Feel her heat, her shuddering breaths, the frantic slam of Sylvie’s heart against her rib cage. Like she’s as tormented by this as I am. Like she’s not just acting either—she’s also desperate to get near.

  Up on this stage, with Sylvie in my arms, the rest of the world fades away. The whispering, wide-eyed audience; the distant chatter of campus floating through the open doors; the shadowy silence of the wings. There’s nothing in the whole universe except the soft press of Sylvie’s waist under my palm, and the heat of her body through my sweater, and the way her lips part when she gazes up at me.

  The kiss is scripted, for the record. I’m not that much of a monster as to steal an unwanted kiss from Sylvie like this, and I keep strictly to the script, but…

  When the time comes, I kiss her harder than an actor should. Kiss her deeper, longer, with more hunger and desperation than I ought to, gripping her close to me and groaning softly against her lips. And I’m not trying to cross any lines—if anything, I’m battling to rein myself in—but the second our lips brush, the last shreds of logic fly out of my brain.

  Sylvie sighs and melts against me, kissing me back. When her pearly little teeth scrape my bottom lip, nipping me there, I get hard enough to drill through granite.

  She wants me too.

  That thought rings though me like a bell, clear and strong, and when I finally stagger back to rasp the next line, it repeats over and over in a loop in my brain.

  She wants me too. She wants me too.

  The audience hums below us, electrified by the scene they just witnessed. The way their director clutched his understudy close and kissed her like he needed air from her lungs to breathe. The way my body responded to Sylvie’s, my cock pressing against my jeans and my heart beating so hard, it must be visible from rows away.

  Sylvie says the rest of Juliet’s lines with a quaver in her voice and a permanent pink stain on her cheeks.

  I stumble through the rest of the scene alongside her, like my whole world didn’t just turn upside down.

  She wants me too. Sylvie wants me too.

  But first, I must let her come to me.

  Five

  Sylvie

  The next few weeks are so freaking confusing, I could scream.

  On the one hand, rehearsals are ramping up. Everyone’s getting off book, leaving their play scripts on their seats when they’re called to stage, and only occasionally calling for a line. Sets are built in the workshop backstage, and we’ve all helped to sew and paint and move boxes of props. The excitement of our opening night creeps closer every day, until there’s a constant buzz of adrenaline in the auditorium. This is the best thing about theater. It’s like receiving a steady electric shock—in the best way.

  And I am excited about all that, I swear. I really am.

  But mostly, I’m trying to make sense of our director.

  Because all those weeks ago when Franz rehearsed that scene with me on stage, kissing me like he wanted to devour me, body and soul, kissing me until my head swam and my belly quivered…

  Maybe it’s dumb and naive of me, but I was so sure Franz meant it. Was so sure that it wasn’t all acting; that he really is as drawn to me as I am to him. Like an idiot, I thought: no one can act that well, surely? No one can force their heart to beat harder, so hard it rattled his chest? No one can fake the way his pupils blew wide?

  But since then… nothing. No secret trysts. No Austrian silver fox serenading me below my dorm window. Nada. And now I feel like a giant idiot. An inexperienced moron who got daydreams mixed up with reality.

  “Places,” Franz calls, clapping his hands from his seat four rows back. We’re rehearsing a big fight scene this morning, the scuffle between Capulets and Montagues that opens the play, and as part of my ensemble role, I’m one of the bodies in the background. Generic Woman Screaming. Still, at least this is my role and no one else’s.

  As we all take our places on stage, Franz’s gaze rests on me for a long moment, sending heat prickling down my spine. Jaw tight, I stare at the floor and refuse to meet his eye.

  If I read everything all wrong, if I kidded myself that my crush might be returned, that’s not Franz’s fault. I do know that.

  But that doesn’t mean I can bear seeing the neutral expression in his eyes—the one he’s worn since our big stage kiss. Sometimes, I think there’s maybe a flicker of heat there too, especially on days when I wear his sweater, but… that’s the kind of wishful thinking that made me an object of gossip in the first place.

