“Good idea, Shan. Now go get home so you can curl up by the fire and watch the snow fall.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe we’ll even have a snow day tomorrow,” she muses. “Oh wait. Davis Milo never allows snow days.” She swats me playfully on the arm.
“You don’t allow them either.”
“You got me there. But I learned my merciless ways from you,” she says, then tosses her scarf around her neck with a final flourish. “I’m off into the tundra.”
She opens the door, letting in a cold blast of air. I’m about to close it, when a voice I long to hear calls out, “Hold the door! My hands are full.”
I push back on the door and see Jill practically sprinting down the alley, holding a cup of coffee in each hand. She says a quick hello and goodbye to Shannon as she passes her.
“Good luck with the hair scene, Jill,” Shannon says. “Make sure you guys finalize the blocking.”
“Hair scene. I’m on it,” she answers like a good soldier, following orders.
Jill reaches the door, and holds up the blue paper cups.
“Coffee.”
“I can see that.”
“I got you one,” she says, and there’s the slightest flutter to her voice, as if she’s nervous.
She thrusts a cup at me, and I take it. It’s just coffee but still, I’m dying to break into a grin because it’s not just coffee—it’s coffee from her, it’s coffee for us. It’s a little something she did for our private rehearsal.
“I’m impressed you can run and not spill the coffee.”
“It’s all part of my marathon training. In fact, I teach that skill to the more advanced runners in my coaching group.”
“But of course. Some of them probably even want to learn how not to spill a latte, or perhaps an espresso,” I say with a smirk.
“We’re actually well past the how-not-to-spill espresso training. By the way, do you think you can let me in now?”
I laugh, realizing I’m standing in the doorway and she’s outside, shivering, even with her coat on. I open the door wider, letting her in. I look briefly at the dark sky that’s brighter than usual, a sure sign the clouds are swelling with snow.
“Looks like snow.” I let the door close behind us.
“You better watch out then. I throw a mean snowball. My brothers taught me how to throw.”
“I’ll consider myself duly warned for the vicious snowball attack.” We head down the backstage hallway toward the wings of the stage. As I watch her walk, her coat hitting just below her waist, I imagine her na**d again. I love that I know what she looks like without anything on.
I take a drink. The coffee is perfect. Just black. Nothing added to it. Exactly how I like it.
“How did you know?”
“How did I know what?”
“How I take my coffee.”
“I took a wild guess. My roommate has this theory about guys and their coffee drinks,” she says as we reach the stage. She stops at the edge of the curtains.
“A theory about men and coffee?” I raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
She briefly looks at her shoes, then back at me. “Well, it’s just, she has this theory that the man who orders just coffee is, you know…” her voice trails off, and crimson starts to flood her cheeks.
“Is just what?”
“Just…” She can’t seem to finish the thought.
“You want me to guess?”
She shakes her head, her hair falling in a curtain around her face in the most thoroughly distracting manner. But she seems embarrassed, and the last thing I want to do is push her past her point of comfort.
“Well, whatever the theory is, I will choose to take it as a compliment.”
She raises her face, and meets my eyes. “Thank you.”
“Do you want a tour of all the secret backstage passageways and doors before we start? Or did you check everything out already today?” I offer, hoping she says yes. I want to be able to do something for her that’s special, that no one else can do. To show her more of the things she loves—theater.
Her eyes sparkle. “Secret backstage stuff. Like ghosts?”
“This theater has many, many ghosts. They say the ghost of Hammerstein sometimes watches from over there.”
I point past the stage, to the balcony on the right-hand side.
“Do you think he’s there right now?” she whispers.
“Oh no. He’s far too busy. He only shows up on opening night.”
She laughs, and places her coffee on the floor and unbuttons her coat. She walks to the edge of the stage, leans slightly, then tosses the coat perfectly so it lands on a chair in the second row. Right next to my coat. Then she retrieves her cup.
I tip my forehead past the wings and crook my finger for her to follow me. I take another sip of the coffee then show her the trapdoor in the stage, the steps down to the orchestra pit that also do double duty for quick costume changes in some shows, and the catwalk above with the spotlights.
“But here’s the best part. Did you know there’s a dressing room above the stage?”
She grins widely, as if I’ve just revealed the location to buried treasure. “How did I not notice it today?”
“It’s kind of hidden behind some of the crates with the set pieces we haven’t unpacked yet. The star usually claims it; it’s actually in Alexis’ contract. But it’s still worth a look.” I show her back to the wings, and open a black door that’s painted to match the walls. “Right there. Stairs lead up to it. Like a fire escape.”
“Can we go up?”
“We can’t go inside. But you can go up.”
She walks up the steps to the top where a small metal balcony looks out over the quiet stage, with the door to the dressing room behind.
“It’s quite a view,” she says drinking in the majesty of the St. James from this hideout spot that few people ever see. She surveys the expansive place as if she’s privy to a gorgeous sunset, and I love watching her reaction because I feel the same. She turns to me, and we’re so close in this tiniest of balconies that I could easily grab her and kiss her and do so many other things to her, with her, for her up above the floorboards, only the stage below knowing our secrets. “Davis,” she says in a low and sexy voice that nearly obliterates my self-control. “Would you go down to the stage? I want to see what it looks like from up here with a person on the stage.”