Under Study (Practice Makes Perfect Book 3), page 1
Cassie Mint
Under Study
First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2024
Copyright © 2024 by Cassie Mint
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-915735-53-9
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Contents
1. Sylvie
2. Franz
3. Sylvie
4. Franz
5. Sylvie
6. Franz
7. Sylvie
8. Franz
9. Sylvie
Teaser: The Shrink
About the Author
One
Sylvie
It’s so easy to fall in love backstage in a theater. It’s the perfect environment.
First of all, there’s the camaraderie; the feeling on every play and production that the cast and crew are all one big tight-knit family. Everyone knows everyone’s business, and we live in each other’s pockets for a few short months. We see each other’s highs and lows; we see each other first thing in the morning, yawning wide, and last thing at night, sore but satisfied. It’s intimate as hell.
With so much closeness, sparks are quick to fly.
Then there’s the theater itself. The backstage space. Kephart College has a huge auditorium, filled with the latest tech, but there are still plenty of nooks and crannies behind the scenes. Lots of places to hide, giggling quietly; plenty of dark corners to tuck away with someone, fumbling in the shadows.
Sneaking around is fun, or so I’ve been told. And theaters are perfect for illicit hookups. So there’s that.
Even so, at twenty two years old, and in my last year as a drama major, I somehow missed all that. Never snuck behind the drapes with a hot actor or a sound technician; never raised the temperature in the costume store with a member of the stage crew. Never sighed after our stage manager, wishing he’d boss me around in bed as well as backstage.
In fact, I never had a crush, period. Until him.
Our much older, very handsome, famous guest director. The man who burst into our department as the star of our last semester; the man who makes butterflies explode inside me every time he looks my way.
The man who I should stay away from now, even as I’m drawn to him like a moth to a light. The man who’s way out of my league.
Two months together, working on Romeo and Juliet. Two months of keeping my crush a secret.
…Oh, boy. This is gonna be tricky.
* * *
“Alright, everyone: Act One, Scene Five. Our doomed lovers meet for the first time. From the top, please.”
Our director’s voice is deep and rasping, tinged with a faint Austrian accent. As the leads hurry to the stage, play scripts clutched in their hands, I suppress a secret shiver and slide further down in my seat, forcing myself to look at anyone but him.
This man gives me the tingles so bad.
Franz Moser: famous director and silver fox. He should come with a warning label.
We’re in the Kephart auditorium, and the stage is empty for our rehearsals—though white tape marks on the floor show where the scenery will eventually go. The ceiling soars high overhead, and the whole cast is adrift in a sea of blue velvet chairs.
We’re all spread through the first few rows, paging through scripts or sneakily tapping away at our laptops, working on other assignments while we wait for our turn onstage.
The leads launch into the scene, and the rest of the world fades away as I mouth Juliet’s lines along silently. As her understudy, I need to have every word memorized, even if I never get to say them onstage. I’m trying not to be bitter about that, but I won’t lie—when we got our roles last week, my heart sank.
What’s that saying—always the bridesmaid, never the bride? Well, this is my third time playing the understudy to the leading lady. My third time almost reaching the limelight, but missing by a single inch.
I’m good enough for a main role. They wouldn’t keep choosing me to be the understudy otherwise, because there’s always a real chance the lead could get sick and I’d have to do the whole run. So they know I have it in me—they see it too.
But for whatever reason, I’m never the first choice for the role. Always the back-up instead. So… here we go again.
“You kiss by th’book,” Juliet says up onstage, teasing her Romeo. She flips her hair, smiling coquettishly at her new love interest, and ugh, that’s not how I’d play that line at all. Where is her uncertainty? Where’s the panic that comes when a crush takes you over, body and soul? She’s never felt like this before, so why is she so damn confident?
“Sylvie,” a low voice rumbles, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. When I inhale sharply and turn, I find the handsome director looming above me in the row.
He’s tall and broad; dark haired with strands of silver at his temples. Franz Moser is good looking in a craggy sort of way—like a horny sculptor hewed him out of a cliff side.
He’s dressed today in dark jeans and a soft gray sweater that looks more expensive than my whole closet combined, the sleeves pushed to his elbows to reveal toned forearms dusted with dark hair.
He’s got to be around twice my age, and here I am squirming in my blue velvet chair at the mere sight of him. Clearly, I have issues I hadn’t even clocked until now.
“Oops!” Rocketing to my feet, I shuffle back to let him by. Someone barks out a laugh in the row behind, turning it too late into a cough.
Yeah, yeah, this man turns me into a bumbling goon. That has become abundantly clear over the first week of rehearsals, but my fellow acting students still titter into their play scripts. Can’t even blame them, really.
“Sorry, Mr Moser.”
