“That’s because you know all the right things to say to make me feel good.”
“Oh, really? I make you feel good?”
He steps closer but doesn’t embrace me. He just presses, barely there. He’s so much taller than I am, my head brushes his chin.
“All I want to do these days is make you feel good,” he says, his voice low. “However you need me to do it.”
I’m sure he doesn’t mean that statement to be incredibly arousing, but it is. I can’t help thinking that having him make love to me would make me feel pretty damn good, and God knows, I could use the tension relief. But in talking with Dr. Kate, I realize that would be a monumental step in the wrong direction. At least for now.
He knows it, too. He’s been very careful to keep our offstage contact as platonic as possible. It’s torture. Understanding why it’s a good idea doesn’t make it any less of a struggle.
Even now, I see him fighting to not touch me.
“You realize you’re stunning, right?” he says to my reflection, and I lean back into him.
“I’m getting wrinkles.”
He wraps his arms around me. “Bullshit.”
“My skin’s breaking out from the stage makeup.” I wind my fingers between his as he rests his chin on my shoulder.
“Mine too. So what?”
“I found a hair on my chin the other day. A long, dark hair poking out of a freckle. I’m officially turning into a witch. Run while you can.”
He chuckles and presses his nose against my cheek. “I’m never running again. And please stop trying to convince me you’re anything but absolutely gorgeous, because it ain’t gonna happen. You’re perfect. Always have been. Always will be. Just like this. Breakouts, wrinkles, witchy chin hairs, and all.”
And just like that, he makes those imagined flaws disappear.
“You’re biased,” I say as I step away from him and brush on some powder.
He leans against the counter and watches. “Totally biased. Proud of it. Put on some lip gloss.”
I turn to him. “What? You just told me you like me au naturale.”
“I do. I also like watching that pouty thing you do when you put on lipstick. It’s sexy as hell.” He pulls out a chair and sits down. “Actually, put it on, then wipe it off. Then put it on again. Just keep repeating the process until I say stop. FYI, we could be here awhile.”
I smile and pick up my lip gloss. Then I pull out the wand and hold it toward him.
“Is this what you want, big boy? This spongy, moist tip dragging across my lips? Does that turn you on?”
His whole body seizes as he digs his hands into his thighs. Then he closes his eyes and leans his elbows on his knees as he scrubs his face.
“You tease me with mental images you know I have zero defense against. Does ‘three year dry spell’ mean nothing to you, woman? I’m working with a very short fuse here.”
“I’ve seen your fuse. It’s really not short.”
He makes a noise and strides into my bathroom. “Wait here. This won’t take long.”
I laugh as he slams the door.
Approximately three minutes later, he’s back. He sits on the couch as I finish packing up.
“So, how are you liking Dr. Kate?” he asks, taking our conversation back to being G-rated.
“She’s great. Although, it’s a bit weird calling her Dr. Kate. I kind of feel like she should have her own talk show, like Dr. Drew.”
“Yeah, but unlike Dr. Drew, Kate is her last name.”
I stop and turn to him. “I thought it was her first name.”
“It is.”
“But … that would mean her name is—”
“Kate Kate. Yep, she married some big property developer. William Kate.”
“Huh. I guess it would be the same thing if I married Taylor Swift. She’d be Taylor Taylor.”
His eyes glaze over. “Uh, so let’s run with that idea. What would that wedding night be like?”
I slap his leg.
“No, seriously,” he says and sits forward. “I really want to know. Start from where you kiss passionately and remove each other’s clothing.”
I laugh and continue packing up.
He watches me in silence for a few minutes, then says, “So, if you and I got married, would you take my name? Or would you expect me to be Ethan Taylor-Holt?”
And just like that, all the blood drains from my face.
He laughs. “Cassie, relax. I’m not asking you to marry me.”
“Oh. Okay.” My lungs start working again.
He gives me a half smile. “Yet.”
I settle into the oversize leather chair as Dr. Kate crosses her legs. She looks like she belongs in an advertisement for sexy horn-rimmed glasses. All perfect blondness and designer shoes.
“Hi, Cassie. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
Dr. Kate gives me a look. I’m not supposed to resort to meaningless automated responses. I’m supposed to describe my feelings as honestly as possible. Identify and confront.
“Um … okay, I’m … nervous. Conflicted. A little nauseated.”
“Uh-huh.” My self-awareness is rewarded with a smile. “How’s the show?”
“Good, I guess. Previews have been well received. The buzz around town is positive.”
“Opening night is tonight, yes?”
“Yeah.”