  And boy do these actors gossip. They don’t mean to be cruel or anything—it’s just the way things are when everyone is thrown together in an intense environment for a few weeks. Hopes are raised then dashed, hearts are broken, and everyone around knows it.

  Some of them even pat my shoulder when I look especially dejected in the mornings, and Loren, the girl who’s playing Juliet, brought me a candy bar to rehearsal yesterday afternoon.

  So… yeah. It’s sweet of them all, but I’m chock full up of pity, and I’m not about to make a scene over the director who unknowingly crushed my heart. Looking away and keeping my distance is just easier.

  “Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll not carry coals.”

  The opening line rings through the auditorium as two Capulets enter onstage. They’re not in costume yet, both dressed in jeans and t-shirts, but the prop swords are slung on their belts. I’m in the background looking busy, just a Verona woman going about her daily life.

  Even so, there’s a tell tale heat creeping over my skin that says Franz is watching me. Why? I’m barely part of this scene, and I’m doing my job just fine, thank you very much. I may not be leading lady material, but I’m perfectly capable of ensemble work.

  “Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?”

  The Capulets and Montagues square off in the middle of the stage. Still, even as insults are exchanged and swords are drawn, the heat of Franz’s gaze never leaves me.

  When I can’t bear it any longer, when sparks are crackling under my skin and my body is so freaking aware that I jump at the slightest breeze from the wings, I finally risk a glance into the audience.

  The director rests his chin on one fist, frowning straight at me. Even from all the way up here, toward the back of the stage, I can see the frustrated glint in his dark eyes.

  A shiver coasts down my bare arms. I’m not wearing his gray sweater today—only a white t-shirt and navy leggings. Still, Franz glares up at me like he wants to eat me alive. Do the other actors see it too? There are quiet murmurs on the other side of stage, and one of the Montagues turns to look at me.

  We get through the scene, even with Franz staring at me non-stop. By the time we’re done, the fighters panting with their swords held loosely in their hands, my cheeks are stained permanent red. My insides are all jittery, and this man makes no sense.

  My chin wobbles.

  I might cry.

  “Excellent,” Franz says, glancing down at the notes in his lap. “We’ll break for lunch there.”

  I’m zooming off the stage before his sentence is even finished, feet pounding down the creaky wooden steps. Franz’s dark head jerks up, whipping in my direction, but I’m already hurrying toward the doors. To fresh air; to freedom.

  “Sylvie,” Franz calls, his deep voice carrying easily through the auditorium, clipped with alarm, but I pretend I didn’t hear it. The heavy door swings open under my palms.

  “Sylvie—”

  The door slams shut behind me, and I suck in a lungful of fresh spring air. My legs wobble as I set off around the corner, and I don’t know where I’m going except… away.

  * * *

  Franz catches up to me in the campus rose garden. Of course he does.

  “Sylvie. What’s wrong?”

  When his deep voice rumbles through the spring air, making my nerves skitter and my heart leap, I puff out a breath and wheel around to face him.

  Franz strides toward me, those long legs carrying him faster than I could ever manage. The director looks more tired and crankier than usual today, with his dark eyebrows pinched in a permanent frown. It’s a warm day, and his broad torso is wrapped in a moss green Henley that brings out the gold flecks in his brown eyes.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I say, desperately trying to believe my own words. But spending that whole scene with his eyes on me has set me horribly off kilter, and now I’m all sad and raw and confused.

  Because… why? Why stare at me like that if our stage kiss meant nothing?

  Why keep his distance ever since if he liked me too?

  Why mess with my head like this, chasing me one moment and stepping back the next? Why can’t anything ever be freaking simple?

  “You ran off.” The words scrape out of Franz’s throat, and his gaze roves over me as we square off in the rose garden. As if he’s starving for every detail of me, even after everything. As if he’s calmed by having me close. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart. There it is again.

  And I can’t make sense of this man. Do I even want to?

  “I just… needed a minute.” There: that’s true, but vague. I’m not lying, but I’m not opening myself up for heartache either. “I’ll be back before the break’s over, don’t worry.”