“Franz is fine.” His faint smile is knowing, and a light glints in his dark eyes. When the director sinks into the seat beside mine, my insides turn to nervous jelly. Oh god, he’s so big in that chair, all long limbs and elbows propped on arm rests. “I’m just here to pick your brain about Juliet. I thought we could watch these scenes together and compare notes. Understudy can be a thankless role, I know.”
My legs wobble as I sink back down, and the back of my neck is hot. I can feel all those eyes on me—all the eyes that should be watching the leads onstage, and instead are glued to me, waiting for me to blush bright red next to this handsome director. It’s only been a week, and already my radioactive crush on this man is the stuff of campus legend.
Wish I could leave them disappointed, but… yeah, I’m definitely crimson right now.
“Sure.” My fingers tremble as I smooth out the play script, thankfully turned to the correct page for this scene. Up on stage, the leads stumble through their lines, checking their scripts again and again for the right words.
That’s fair. We’re only a week into rehearsals, and this is Shakespeare. It’s not the easiest material to learn. And if I already have most of Acts One and Two memorized, that’s because I’m a giant theater dweeb with no other hobbies and a tragic dream of impressing the man next to me.
“Juliet is young,” Franz notes, shifting to get comfortable in his seat. The wood creaks beneath his bulk, and I can’t help glancing at the way his muscled thighs press against his jeans; the swell of his hard chest beneath his sweater; the understated style of his watch; hell, just… all of him. “She’s younger than Romeo. But she’s still the wisest of the pair; the most emotionally mature of them both. She understands the risks they’re taking better than he does.”
My snort echoes through the auditorium, and Franz’s mouth twitches as I blush even harder. He glances at me, eyebrows raised, like he wants me to explain my outburst.
“Well, yeah,” I mutter, embarrassed at my own awkwardness. Maybe if I keep my eyes glued to the stage, watching the leads circle each other, tension building, I can block out my own nonsense. Surreptitiously, I wipe my clammy palms on my leggings.
“But that’s true of most heterosexual relationships, wouldn’t you say? Women are used to carrying a heavier load. We’re the ones who risk having rumors spread about us if we get close to the wrong man. We’re the ones who could get pregnant and find ourselves alone. Of course Juliet is nervous—she’s falling in love, yes, but she also knows that men aren’t always a good bet. Even the ones that seem great at first glance. We’re all raised to be cautious,” I finish, wishing I could shrink down into a tiny ball and disappear. The velvet scuffs against my back as I try to do just that.
Because what am I doing? Franz Moser didn’t ask for a basic bitch feminist lecture. I snorted, and he looked politely concerned. Now I have the horrible sensation of being exposed—like I’ve cracked open my rib cage and given the handsome director a sneak peek at my squishy insides. It’s all way too vulnerable for a Monday morning.
&nb
Romeo and Juliet rush together onstage, arms twining around each other, like they can’t bear to be parted even after a single meeting. I used to think love at first sight was a stupid idea, but now…
“That is a wonderful insight,” Franz says at last, and I practically melt into a puddle on the floor in relief. “I’m glad I picked your brain, Sylvie. I’ll have to do it again. We all have blind spots and, well…”
He waves at his large, older, immaculately dressed, male body, as if to make his point. And you know what? It really, really does.
What would this man know about how precarious life can be for a woman? Intellectually he might understand, but how could he know how it feels?
My tongue unsticks from the roof of my mouth just as Franz stands up. He looms over me, blocking out the ceiling lights high above.
“Any time,” I mumble, my cheeks still burning hot.
As the director shuffles his magnificent bulk back along the row, I’m surrounded by gossipy whispers. I hold my play script up in front of my unseeing eyes, pretending I can’t hear them.
Two
Franz
The early weeks of rehearsal are always rocky, in my experience. There are the nerves that come with a new production, when all the actors secretly think that they will never, ever manage to learn their lines, and will surely be kicked off the show before they ultimately wind up living in a cardboard box under a bridge. Actors are nothing if not dramatic.
Then there’s all the posturing as everyone figures out the new social dynamics. Every production is a microcosm—a miniature society that needs to function so that the tension stays onstage where it belongs. Theater is home to plenty of big egos, and the first few weeks of rehearsal can be a strain as everyone figures out their place.
And of course there’s the new space, new cast mates, new schedule to adapt to. I don’t blame anyone for feeling frazzled, especially these college students with so little life experience. They’ve got other classes to balance with this too, and I don’t envy them that for one minute.
You know what’s not normal, though? The rockiness that comes when the director can’t keep his damn eyes off a certain understudy. That is not standard at all.
And I’ve tried to keep away from Sylvie. Tried to ensure that we don’t speak too much; that I don’t seek her out too often. I’ve made sure that I sit at least a few rows away each day, and limit the amount of times I turn to glance at her each hour, mentally tallying them up in my brain.
Even so… people have noticed. They’d have to be blind not to.
Because I’m losing my goddamn mind over that curvy college student.
