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“Wait.” He tensed. “Y-You’re going to go see it? Why? You hate musicals and plays.”
She shot him a surprised look. Why did he look as if he was about to hu
rl all over the pavement? “Yeah, I do. My sister loves them, and she bought these tickets ages ago. But then she got pregnant and landed herself on bed rest.” She shrugged. “So I’m going for her, and I have to collect autographs afterwards—particularly from the guy who plays Marius. She’s in love with him.” She rolled her eyes. “Love. But that’s why I was in the alley tonight. I was scoping out where the actors leave. Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and dropped her hand. “Ah … I see.”
“Maybe I’ll even see you there?” She flexed her fingers. They felt strangely empty without his. “Are you visible during the play?”
He gave a strangled laugh. “Uh, yeah. A little bit.”
Damn, even his laugh sounded melodic. She would lay down all her money on him being an amazing singer. It must kill him working on a show he could easily be a part of. “Good. I can’t wait.”
He stroked his jaw. “Even though you hate shows?”
“Yeah.” She grabbed his hand again. She didn’t care if it was stupid—she wanted to keep him close. “Because now I’ll get to see you in action.”
“I-I see,” he said.
“Okay, back to the interesting stuff.” She pulled him closer, and his arm brushed against the side of her breast. Oh, sweet mama. That felt way too good. “Is all of your family across the pond?”
His arm stiffened under her fingers. “It’s just me. It’s been only me for longer than I can remember.”
Sadness washed over her at the flat tone of his voice. She wouldn’t put him a day over twenty-five, which meant he more than likely went to foster care for most of his life. She didn’t know what it was like in the UK, but here in America a life like his would be sketchy at best.
“That couldn’t have been an easy life.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Nothing to be sorry about. It was a long time ago. Now I’m here, living the dream.”
Of being stage crew? She had a feeling that wasn’t his dream. “Maybe you should audition for a part off Broadway? Or an understudy role. Did you tell the producers you can sing?”
“Uh.” He gave an uneasy laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. His biceps flexed as he reached up, and she couldn’t look away. He obviously worked out. Accent and muscles? So not fair. “Yes, they know.”
“Oh. Good.” She stopped walking and pointed at the door to the restaurant. “We’re here.”
“Great, but before we go in there, I need to see something.”
She blinked up at him. “Okay. What’s up?”
He swung her out of the craziness of New York and her back hit the building. She barely had a chance to gasp before his mouth was on hers, teasing her senses. She clutched his shirt, not sure which need was stronger—the one to push him away or the one to hold him closer. To reflect upon how freaking amazing his lips felt pressed against hers, his hands on her waist—or to honor a memory of what she’d once had.
She loved that he didn’t ask or pussyfoot around the kiss. He just took. He ended the kiss and rested his forehead on hers. Taking a deep breath, he pulled back and grinned down at her. She couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. Or remembering how great it had felt against hers.
“I just had to see if you tasted as good as I’d imagined.”
She licked her lips, and his gaze fell. His hands flexed on her, as if he wanted another kiss. And, God help her, so did she. “And?”
“And … you taste even better.” He pushed off the wall and she inhaled. He held the door open for her. “After you.”
She didn’t say anything, but walked around him to the door. What was there to say? He placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her inside. Through her lightweight shirt, she swore she could feel his skin on hers. And damn if it didn’t feel right, too—as if he had some unspoken right to touch her.
What was wrong with her?
The whole time they stood in line, he didn’t drop his hand. Some small part of her wanted to step away from him; uncomfortable with the sensations he awakened in her. The other, louder, part wanted him to touch her more. Everywhere. She gave the hostess her name and peeked over her shoulder to the inside of the restaurant. She’d been right about its not being too packed. At least, not by New Yorker standards. There was only a thirty-minute wait.
Justin led them to a bench on the sidewalk and they sat down. He sat so close their thighs touched. He made her feel shaky and … weird. Scary. Fun. And oh so right. She hadn’t felt this alive since Hugh. She stared at her feet. She shouldn’t be here. Hugh had only been dead for a little over a year, and this weekend would have been their wedding day.
This wasn’t right. It was wrong. Terribly wrong.
