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“Who?” I say.
“Shane Hott. The fae lord in the Crown of Spires trilogy.”
My face must display utter blankness because Nia rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Ivy? You haven’t watched the Crown of Spires movies?”
I give her a Really? look.
“I know you don’t watch a lot of stuff, but no Crown of Spires? At least you must have read the series.”
I shake my head.
“World in peril, hot alpha fae lord, and here’s the connection—hottest scene in all of television—spire sex.”
“What is spire sex?”
“She’s lashed to a spire, and he— You really need to see it for yourself.”
I shrug. “Sounds very dangerous.”
“In the best possible way,” Nia moans. “You have to watch this scene.”
I roll my eyes.
“Your loss.” She shakes her head. “I know you shun everything LA, but I’d think by now local gossip would have dished up Shane Hott and the fact that he’s actually here.”
“I avoid local gossip, too.” It’s true. I stay off social media, I stay away from big gatherings, and if people start whispering, I run the other way instead of sidling closer. I had enough of all those things during my LA years—back when I lived and acted as Eva Scott—to last the rest of my life. “But Hott sounds familiar—oh! Hott as in Quinn Hott? I know who he is. His company made that miracle drug Dad took.”
“Quinn’s his brother,” Nia says. “Shane’s the movie-star brother. There are five of them. Each hotter than the last. Hotter!” she cries, delighted, and I roll my eyes again.
Quinn’s pretty yummy—but definitely taken, if I remember correctly from my last sighting of him with the manager of Hott Spot, the local spa and salon, on his arm. And I don’t do fellow actors—understatement of the millennium—so that knocks out Shane as an option. Not that I’m shopping. Seeing Anthony again reminded me of why celibacy is a great idea.
Never trust a guy so good looking he makes you stupid. Say it with me, friends.
The door of the old church bangs open, and the first few high schoolers straggle in. Nia and I run a community theater in the town where we both live, Rush Creek. We offer a bunch of after-school programs for kids, mostly middle and high school aged. Today is improv day, which is my favorite.
We greet the kids, give them time to glom snacks and unwind a little, then corral them onto the stage. The church—former church, actually—is an old congregational one, New England–influenced white clapboard on the outside, with a steeple and everything. Inside it’s darker than I’d choose, some of the wood paneling peeling, desperately in need of repairs and upgrades. But we don’t own it and the owner has been on a round-the-world trip, so there’s a lot of deferred maintenance.
That reminds me, actually—our lease is almost up, and I need to email the owner about signing a new one.
Our company doesn’t have enough money yet to build a theater of our own, so we’re just grateful to have this church. Several years ago, Rush Creek, a former rodeo town that was looking for its new purpose, gave birth to an outpouring of brand new hot springs. Overnight, the town spawned spas and wedding venues—and pretty much all the retail and performance spaces got snatched up by people who wanted to profit off the new opportunities. So the fact that we have this amazing theater-friendly building…most days, it feels like a miracle.
“Okay, peeps,” I call to the kids. “Let’s do some warm-ups. Let’s start with Ball Toss.”
I toss the imaginary ball across the circle to Garrett, a junior with a sandy-blond bob, and they catch it and wing it to the next person. It goes around like that until I tell the kids it’s not a ball, it’s a hot potato, then a basket of kittens, then a baby, then a ball of slime. The game ends when Justin yeets the ball of slime straight at my face and I “fail” to put my hands up until it’s too late, then have to sluice the imaginary slime out of my eyes and flick it at the members of my class. Everyone’s laughing and relaxed by the time we’re done.
It warms my heart. Some of these kids barely smiled and never talked to each other when they first started coming here. They’ve come out of their shells in a big way.
I’m about to launch them into one of my new favorite improv games, Curfew, when I hear the creak and slam of the church’s big front door and look up to see an unexpected face. It’s Jillian Megler, the building’s owner. I knew Jill and her husband, Jason, were planning to return from this trip sometime this spring, but I definitely wasn’t expecting her yet. Or here.
I glance to Nia. You good to take over? I mouth.
“Yup,” she says, and I trot down the stairs and toward the back of the church, where Jillian is leaning against the wall.
“Hey,” I say. “Welcome home.” I open my arms, and we hug.
“I was hoping I’d find you here,” she says as she releases me. Her eyes rake over my face, and there’s a tight, nervy tone to her voice. Alarm bells go off in my stomach. “I, uh, need to talk to you about something.”
Her eyes find the high school students on the stage—hard to tell from here exactly what they’re doing, but they’re in whole-body improv mode, and laughter rings out from their peers in the audience.
