She shakes her head, amused, even as her palms smooth down the sweater front. Like she can’t stop touching the soft wool.

  “Hardly. I was just… clothes don’t always fit me, so I…”

  She trails off, pressing her lips together.

  Down by our feet, the pigeons coo at each other, ruffling up their feathers in warning. Fighting over their imaginary crumbs.

  “This sweater fits, though. It fits just fine.” My voice sounds rough; unbalanced. Can you blame me? It’s affecting me more than I thought it would—seeing Sylvie wear my clothes. “You should keep that, sweetheart. Wear it for the rest of the day.”

  Let everyone see that you’re mine.

  I shove that thought away, suddenly glad there’s a bench between us. God knows what I’d do otherwise, because my hands are itching to reach out and pull this curvy student close; to clutch the understudy against my chest and feel her heartbeat throb against mine. To draw the scent of her skin into my lungs.

  So out of line. And thank god for inconvenient benches, because so far, I can brush off most of this interaction as reasonably normal.

  We both came outside for some fresh air in the break. That’s normal; that’s fine.

  I saw Sylvie was cold and offered her my sweater. The rest of the cast will surely gossip like hens, but that’s not so unreasonable either. I haven’t crossed any lines.

  Yet.

  “Soft,” Sylvie mumbles, rubbing the sleeves together. I watch without blinking, my heart beating way too hard against my ribs. God, what is it about this girl? “Thanks, Mr Moser.”

  “It’s Franz.” My smile is strained. “If you’re wearing my sweater, surely you can call me by my name.”

  Sylvie wets her lips, unsure.

  My abs tighten.

  Say it. Say it.

  “Alright,” she says at last, her mouth curving into a secret smile all for me. “Thank you, Franz. We’d better get back, hadn’t we?”

  Yes, we had.

  I don’t trust myself alone with her any longer.

  Three

  Sylvie

  The dorm is noisy as hell when I get home after dinner, the straps of my backpack digging into my shoulders. Don’t get me wrong—I love being in shows, love working on productions, but the long hours of sitting in the audience make me creaky as hell.

  Then there are all the lines to memorize. Lines I may never get to say—Juliet’s whole story, committed to my brain but then left there in the dark. Plus the blocking, the warm ups and cool downs, the notes, the time spent helping the crew to paint flats and sew costumes. It all adds up into one huge, crazy commitment that I wouldn’t give up for all the treasure in the world, but that leaves me coming home to my dorm each night exhausted.

  But I’m the only one here dragging my feet tonight, it seems. Bursts of laughter float out of the common room, and music blasts in the showers as I walk past, breathing in a lungful of shampoo-scented mist. It may be a Monday, but at Kephart College, that stops no one. Any night can be a good night with the right attitude.

  My dorm room is empty when I get in. No surprises there. My roommate is dating a local in town, and she spends basically every spare minute at his apartment.

  Guess I can’t blame her, no matter how lonely it makes me feel sometimes. Our lumpy twin beds aren’t the most luxurious things you’ve ever seen.

  Still, when I drop my backpack on the floor and face plant on the saggy mattress, the groan that bursts out of me comes from deep within my soul. Every muscle is tired; every bone in my body creaks. There’s a headache pulsing behind my right eye, and I still need to do the reading for my regular classes tomorrow.

  So. Freaking. Tired.

  But…

  The scent of cedar and masculine soap fills my nose. It takes me way too long to realize that it’s coming from Franz’s sweater, from the neckline. When I flopped forward, the big gust of air blew his scent into my face.

  And holy shit, this is the best thing I’ve smelled. He’s the best thing I’ve ever smelled. Wish I could bottle that man’s scent and dab it on my wrists. Wish I could spritz it on my pillow before going to bed each night. What kind of crazy pheromones do they have in Austria anyways?

  God help me, but I wriggle. Biting my lip, holding my breath, I ground down into his soft woolen sweater, and… wriggle. And it’s soft and tickly and smells so good, and now there’s a weird throbbing sensation in my lower belly.