  Franz makes a rough sound in the back of his throat and shakes his head. “I’ll always worry about you, Sylvie.”

  My laugh is harsh. Startled. The director’s frown deepens even more, and he takes a single step closer to me on the stone path. Rose bushes are chest high all around us, but it’s too early in the year for their flowers. Just as well, probably. The last thing I need is to get carried away by my imagination again.

  “I’ve been giving you space,” Franz says slowly, like he wants me to understand. “Space to come to me. To choose me for yourself. But don’t doubt that I’m waiting for you, Sylvie.”

  Thump, goes my frazzled heart. Thump, thump, thump.

  He’s been waiting for me? Giving me space? Why would he do that?

  As though he can read the confusion in my eyes, Franz sighs and reaches out to tug gently on a lock of my hair. Butterflies explode in my belly at his simple touch.

  “I’m twice your age, Sylvie. And I’m directing this play. You can’t see why I might need to be cautious about this? Why it needs to be your decision to move forward?”

  Those brown eyes are so, so handsome. And the silver strands at his temples; the dark stubble that coats his jaw by mid-morning each day; his broad shoulders and toned forearms. Everything about this man is freaking perfect, and when the breeze wafts his soap and cedar scent to me, my knees wobble beneath me.

  Can’t believe this. Can’t believe my ears.

  He wants me? Franz Moser, famous director and silver fox extraordinaire, really wants me? Me? Sylvie the hot mess college student?

  “I thought… I didn’t… didn’t know…”

  Franz lets me mumble, swaying on my feet on the stone path. Pigeons strut between the rose bushes, and seagulls screech from nearby rooftops. It’s a blue sky day, with a fresh, floral breeze and clumps of white cloud skidding high above. The ocean sparkles in the distance.

  He wants me? The jigsaw reassembles in my brain, reframing the last few weeks, and the new knowledge spreads through me until I’m all warm and gooey inside, freaking desperate to finally get this man alone.

  “My dorm is over there,” I whisper, pointing at a nearby building. Franz’s smile is slow and heated, and for the first time in weeks, the frown melts away from his forehead.

  “Rehearsals start again in five,” he points out, but already it’s like a weight has lifted from his shoulders. He’s standing taller, breathing freer. “But come to me after. If this is what you want.”

  “It is.”

  I say it way, way too fast, but Franz growls in approval and steps forward, brushing a kiss against my forehead before backing away. That tiny brush of contact nearly overloads my senses.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he repeats. “Don’t doubt that again, Sylvie.”

  Oh my god.

  My insides explode into glitter as the director strides away.

  Six

  Franz

  The rest of rehearsal crawls by at a snail’s pace. Every passing minute lasts an hour; every hour takes a whole fucking year. Somehow, someway, we get through another three scenes, and I scramble enough of my brain cells to give the actors decent notes, even when Sylvie keeps looking at me like that.

  Smiling shyly. Twisting her fingers in her lap, or tucking her blonde hair behind her ears. Blushing and sweet and eager.

  Can’t believe she didn’t know that I wanted her. Can’t believe she doubted this. I figured it’s been painfully obvious, so clear that the stage manager gives me knowing looks every time he comes to discuss tech for the show, and I’ve been stewing this whole time about whether I’ve been making my girl uncomfortable.

  I’ve been trying to rein it in. Trying to keep my distance and let her breathe.

  And all along, Sylvie’s been thinking I don’t want her at all. Christ, I could slam my head against a wall. For an ostensibly intelligent man, I can be a complete idiot.

  “Great work today.”

  By the time rehearsal comes to an end, my nerves are frayed to oblivion. I’m hanging by my last damn thread, because Sylvie keeps staring at me and wetting her lips, and I don’t care if it’s obvious and everyone in the cast will gossip. Don’t care if they think I’m too old for her. Don’t care about being careful anymore.

  Sylvie said she wants me. She got sad when she thought I didn’t feel the same way.

  So this is happening. A charging wild bull couldn’t stop me at this point.

