“Of course they do,” I say, and I hate that she’s right. But she is. She’s beloved by the fans. They have no clue what she’s like to work with. All they know is she’s a force of nature on stage and she possesses far too much of that most precious resource—charisma.
“Are we supposed to kiss all day?”
“Alexis, you make it sound like it’s such an awful task,” Patrick huffs, and I half want to commend the guy. He rarely has a sharp word for anyone, but I’m glad he’s rising to the occasion here.
I wave them off. “It’s not the two of you,” I say as I pace around the studio, trying to work out what’s missing. I rewind briefly to Jill’s audition when she performed this scene perfectly. What was so different about it? I let myself picture her grabbing Patrick, kissing him like her life depended on it. Even though there’s a weed twisting in my gut at the recall for so many reasons—especially since that kiss was half real now that I know she’s in love with him—the kiss isn’t the problem.
Alexis and Patrick kiss like lovers who’ve been burning for each other.
Jill and Patrick did as well.
But even so, the kiss doesn’t feel as authentic as it could be. That’s when I realize the problem doesn’t lie in this scene. The trouble is what precedes it. The moment before she sings “Changed Your Mind.”
“Here’s the issue. There’s no transition. I don’t believe for a second they’d go from all cooped-up anger about her painting style and his teaching, and then go to a kiss. There needs to be a transition. A moment of intimacy before they kiss. Some moment of touching but not quite touching before they finally kiss.” I stop pacing. “Thirty-minute break. I need to get out of here.”
I leave the studio, take the elevator downstairs and head outside. I need fresh air. I need to think. I need to find the solution, the piece that’s missing. I push a hand roughly through my hair and lose myself in the midday crowds of tourists and locals thronging down Broadway, some in just-bought I Love New York jackets as they snap photos, some suited up and in a race to make their midtown meetings.
I turn the corner and head toward the St. James. We’re finishing with the rehearsal studio time and moving into the theater itself for the next several weeks. It’s rare to have access to the actual stage itself at this point, but since the St. James is empty Clay worked it into my contract for us to rehearse sooner on the stage itself.
I head toward the alley that leads to the stage door, figuring some time in the theater itself will be the inspiration I need. Then I hear a familiar laugh.
There she is, and it slays me every time I see her. How f**king beautiful she is. How effortless she is. How much I want her again. I see her and I want her. I talk to her and I want her. I spend time in the same five-foot radius and I want her.
I watch her as she walks toward me with Shelby. They don’t see me yet. They’re chatting with each other, laughing and smiling as if they have some insider secret. A grin tugs at my lips because her smile is so radiant, so pure. Some days she seems like the most easygoing person in the world. Other times, she seems like she’s hiding something. The mixture is intoxicating and I want to be the one who unlocks her, the one she opens up to.
They near me, and Shelby sees me first. She waves. “Hello, Mr. Milo. You checking out our new rehearsal digs?”
“Of course. Can’t get enough of the St. James. About to take a quick walk-through.”
“Hi,” Jill says, and though she’s acting entirely cool and casual, the slightest blush spreads across her cheeks and I know she’s remembering the other night in the car.
I want to whisper hi back, just to her, then kiss her right below her ear in the way that drives her crazy. Instead, we behave. The three of us stop in front of one of the glass cases on the stone and stucco wall that will soon hold a poster beckoning passersby to come check out Crash The Moon.
“We were on our way to the rehearsal studio for our afternoon call,” Jill asks. “But does this mean we’re working here today?”
She turns to point to the theater, and I notice her hair. She’s wearing it in a braid today. She’s only worn it up once before—the other night at our private rehearsal. Her neck is so inviting, and it takes all my resistance not to touch her, not to run a finger across the exposed skin. I stuff my hands in my pockets, but for a man who prides himself on control I can’t seem to help myself from saying the next words before it’s too late to stop them.
“Your hair is up again.”
Then Shelby pipes in. “That’s my handiwork! I did that. I braided her hair, and let me tell you it’s the best French braid the world has ever seen,” Shelby says with a wink, and it’s cute how proud Shelby is of her hair styling accomplishment. She grabs Jill by the shoulders and spins her around, so I’m looking at the back of her head. “Have you ever seen a better braid?”
But I’m no longer seeing a braid. I’m seeing the answer. I’m seeing what I went looking for. Now I know exactly what the scene needs before that kiss.
I say goodbye to Jill and Shelby, duck into the St. James, and call Stillman, telling him my idea. He says yes.
Chapter 14
Jill
“And now for the piece de resistance.”
Kat shows me one of her newest prototype necklaces, with a miniature padlock modelled after the ones hung on the Lover’s Bridge in Paris. “A spin-off from the holiday line,” she adds, referring to the Paris-themed necklaces that were sold in tandem with cufflinks made from the old locks from the bridge. Her fiancé’s company made the cufflinks and then manufactured the necklaces she designed. They were a massive hit at stores and now she’s doing the hers version of the padlocks as a necklace.
I turn around, and sweep up my hair with one hand. She loops the jewelry around my neck, letting the charm fall against my skin.
She spins me around so I can face the mirror behind her door. “See? You look mah-velous, dahling! Simply mah-velous.”
She’s so genuinely happy, in general, but also for me. Happy that I’m spending the afternoon with Patrick. She knows how long I’ve been in love with him, how I’ve hoped for this moment for years. And now it’s here and I try to ignore the hollow pit in my stomach. Only, it’s hardly hollow. It’s filled with all my guilt over what I did with my director the other night. I let him touch me. I begged him to touch me. I practically threw myself at him in the car, grabbing his shirt, and then pleaded with him to make me come.