  Should have given the sweater back at the end of rehearsal. Should have handed it back and scuttled away, and hidden my blushes away from the director’s knowing gaze. But instead, when I offered to give the sweater back at the end of the day, Franz gave me this look.

  This long, heated look.

  A look that said: Keep it on.

  And I could no more have disobeyed that look than I could have flown into the sun. So… here I am. Wearing my older, handsome director’s gray sweater and sniffing the collar; grinding against the soft wool like I could work his scent right into my cells. Tired and aching and clearly losing my freaking mind, because I should be cracking open tomorrow’s reading right now, not… not…

  My breath catches as I jam a hand beneath myself, stroking down the front of my body. If I squeeze my eyes shut and focus really hard, I can pretend that it’s a much bigger hand, with squared knuckles and long fingers. A manly hand, ending in an expensive watch and a forearm dusted with dark hairs.

  “Franz.” His name puffs out of me on an exhale, and I just need to say it out loud. Need to confess this somewhere; confess that my body goes loopy every time our famous guest director looks my way. Because if I ever whispered that fact to a real, live person, they’d only look at me with pity.

  No sane person would put us together. No sane person would ever think I’d have a chance with that man.

  Because he’s older and stern and smart and successful, while I’m a shy, goofy college student who can never seem to land a leading role. He’s sculpted from pure muscle; I’m squishy everywhere. This pairing makes no sense.

  And yet… he lent me this sweater, and wouldn’t take it back. And I swear, every time he saw me in it today, the director got this hungry look in his eyes.

  “Franz,” I whisper again, sliding my hand beneath the waistband of my leggings. And thank god my roommate is never around, because if I don’t scratch this itch in the next twenty seconds, I’m going to explode.

  I’m wound tight. Hot and flustered. Have been all day—no, all week—and it’s so much worse with his scent in my lungs and his sweater on my body and the memory of his deep, rough voice ringing in my ears. My pulse throbs between my legs, aching and insistent.

  Sweetheart. Did Franz Moser really call me sweetheart? Or did I imagine that?

  Maybe he calls everyone sweetheart. Maybe he gives out sweaters like candy. Maybe none of this means anything, and I’m making a fool out of myself, even here where I’m all alone.

  Flopping onto my back, I suck in a shaky breath. I should stop, shouldn’t build my own hopes up like this by picturing a man like Franz wanting me, but I can’t help it. The way he came and sat by me in rehearsals, and truly valued what I said… the way he followed me outside on the break and then fussed over me getting cold…

  The triumphant, possessive glint in his eye when I first shrugged on his sweater…

  “Oh.” Muffling my noises against his sleeve, I circle my fingers faster, stroking the achy, slick flesh between my legs. My thigh muscles twitch; my spine arches off the mattress. I’m sweaty under my clothes, breathing hard, all quivery and desperate, but I can’t get there. Can’t chase myself higher. Can’t—

  “Shit. God. Shit.” My whispers carry across the empty dorm room, past the Broadway posters and photos of my friends on the walls. My roommate never bothered to decorate her half of the room, so the wall coverings abruptly run out halfway, turning to scuffed white paint. Seeing that drop off has always been so depressing.

  My wrist twinges from the weird angle, half jammed inside my leggings but my fingers move faster between my legs. I need this.

  Every minute in that rehearsal room with Franz sets a restless need squirming in my belly.

  And in the end, that’s the thought that gets me there. That’s what makes my blood flush hot and my belly clench: the thought of Franz up on that stage, addressing the whole auditorium in that deep, rasping voice. The way his eyes always seem to track to me—then stay there, heating up. The rumble of his words in my bones.

  And the thought of what I wish he’d do after: drag me into the darkness at the side of the stage once everyone else has gone, press that big, strong body against mine and crowd me back until I hit a wall.

  Kiss me and bite me and shove his leg between mine, ordering me in that clipped Austrian accent to ride his thigh until I come.

  There’s more, too, but I lose the thread of my thoughts. Lose track of everything except the frantic thud of my pulse in my ears, the maddening stroke of my fingers between my legs, the tingling and gasping and how my whole body goes rigid, the director’s name on my lips.

