Page 13 of Specters & Spotlights

Mr. Darcy. This must be Graham.

He didn’t enter so much as appear—one shoulder leaning against the doorframe like it was blocking his spotlight. Broad shoulders, sculpted cheekbones, the faintest wave in his dark hair. Leading-man handsome in the exact way that always felt a little unfair. His shirt was half-buttoned for Act One, cravat already undone in that practiced I-woke-up-like-this way that only ever looked effortless on people paid to be adored.

“Quick check in the back?” he asked, voice like velvet with a grin tucked just behind it. “Usually I handle it, but I like a thumbs up from the expert.”

He turned smoothly to show the back of his head, and his distractingly perfect hair. The lighting caught just enough to make it glow like some Regency-era shampoo commercial.

She didn’t even pause her glue application on Lex. “Looks criminally perfect,” she said. “Go away before someone cries.”

He chuckled, the sound low, easy, and annoyingly attractive. “Aye, aye,” he said with a mock salute, already backing out of the doorway.

And just like that, he was gone.

There was a beat of silence.

Kevin was quiet for a beat. Then: “I’d give that hair a solo curtain call. I hope it earns a standing ovation of its own.”

Elise rolled her eyes, but her hands stilled briefly on the spirit glue jar.

It was a truth universally acknowledged that leading men were either gay or actively working their way through the entire cast, crew, and possibly the orchestra pit. Usually both.

Yes, he was handsome. Yes, his voice had the kind of quiet power that could make women lean forward and critics swoon. And yes, she’d felt a brief flutter somewhere in her chest when he spoke.

But attraction was a luxury item she hadn’t budgeted for in years. She was too out of practice to flirt, too tired to try, and too smart to assume it’d end in anything but a dramatic monologue and a playlist of regrets.

She dipped the glue brush back into the pot and returned to Lex’s lace front. Whatever spark she might feel—for Graham, or Lark, or any of these obscenely attractive people—she would smother it like she always did, like a ghost light behind a blackout curtain.

The final hairpin slid into place with the precision of a ritual completed. Elise exhaled.

The pre-show gauntlet was over.

Day One. Pre-show. No disasters. No glue explosions. No missing lace fronts or emergency pin-curling in a stairwell.

She glanced over at the unstyled twin Elizabeth wig still resting on its head form, sad and squashed from travel. “I’ll deal with you tonight after the finale,” she muttered, giving it a half-hearted glare.

Usually, she’d have a few quiet moments once the curtain rose. A chance to scroll, sip tea, maybe crack a few pages of whatever paperback had been following her from city to city. But tonight, the wig closet still looked like someone had shaken it like a snow globe. There were too many supplies to sort, labels to re-stick, loose pins to collect.

Elise stood in the middle of it, feeling oddly at peace. A mess she could clean. A tempo she could set on her own terms.

But first—her phone.

She dug it out from beneath her wig apron and unlocked it. A few hours had passed in a blur, and she winced, realizing she hadn’t texted anyone to say she’d arrived. Oops.

At least now she could report that all was (mostly) under control.

Her eyes widened. Two missed calls from Cici.

That alone was unusual.

Then she saw the messages. A flood of images and texts. She opened them and was immediately bombarded by—kittens. Six of them, in fact. Tiny, squirmy, pink-nosed miracles.

Cici:

I know you’re busy—don’t worry about responding until later tonight. But I had to share my joy.

SIX healthy kittens!!!

Look at these tiny beans!!!