“I really wish you wouldn’t call me your boss,” he says. Maybe he’s in the same boat, too, and can’t get a read on how to be with me.
“But you are, aren’t you?” I say, and then realize that the question—aren’t you—has taken on a life of its own and sounds flirtatious. I didn’t mean it to come across that way. I don’t know why I said it like that. I don’t know why I’m leaning closer to him and volleying back, but maybe it’s because the air around us feels warmer, sharper, and I want more of it.
More of the mistake.
He tilts his head to the side. He keeps his eyes on me, not letting go. Something about the way he looks at me makes me want to tell him things, to open up, to share all sorts of secrets I’ve never told anyone else. His dark blue eyes are so pure and unflinching that they seem to demand nothing less than total honesty.
Of course, that’s his style, that’s his MO, that’s how he directs and elicits the most compelling performances from actors, by demanding unwavering truth on stage.
He doesn’t respond to my question. The silence expands, an electric kind of quiet, and soon I can’t take the tension.
“My boss,” I add, as if I have to explain, but my voice seems feathery, like it belongs to someone else.
“Technically, I’m not your boss. The producers are. I’m only your director.”
That’s all he says, and I can’t tell if he’s returning the serve, or if he’s just a master at handling actors. At handling me.
I look up at the sign above the elevator that indicates what floor it’s on. Third floor. The elevator chugs, and it’ll be here any minute, and then I’ll be alone in it with him. My mind gallops off to all the sexy scenes I’ve ever read that take place in an elevator. Part of me wants to put an end to the imaginings, but the other part of me wants to unleash them.
I can’t take that chance.
“I’m going to take the stairs,” I say, and turn on my heels.
“Good idea.”
Chapter 8
Davis
I take a bite of my bagel as we round the first landing, chewing as I watch her walk up the stairs. I should look away, but her legs are an unfair advantage: strong, shapely, and impossibly long. Too bad they’re covered in tights. But then, I reason, as we round another flight, perhaps that barrier is a good thing.
“How’s your coaching going?”
She turns around briefly, casting me a curious look as she keeps walking. The sound of her boots hitting each of the concrete steps echoes. “How did you know I was a running coach?”
“Because I looked you up before I called you in,” I say, with a–matter–of–fact tone. “The Internet is a wonderful thing. I research all actors I’m seriously considering casting.”
“Oh,” she says, and there’s the faintest note of being let down in her voice, as if she wanted me to have looked her up just for her. “Coaching is good,” she continues. “I scaled back a bit when I got the part, but I’m still working with a core group of women who are training for a breast cancer awareness run to raise funds for research.”
“That’s great. Takes a lot of discipline to do that, to run every day. I imagine it takes even more discipline to have run five marathons.”
“Yes. I am immensely disciplined,” she says and there’s something veiled in her answer, so I can’t help but wonder what other areas she is equally disciplined about. “In fact, I’ve learned all the lines already.”
Oh, so that’s what she meant. My mind was drifting off to tawdrier shores.
She stops briefly on the landing to the fourth floor. I stop, too. She turns and wheels on me, and a look of frustration mingled with a hopeless sort of desperation crosses her gorgeous face. “You can’t just do this. You can’t keep coming in and out of my life,” she says, her voice nearly breaking.
I step closer to her, worry pounding through me. “I’m sorry,” I say, but I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. “Are you okay?”
She smiles, the kind you flash when you’ve pulled something off. “It’s from the show. Act II, Scene Five. Near the end.”
“Damn,” I breathe out, shaking my head, and matching her grin. “You had me. You were so convincing that it didn’t even occur to me you were giving me a line. Because I know them all too.” Though I’m not an actor and would never want to be one, I shift into Paolo seamlessly with one tilt of the head, one cocky stare. “But I’m in your life. I’m in it, Ava,” I say, emphatically. We’re no longer in the stairwell. We’re in an art gallery, where this scene takes place and Ava is angry with Paolo because he’s shown up when she didn’t expect him.
With every word crisply enunciated, because Ava is through with all their ups and downs, she commands, “Then be in it.”
“I will if you’ll stop pushing me out.” I step closer to her.
“I never did that and you know it,” she says, fixing me a tough stare, but she doesn’t back away.
I pause. Breathe. Let go of the anger. “Ava, I can’t stand this fighting anymore.”
She raises her eyebrows playfully. “Let’s do something other than fight then.” Then, her eyes soften. She reaches for my face with tentative fingers. “You have something on your…”
I frown, puzzled by the words that don’t fit. “That’s not the next line. The next line is I have something in mind—”