  I come so hard the rest of the room fades away. Come so hard it could be minutes or even hours later when I collapse back onto the mattress in a breathless puddle, and I couldn’t tell.

  My heart throbs in time with my clit.

  Oh, boy.

  Franz. Is he thinking about me too? Am I special to him at all… or is this all in my head?

  Four

  Franz

  The next day in rehearsal, Sylvie won’t meet my eye. She slinks into the auditorium with her head ducked and shoulders raised, then slides into a seat five rows behind me and buries her nose in her play script.

  But all around her, whispers start up. Because Sylvie’s wearing my sweater again. She’s bundled in the soft gray wool, swamped in the fabric, and I’m so fucking pleased with that sight that I can’t help staring over my shoulder, chest thumping hard.

  “Mr Moser? Um. Franz?”

  It takes all my focus, but I yank my attention back to the student hovering in my row. He’s thin and gangly, with brown hair and wide, constantly-surprised eyes, and he’s playing Mercutio.

  “Yes? What is it, Daniel?”

  Though it’s been a week already, these students are still tip-toeing around me, always careful. Not because I’m some tyrant, but simply because in this rehearsal space, my word is law. They’ll all relax eventually, loosening up enough to tease me, even, but for now…

  Being treated like some kind of ogre is exhausting.

  “I, um.” Daniel clears his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I have a question about the fight scene we blocked yesterday?”

  I nod. “Go on.”

  And as Daniel chatters away, asking about stage combat techniques, half of my brain tunes out to focus on the young woman five rows behind me.

  Sylvie’s sitting alone this morning, though she has plenty of friends in the cast and crew. She looked tired when she first slipped into the auditorium, with dark shadows beneath her eyes. Like she didn’t sleep well last night.

  I know the feeling.

  Though I don’t turn my head, though we’re surrounded by other students and distractions, I swear I hear every rustle and sigh that Sylvie makes. Can pick out the crinkle of her play script from among all the others; can tell when she unscrews her daily thermos of peppermint tea, the lid squeaking gently. Does her breath taste like peppermint after her first sip? Does she inhale the steam, letting it waft against her cheeks?

  Even though I answer all of Daniel’s questions, keeping pace easily with the conversation, most of me is five rows away. I’m not proud of that fact, by the way. I’m alarmed.

  Because… what is this young woman doing to me? Over a week has passed now, and my obsession shows no sign of fading. If anything, it grows each day.

  “Thanks, Mr Moser.”

  I wave Daniel off, shaken by the strength of my own fixation with Sylvie five rows behind. Sylvie, who’s dressed in my sweater again. Sylvie, who I dreamed of last night, tossing and turning in my rented apartment by the sea.

  “Alright, everyone.” Clapping once, I push to my feet, turning around to survey the actors grouped in the rows. They look tired but eager, clutching giant takeout cups of coffee and already paging through their scripts, the papers trembling in their over-caffeinated hands.

  “Act Two, Scene Two,” I say, my voice echoing around the auditorium. This whole room was designed to carry sound. “The famous balcony scene. Romeo risks death to sneak into the Capulet garden and find his new love.”

  This isn’t the first time I’ve directed this play, but it’s certainly the first time in my life that I’ve understood the risks Romeo takes. Would I risk life and limb for a few stolen moments with a new love? A week ago, I would have scoffed at the idea. But now that I’ve met Sylvie?

  In a heartbeat.

  And seriously, what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I so head over heels for a young woman I met only last week; why does my pulse spike whenever she’s near?

  Maybe it’s the jet lag from London. Or something in the Kephart water.

  Or maybe it’s—

  “Love at first sight,” I remind the leads as they hurry up the steps on either side of the stage. “You’ve both fallen in love at first sight. And you’ve fallen so deeply, so recklessly, that you’re risking your lives for a few stolen moments together.”

  Don’t turn around. Don’t look at her.