She’s nothing like the people I’m used to back home where I settled in London. She’s not curt or clipped; her humor is not biting. She’s not hardened by the big city, constantly wearing invisible armor as if she has to prove herself over and over.
No, Sylvie is… soft. Sweet and shy. She’s kind and considerate, but with zero filter between her brain and her lips. Whatever she thinks, she says, before blushing bright red and staring bug-eyed at the wall. They’d eat her alive back in the West End.
God, she’s adorable.
And sexy, too. Petite and curvy, with big blue eyes and flyaway blonde hair that my hands itch to plunge into. Fuck, I just want to pull Sylvie into my lap and pet her until she squirms. Want to tickle her waist and growl filthy things in her ear and lick the soft column of her neck—never mind that I’m twice her age.
No wonder everyone’s noticed. Ever since I laid eyes on her, I’m unhinged. Don’t recognize myself.
The scene finishes up on stage, and silence spreads through the auditorium before I notice a beat too late. Clearing my throat, I applaud quickly to hide my distraction, and the other cast members join in too until the sound bounces off the walls.
“Good,” I call at last, once my head is on straight. “Very good. Tomorrow we’ll move on to the next scene, but I’d like you both to keep drilling those lines. We want to get off book as soon as possible so that we can move on to blocking.”
The leads nod eagerly, both visibly relieved, and a few others stand and shuffle along their rows. We’re rehearsing a fight scene after the break, and the young men are already grinning at each other, rolling their necks and puffing up their chests. This session promises to be messy.
I should focus. Need all my attention on this next scene.
But when Sylvie slides out of her row and heads out of the auditorium doors, I push to my feet to follow. Though she doesn’t seem to realize it, I’m tugged after her on an invisible string.
“Ten minutes,” I call as I stride down the center aisle. Whispers follow in my wake, and I’m an old fool, but I can’t change direction now. Can’t help following wherever Sylvie leads. “Don’t be late back.”
I’m talking to myself as much as anyone, squinting in the bright spring sunshine as I step outside. Fresh air hits me like a slap, cold and invigorating, and I step out just in time to see Sylvie’s blonde hair whip around a corner.
I should turn around. Should go back inside and keep far away from my curvy student.
But chest drumming, I follow.
* * *
Kephart College is pretty in the spring—though I suppose anywhere with sunshine and blossoming trees looks good after a long, dark winter. The last few months have been especially bad too, with rough winds, constant rain, and dark clouds camped out over the London rooftops.
Here, though, despite all the concrete and paved paths, the ocean sparkles blue in the distance, and emerald green grass covers the steep cliff that rises above the campus. A greenhouse perches on top like a glass hat.
It’s beautiful. But I can’t bring myself to look anywhere except at the young woman flopping down on a wooden bench beneath a tree in the campus courtyard.
Pigeons peck at the bare stone beneath the bench, like they’re hoping to magic up some dropped crumbs by will alone. And a gentle breeze ruffles the pink and white blossoms on the tree branches—the same breeze that lifts the ends of Sylvie’s blonde hair, dancing it across her shoulders.
She’s in a blue t-shirt from an old production of Guys & Dolls, but as I stroll up behind her, Sylvie shivers and hugs her arms close. It may be sunny, but it’s a weak, watery sunshine—one that barely casts a shadow as I stand behind the bench.
“You’re cold.”
Sylvie leaps about a foot into the air, yelping with surprise. Though it makes me a bastard, I can’t help grinning as she wheels around.
“I—you—”
She’s adorable when she splutters, her cheeks already pink. But now that she’s turned to face me, the goosebumps on her bare arms are even more obvious. The hard beads of her nipples betray her too, pressing against her t-shirt to declare that it’s freezing out here.
“You should wrap up warmer,” I say, tugging down my own sleeves. The pigeons coo and peck at my boots, and I nudge them away gently before drawing my sweater up over my head.
“Oh, Mr Moser—wait—”
“It’s Franz.” Somehow, when I emerge back into the fresh air, Sylvie is even redder than before. She’s nibbling on her bottom lip, staring wide-eyed at the gray sweater in my hand. I hold it out, and she makes a tiny squeak like she can’t quite believe her eyes. What I’m doing. What I’m offering.
“Go on.” Keeping my tone level, I try not to sound too eager. “Put it on. I don’t want my cast to be cold.”
Least of all Sylvie. Not when I could keep her warm, wrapping her up in my clothing. In my scent. Not when the beast inside me purrs with satisfaction at the thought of her draped in my sweater.
And I said that to soothe her, to help allay her fears, but Sylvie looks strangely… disappointed. Her shoulders slump, and her smile at me is resigned. Still, she plucks the gray sweater from my hands and holds it up to inspect it before shrugging it on.
“I didn’t slop coffee down myself,” I tease. “You can trust me, Sylvie.”
