I’m grateful for the caricature of James Gandolfini hanging above the mirror behind the bar. I glance at him instead, then give his drawn likeness a salute.
“One of the finest,” I say as I sit down.
“He was indeed,” she says with a nod.
The bartender comes over. “What can I get you tonight?”
I look to Jill, letting her go first. “Vodka and soda. Belvedere, please.”
He nods. “And you sir?”
“Glenlivet on the rocks.”
“Coming right up.”
Then she looks at me, her blue eyes sparkling and full of so much happiness. “I can’t believe it! I scored a Broadway show. Do you have any idea how happy I am?”
“Yeah,” I say, playfully. “It’s kind of written all over your face.”
“Well, I’m not going to hide it. I think I might light up Times Square tonight with my happiness. And now I’m having drinks at Sardi’s with my director!”
“Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want word to get out that I’m consorting with the talent,” I joke.
She leans in closer, makes her lips pouty, and kind of shimmies her shoulders. “Oh, I get to keep your secrets already.”
My breath hitches with her near me like that. Rationally, I know it’s the moment. I know it’s the excitement of landing her first show that’s making her so flirty, so playful, but still, she’s got such a sexy way about her that she could be trouble for my heart. I don’t know that I should even try to keep up with the banter right now. She could reel me in, and I’ve vowed to stay away from actresses, outside of work. They are wonderful, and talented, and often too gorgeous to be real, like this one. But some of them also have a way of using you because of what you can do for them.
There’s the rub, for ya.
“I assure you, I have very few interesting secrets,” I say, trying my best to bow out of the flirting right now, even though I want to take it to many other levels already.
Thankfully, the bartender arrives with the drinks.
“One Glenlivet and one Belvedere.”
“Thank you,” I say. He nods and heads off to take an order at the end of the bar.
I reach for my drink and am about to offer a toast when I see he’s given me hers and vice versa. “I believe this is yours.” I hand her the drink. She takes the glass from my hand, and for the briefest of moments her fingers touch mine. I don’t even have the time to think about something else. It’s so fast, but it ignites something dark in me, the side of myself that she should never know about, the way I like it. But that side is there, and my eyes immediately stray down her body, to the curve of her hips, to the shape of her br**sts under her sweater. Then she bends down to reach for her purse hanging on a hook under the bar and I’m watching her, memorizing the way she moves, and it’s as if I can’t stop imagining her bent over, back bowed, ready. The things I would say to her if we were alone like that. The things I would whisper harshly in her ear. The things she’d let me do to her.
I run my hand across my jaw. I need to get it together if I’m going to work with her.
I remind myself that I am made of iron and I can lock up any dangerous thoughts about her and focus solely on work. The matter isn’t helped when she retrieves lip gloss from her purse and reapplies it, so I’m instantly wondering how her lips taste. How they’d look on me. She tucks the tube away then holds up her vodka and soda.
Thank God she’s done touching up her lips.
“To your first show on the Great White Way,” I say and we clink glasses. I toss out a harmless question so I can return to being a cool, collected professional. “What was the first musical you ever saw?”
“Fiddler on the Roof,” she says and then hums a few bars from “If I Were a Rich Man.”
“You make a good Tevye,” I say dryly.
“You’ll keep me in mind for that role if you ever direct a revival?”
“Absolutely. You’ll be top of the list on my call sheet.”
“Can you even imagine what the critics would say?” Jill gestures wide as if she’s calling out a huge headline. “Hotshot director casts chick in iconic dude role.”
“Hotshot director?”
A tinge of red floods her cheeks, and she waves her hand in front of her face. “I didn’t mean anything…”
“It might strike you as crazy, but I’m 100 percent fine with the hotshot title,” I say, and take a long swallow of my drink. “By the way. I saw you in Les Mis.”
“You did?” she asks, and she seems genuinely surprised.
I nod. “Yes. That’s why I called you in.”
“I thought it was the producer who saw me.”
I laugh. “No. Though I’m sure he took credit for it. But I was the one who saw you. And I just want you to know I don’t think I will ever see that show again without picturing you as Eponine.”
“Really?” Her blue eyes widen, and I love the way she seems so truly happy with the compliment. I love that she’s not jaded, she’s not full of herself. She’s still hopeful, and it’s so attractive. It’s part of why I called her in after seeing the off-Broadway revival of Les Mis, where the show had been modernized into a rock opera. She was everything I’d ever wanted to see in an actress. She made me believe. I never doubted for one second that she was Eponine, and that’s the toughest thing to nail, but the one thing I want most to see. No, it’s the thing I want to feel. I want to feel the walls of the real world collapse around me, so I can believe in the illusion.