  I’m twice Sylvie’s age, after all. Even if I’m gone for her, even if I hear the goddamn wedding march every time I glance her way, that doesn’t mean she reciprocates—and I’d hate to ever make her uncomfortable.

  “But soft,” Romeo says onstage. “What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”

  * * *

  “Understudies. Your turn at Act Three, Scene Five.”

  Three hours later, the auditorium is stuffily hot, and someone has propped open the doors in hopes of a breeze. Even though it’s spring, even though the sea was choppy in the distance when I stepped outside during the last break, this room is hot enough that all my actors are wilting.

  They sag in their blue velvet seats, fanning themselves with their scripts. The energy is draining away quickly, and we still have an hour left of rehearsal. Poor Juliet is practically draped over a friend in exhaustion, and that’s my cue to change our plan quickly.

  So why not give Sylvie a chance to rehearse? Understudying is hard—she needs to learn her own ensemble role, plus all of Juliet’s lines and blocking, all on the off-chance that she’ll get a chance to perform it. And sure enough, even though everyone else is tired, Sylvie jumps to her feet eagerly.

  I trail her to the stage, the wooden steps creaking beneath my bulk. And it takes an embarrassingly long amount of time before I frown and drag my eyes away from Sylvie, finally realizing that we’re alone onstage.

  “Where is Tomas?”

  The understudy for Romeo is usually diligent, arriving early for every rehearsal. “Stomach flu,” someone calls from the back, and I grunt and nod.

  Fine. This will still be worthwhile for Sylvie.

  “Jack,” I call, scanning the huddled actors for our lead. Yes, he’s been playing Romeo all morning, but he might have to act alongside Sylvie onstage one day. It will be good for them both to rehearse together.

  “He went to meet his advisor,” someone else calls, and I turn away from the crowd, irritation prickling the back of my neck.

  No, I’m not a tyrant, and I don’t stomp and yell like some directors. But I still expect full attendance and commitment, and Jack and I will have words about this.

  Sylvie deserves to rehearse her scenes whenever she gets a chance. And right now, seeing the disappointment cloud her blue eyes, seeing her shoulders slump in resignation, I could wring Jack’s unreliable neck.

  “I’ll read for Romeo.” My words are quiet, just for Sylvie, but the first row of actors must hear, because whispers ripple through our audience. Suddenly, they don’t look nearly as tired as a moment ago. They’re all perked up in their chairs, eager and attentive. Hungry for gossip. “But I’m not off book, I’m afraid.”

  “Amateur hour,” she teases softly, offering her own play script to me. Of course she’s learned her lines by heart already. Sylvie is committed as hell.

  And I realize as soon as we launch into the scene: this was a mistake. Of all the scenes we could have rehearsed, of all the blocking we could have tried, this is possibly the worst scene I could have chosen.

  In my defense, I didn’t realize it would be me up here, running these lines with Sylvie. Moving through the blocking, taking her in my arms and clutching her to my chest.

  Because in the play, this is the morning after Romeo and Juliet’s wedding night. They’ve been intimate already; they kiss and touch each other freely, and not only that, but with a desperate fear that they might never get another chance.

  As I draw Sylvie against my front, as I feel her soft curves against my chest, I know how they feel.

  Keep it together, I warn myself, sticking to the script, even as my blood heats and my gut twists and every cell in my body cries out to get her closer, closer. Don’t scare the poor thing. Keep to the script.

  “Wilt thou be gone?” Sylvie says, her voice wobbling. Like she’s knocked off kilter by this as much as I am. “It is not yet near day.”

  And what I’d fucking give to have Sylvie beg me to stay with her like this. What I’d give to draw her close and cup her cheek and breathe her peppermint tea breath into my lungs. Jack doesn’t know how lucky he is—nor Tomas.

  If I played Romeo opposite Sylvie, I’d drill this scene ten times a day. Any excuse to get close to her, I’d take it.

  The scene moves on, with Juliet first begging Romeo to stay, then urging him to go as their situation becomes more dangerous. And all the while, between every line of dialog, we cling together, heartbeats pounding in time.

  I can feel it.

 

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