Chapter 3
Davis
This woman is strong. Her arms are wrapped all the way around me, and she’s gripping me as if she won’t ever let go. For a second—okay, several seconds—I picture all the things that could happen next if she moved closer because her body feels fantastic against mine. I peel myself away because I’m not going to entertain a single thought about her that slips beyond the professional.
Directing a show is like Fight Club.
The first rule of directing is you do not fall for an actress. The second rule of directing is you do not fall for an actress.
But her hair smells ridiculously good, a pineapple scent that lingers in the cold December air as she breaks the embrace, and my hand twitches because I have a sudden instinct to twine my hands in her dark blond hair. I am steel, though, and I will not let the way she smells affect me, either as the director or as a man. Besides, I don’t date actresses anymore. Haven’t in years. I broke the first two rules of directing once before and have the battle-scarred heart to prove it.
She’s shaking. Or bouncing. Or bounce–shaking. A tear rolls down one cheek. Then the other. The whole time her smile could launch ships. It’s infectious, and that’s the problem. It’s working on me already. “This is the best thing that has ever happened to me professionally. Ever. Thank you, Mr. Milo.”
“Really. It’s just Davis.” I bend down to pick up my phone from the sidewalk.
“Davis,” she says, as if my name is the sweetest word she’s ever uttered. Funny thing is, hardly anyone calls me Davis. Most of the actors I’ve worked with over the years have called me Mr. Milo. Most of the time I prefer that, too. You don’t call your doctor by the first name, nor your teacher, nor your director, as far as I’m concerned. But Davis just sounds right on her lips, so I find myself letting her use it.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do before the show opens. Rehearsals start in a month and you’ll be shadowing Alexis Carbone, who’s been cast as Ava,” I say, reverting to cool professionalism, though her reaction—so pure and genuine—to being the understudy melts a tiny piece of my icy business-like heart.
Some days, it seems as if there’s so much entitlement in this business. It’s nice to see a little gratitude.
As another tear rolls down her cheek, I correct myself quietly. A lot of gratitude. Then I do something entirely out of character. I swipe the pad of my thumb across her cheek to wipe away a tear. Her skin is soft to the touch. I could get used to this.
“Can I take you out for a drink or something? A coffee, or a bagel or a cookie, to say thank you?” She asks with the most hopeful look in her eyes, and I want to say yes. But that would be a huge mistake. She is off limits, according to every definition of the term. I can’t go there again.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Okay, so scratch that. Because the cookie thing sounded really lame. Can I take you out for milk and cookies?” she says in a sing-song voice, clearly making fun of herself. “And coffee! Argh. When did coffee become the thing of our world?”
“I don’t know. But it is. The thing of our world,” I say and a grin tugs at my lips. Her self-deprecating humor is far too alluring for my own good.
“Screw coffee. What if I bought you a drink to say thanks?”
“I swear you don’t have to take me out for a drink, Jill. I’m just happy you’re going to do the show.”
She holds up a hand as if to say she’s retreating. “Then I’ll go to Sardi’s by my lonesome. Because my roommate is out tonight, my best guy friend is with his woman, and I always vowed that if I ever landed a Broadway show I’d go to Sardi’s to celebrate.”
She tips her forehead to the restaurant that’s a Broadway institution itself. The neon green sign flashes, beckoning tourists and industry people alike, as it has for decades. The place is old-school, but it’s venerable for a reason—it’s the heart of the theater district, and a watering hole teeming with history, having hosted theater royalty for dinner and drinks for nearly one hundred years.
She raises her eyebrows playfully, as if she’s waiting for me to acquiesce. A cab squeals by, sending a quick, cold breeze past us that blows a few strands of blond hair across her face. She brushes the hair away and arches an eyebrow. “The breeze is blowing me to Sardi’s.”
She turns on her heels, heads to the door and saunters inside. It feels like a challenge. Maybe even a dare. I shake my head, knowing better, but following her anyway.
She’s not easy to resist.
I find her at the hostess stand, telling a black jacketed maitre’d that it’ll be just one for the bar. I march up to her and place a hand on her back so she knows I’m here. Her eyes meet mine as I touch her, but her gaze is steady and she doesn’t seem to mind the contact. “Actually,” I say, cutting in. “That’ll be two.”
“Right this way then,” the maitre’d says and guides us past tables full of suited-up theatergoers, men in jackets and women in evening dresses, chattering about the shows they’re about to see. There’s a table with two guys who look like Wall Street types dining with their wives. Jill walks past them, and one of the guys lingers on her much longer than he should. The woman with him doesn’t notice, but I do and I give him a hard stare. He turns back to his plate of shrimp instantly.
At the bar, I pull out a stool for her. She thanks me, then shucks off her coat and crosses her legs. Her legs look as good in jeans as they probably do out of them. She has that kind of a figure—athletic and trim. Probably flexible too. Damn, this woman might be all my weaknesses.