. I decide to make light of it. “That’s what I get for borrowing my roommate’s shoes. She has big feet.”
He glances down at the black pumps. “Nice shoes.”
As I follow his eyes, I realize my hand is on his shirt, my fingers fisted around the cloth, clutching it. I should let go. But I don’t. Because I can’t help but notice he has that clean and freshly showered smell that makes any woman want to lean in and lick a guy’s neck.
Close her eyes. Inhale, and trail a tongue all the way to his earlobe, enjoying the sound of a low groan.
“Nice shirt,” I say softly, running my index finger across one smooth button. Then I look up to find him staring down at me. His dark blue eyes aren’t cold anymore. They’re not keeping me at bay. Instead, they’re heated, searching mine.
It’s hypnotic the way he looks at me. Completely hypnotic, as the room goes quiet, the air between us charged.
I press my teeth against my lips and I think, but I’m not entirely sure because thought has vanished, that I nod briefly, almost as if I’m giving him permission. Then he bends towards me, and my breath catches. Before I even process rationally what’s happening his lips are on mine, and my pulse is racing. It’s barely there, just him brushing his soft lips against mine, but I want more. So I pull him closer and deepen the kiss. He groans and then suddenly his hands are in my hair, and he’s twining his fingers through my long, blond strands, and tugging me close.
I thought I was leading this kiss, but I’m not anymore because he’s claiming me, tracing his tongue across my top lip, then nipping at the bottom lip, then kissing me so deeply and with so much heat that I shudder. That only makes him kiss me harder, and everything else falls away because this is a kiss I can feel in every single cell in my body. Deep, and fevered, and possessive.
It makes me want things I’m not supposed to have.
It makes me want him.
My heart pounds wildly as he presses closer, so dangerously near to me that I’m longing for him to slam me against his body, to touch me all over. His lips own me, his hands want to know me, and I swear I might combust from this kind of electric contact.
He breaks the kiss and I’m honestly not sure where I am anymore. Or who I am. I look at him, at Davis, but everything is so hazy right now that I don’t know what to say. I don’t think he does either, because he doesn’t speak for a moment. He exhales deeply, collecting himself. As if he doesn’t know how the kiss transpired either.
“I’m sorry,” he says then steps back. He looks away from me, staring at some distant point on the wall. “That was a mistake,” he says quietly.
My mouth is open in shock. A mistake? That was a kiss that begged to become so much more.
But I manage to hide my embarrassment at having kissed my first Broadway director by doing what he hired me to do. Act.