  “Go over your lines for Act Four, please, and make sure you stretch out if you fought today. Take care of your bodies, because we need everyone well rested for opening night.”

  My words spill out of me on autopilot, but I can’t look away from Sylvie. Can’t even bring myself to scan the room, to see everyone else whispering and wide-eyed about how obvious I’m being. Who cares?

  Sylvie wants me. That’s what she said.

  Will she come to me now? Is she finally ready?

  The actors all file out of the auditorium, chatting together and smothering bursts of laughter. That’s fine. They can gossip; they can tease. If Sylvie comes to me like she promised, I’ll shout that fact to the rooftops myself.

  My girl sits there now, blushing but resolute in her blue velvet seat. Waiting while everyone else packs up and leaves one by one, stuffing their belongings in backpacks and fishing under their chairs for lost water bottles. If these students move any slower, I’ll light a fire just to chase them out of here.

  Sylvie.

  When the door slams closed behind the last actor, when their voices echo away down distant halls, we’re left in an empty auditorium all alone. The air is thick, and Sylvie presses her lips together, watching me in silence. Those big blue eyes urge me to do something, to take the pressure off her somehow, and god, I’d do anything for this young woman.

  “Come here. Come with me.” My hand stretches out toward her, and Sylvie blows out a relieved breath and smiles. She stands, slinging her backpack over her shoulders, then edges her way to the end of the row.

  I meet her in the aisle, taking her hand. Her fingers are so soft and delicate compared to mine, and I grip her carefully, suddenly afraid to hurt her.

  “This way.”

  The wooden steps up to the stage creak beneath our shared weight, declaring loudly to anyone nearby that we’re still here, that we’re sneaking off together. Sylvie giggles nervously, and I squeeze her fingers in response.

  She’s mine.

  This is really happening. Sylvie is coming with me.

  The stage is empty, and there are shadowy pools of darkness in both wings. The flies soar high overhead, ghostly pieces of set hanging up there in the gloom, while the blue velvet seats behind us are silent and watchful, waiting for their next audience.

  A distant thump echoes in the silence. There’s the judder of a drill. Someone’s in the workshop, working on the set.

  That’s fine. We veer in the opposite direction, slipping into the wings on stage right, where the air smells like old fabric and hot lights. The familiar scent of the theater.

  “Where are we going?” Sylvie whispers, clinging to my hand like it’s her personal lifeline. She follows behind me, so close that she keeps stepping on the backs of my shoes and apologizing.

  I don’t care. I want her close, even if it makes us both clumsy. Every inch between our bodies is an inch too far, and I’ll demonstrate that fact shortly.

  “You’ll see in a moment.” Once her eyes adjust to the gloom, anyway, because there are no working lights backstage right now. No one around but us.

  Just as well, really. Now that I’ve finally gotten my girl alone, I don’t want to hold back. Not for anything in the world.

  Our footsteps scuff against the floor. Heavy black drapes hang all around, soaking up the sound, and it’s like I’m leading her deeper into the labyrinth.

  She wants this, I remind myself for the hundredth time. It’s okay.

  The piece of scenery is right where I left it after inspecting it this morning, pushed back against the wall in the stage right wing. Juliet’s balcony is level with my chest, twined in ivy and guarded on both corners by stone statues of lions. Eventually, there will be a wrought iron railing to keep the actors from falling off, but for now…

  Sylvie sucks in a breath as I lift her up, sitting her gently on the balcony’s edge. Her knees tremble where they nudge against my chest, and Sylvie grips my shoulders so tight her fingernails dig into the muscle.

  “What are you doing?” she hisses, but there’s a delighted smile playing around her mouth. “Franz!”

  “Relax.” Stroking two palms up her thighs, I groan quietly when Sylvie melts and parts her legs for me automatically. So responsive. So sweet. What would she be like in bed, not having to sneak around and whisper? Would she cry out? Would she beg? If I don’t find out soon, I’ll go insane. “I won’t let you fall, sweetheart. Trust me.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6