actual birthday was in June. Desperate to say something, anything, to wipe away the disbelief that peaked his eyebrows, I said, “You know. Guerilla dramaturgy.”
I tried to smile as I trilled the “r” in guerilla, but he wasn’t amused. His volume increased with the shock in his expression. “People are actually bribing you to fill in with their plays?”
“Hush!” I said automatically, even though our neighbors were probably sound asleep behind their well-locked doors. Of course Ryan knew about my Crystal Dreams disaster—he had to be plugged into ShowTalk like everyone else in the theater world. I nudged the box of chocolates with my toe. “I promise,” I said. “I don’t even know who sent these!”
“Sure,” he said, but he clearly thought I was lying.
“Seriously,” I said. Suddenly it was really important that he believe me, the most important thing in the world. I drew myself up to my full height and settled my right hand over the approximate area of my heart, before I enunciated very carefully, “Jenn just passed them on. Anonymously. I have absolutely no idea who sent them. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die.” I matched action to words, and then I had a brilliant inspiration. “Hey, why don’t you come in? Have a glass of wine!”
He shook his head, easing his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” Belligerence rose inside me, fueled by vodka and amaretto.
“I can think of three good reasons, without even trying.” I glared a challenge, but he kept his voice even. Light. “One, it’s after midnight on a work night. Two, you look like you don’t need a glass of wine, or anything else alcoholic. Three, you don’t know anything about me. I could be an axe murderer.”
“Are you an axe murderer?”
A shadow of a smile flicked across his lips before his earnest expression returned. “No.”
I turned my head at an angle, trying to see Dani’s placid face reflected in his. He had her calm eyes, dark and reassuring. His chin echoed hers, coming to a point. But his flat cheekbones were all his own. And those lips—those masculine lips, dusky in the soft hallway light….
Dean’s lips had always been chapped. He chewed on them whenever he was deep in thought. It was his one failing. Aside from being an embezzler and all.
I blinked hard, hoping that I hadn’t lost too much time responding. Ryan seemed not to have noticed that my attention had strayed. I said, “But an axe murderer would lie to me, wouldn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “He probably would.” He leaned over and collected my treats, passing them to me as if he were an earnest young clerk at an all-night grocery store. “Go to bed, Rebecca Morris. And drink a glass of water before you fall asleep. Take an aspirin or two.”
My fingers brushed against his as I took the golden box of chocolates. His hands were warm, a little rough, like a man who’d done more than sit at a computer for days and weeks and months on end. I wondered how much time he spent working with Dani, helping her with her secret gardening projects. I wanted to ask him how much time he’d invested in Africa, building villages, bringing new life to desperate folks.
As I hesitated, an awkwardness bloomed between us, the sort of gawky uncertainty that I hadn’t felt since my parents were driving me on dates with underage junior high classmates. A part of me thought that I should lean forward and kiss Ryan on the cheek. Another part of me thought that I should juggle my unethical gifts, adjust my grip so that I could shake his hand. An astonishing third part of me considered dragging him into my home, axe murderer or not, luring him across the threshold to test out the new king-size bed that Teel had so thoughtfully provided.
That was the Godmothers talking.
“Good night,” I said.
He met my eyes, as if he’d heard the entire battle that had just raged inside my skull. “Good night.” As
I tried to smile as I trilled the “r” in guerilla, but he wasn’t amused. His volume increased with the shock in his expression. “People are actually bribing you to fill in with their plays?”
“Hush!” I said automatically, even though our neighbors were probably sound asleep behind their well-locked doors. Of course Ryan knew about my Crystal Dreams disaster—he had to be plugged into ShowTalk like everyone else in the theater world. I nudged the box of chocolates with my toe. “I promise,” I said. “I don’t even know who sent these!”
“Sure,” he said, but he clearly thought I was lying.
“Seriously,” I said. Suddenly it was really important that he believe me, the most important thing in the world. I drew myself up to my full height and settled my right hand over the approximate area of my heart, before I enunciated very carefully, “Jenn just passed them on. Anonymously. I have absolutely no idea who sent them. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die.” I matched action to words, and then I had a brilliant inspiration. “Hey, why don’t you come in? Have a glass of wine!”
He shook his head, easing his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” Belligerence rose inside me, fueled by vodka and amaretto.
“I can think of three good reasons, without even trying.” I glared a challenge, but he kept his voice even. Light. “One, it’s after midnight on a work night. Two, you look like you don’t need a glass of wine, or anything else alcoholic. Three, you don’t know anything about me. I could be an axe murderer.”
“Are you an axe murderer?”
A shadow of a smile flicked across his lips before his earnest expression returned. “No.”
I turned my head at an angle, trying to see Dani’s placid face reflected in his. He had her calm eyes, dark and reassuring. His chin echoed hers, coming to a point. But his flat cheekbones were all his own. And those lips—those masculine lips, dusky in the soft hallway light….
Dean’s lips had always been chapped. He chewed on them whenever he was deep in thought. It was his one failing. Aside from being an embezzler and all.
I blinked hard, hoping that I hadn’t lost too much time responding. Ryan seemed not to have noticed that my attention had strayed. I said, “But an axe murderer would lie to me, wouldn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “He probably would.” He leaned over and collected my treats, passing them to me as if he were an earnest young clerk at an all-night grocery store. “Go to bed, Rebecca Morris. And drink a glass of water before you fall asleep. Take an aspirin or two.”
My fingers brushed against his as I took the golden box of chocolates. His hands were warm, a little rough, like a man who’d done more than sit at a computer for days and weeks and months on end. I wondered how much time he spent working with Dani, helping her with her secret gardening projects. I wanted to ask him how much time he’d invested in Africa, building villages, bringing new life to desperate folks.
As I hesitated, an awkwardness bloomed between us, the sort of gawky uncertainty that I hadn’t felt since my parents were driving me on dates with underage junior high classmates. A part of me thought that I should lean forward and kiss Ryan on the cheek. Another part of me thought that I should juggle my unethical gifts, adjust my grip so that I could shake his hand. An astonishing third part of me considered dragging him into my home, axe murderer or not, luring him across the threshold to test out the new king-size bed that Teel had so thoughtfully provided.
That was the Godmothers talking.
“Good night,” I said.
He met my eyes, as if he’d heard the entire battle that had just raged inside my skull. “Good night.” As
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