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A jolt shot through me. “What?”
“With tongue.”
“What the hell for?”
“Ophelia and Hamlet were lovers, right? So, for research or Method acting or whatever you call it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Isaac’s not into me. And judging by his pissy mood in rehearsal last night, babysitting the newbie actor all day is the last thing he wants to do.”
Angie shrugged. “We’ll see. I want a full report. Tonight. Not on Monday morning or I’ll be dead from curiosity.”
“Bye, Angie,” I said.
“With tongue,” she called just as I shut the door on her.
I turned and nearly tripped over my damn feet. Right in view of Isaac, who leaned against the brick wall next to the theater’s box office, smoking a cigarette. My heart crashed against my chest then dropped to my knees.
If there is a God, Isaac did not hear that.
“Hi,” I said, moving toward him slowly, like a lion tamer walking up to a big cat.
A panther.
He wore his usual jeans, boots, and black leather over a white shirt. His dark hair was wet from a shower and his gray-green eyes watched me with a bored detachment.
“Hey,” he said. Nothing more.
“I brought my script,” I said. “If you wanted to run lines or something.”
He exhaled a plume of smoke, dropped his cigarette butt and ground it out with his heel. “Whatever. Did we decide coffee or food?”
“Coffee’s good.”
“Okay.”
We walked the block and a half to Daisy’s Coffeehouse without talking. Isaac held the door for me.
“Thanks,” I said.
No reply.
Not into this. Got it. Message received.
Daisy’s was a cute little place with warm wood flooring and tables that were half-filled with patrons. They chatted over steaming cups, typed on laptops or read books. Nina Simone crooned over the sound system.
“What do you want?” Isaac asked.
“I can get my own,” I said, reaching for my purse. Isaac gave me a stormy glare and I met it with my own pointed look. “Listen, it’s obvious you don’t want to be here. No sense making you pay for it, too.”
He opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. He turned away, looking around the café. When he spoke, his voice was softer.
“There’s a table over there,” he said, indicating a two-seater tucked in the corner near a small shelf marked Free Books. “Tell me what you want to drink and then grab it.”
“Medium latte,” I said. “Please.”
He nodded and I went to the table. He came back a few minutes later with a latte for me and what looked like black coffee for him, both in mugs instead of to-go cups.
He started to sit, then stopped. “You need sugar?”
