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“That would just feel a lot like an actual date.”
“Betty.” Every nerve in my body stood to attention when he said my name in that deep baritone. “Just a business date.” He paused, raising his brow. “What? Are you afraid or something?”
Snorting, I was about to say something smart back, but he held up a finger to stop me. And strangely, I held my tongue. That was new.
“If we get to know each other and are more comfortable together, it will only make our performance improve onstage.”
“Not if we get to know each other and decide we hate each other.”
“I could never hate you.” His smile was boyish and sincere. When I didn’t say the same back, his brow lifted almost to his hairline. “You think you could hate me?”
I couldn’t help but laugh because he was genuinely concerned at the very idea.
“Jury is still out.”
He clasped a hand over his heart. “Ouch.”
My gaze strayed to his firm pectorals stretching against his dress shirt. Then my mind wandered to visions of his luscious chest pressing me down to his bed.
Damn, I really needed to go on a real date soon.
“I’m not saying I’d hate you.” I finally answered his question, snapping my gaze back to his face where it belonged.
“So it’s a date?”
“Abusinessdate. Yes.”
The smile that filled his face made my pulse jump. He truly was devastatingly handsome.
“I’ve got inventory to deal with all this weekend, so how about next Saturday?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, everyone!” Peter yelled from the floor beside the front row. “Let’s get ready to block Act One. I need everyone offstage, entering downstage left.”
Thankful to be pulled out of Bennett’s hypnotic orbit, I turned away from him, ready to focus on blocking. To focus on anything that wasn’t the way Broussard fucked with my head—and my body.
Blocking was when the director instructed the actors’ every placement in a scene—where to stand, when to cross to another part of the stage, when to grab a prop or put one down—basically every move we make. Granted, good directors allowed for some improvisation and suggestions on the actors’ parts, but detailed blocking was essential for a good stage production.
Trish hurried to her spot and picked up her clipboard. Frank joined her in the audience since he didn’t come on stage for a while. Brittany headed toward the balcony stairs, presumably to start collecting props for the stage since that was the stage manager’s job, among other things, once the performances started. Refusing to admit to myself why, I was glad to see the back of her for a while.
“Just come in and begin,” Peter told me as I was crossing the stage. “We’ll stop and start as necessary for blocking.”
Meredith was running over her lines, staring at the script when we exited.
“Do you need a pencil?” asked Bennett, handing over an extra one he was holding.
“Yeah. Thanks. Were you a boy scout?”
“Eagle Scout,” he beamed, arching an eyebrow with his typical show of arrogance.
“Of course you were. Maybe you can show me how to build a birdhouse or tie a clinch knot or something when we get bored backstage.”
I was standing right in front of him, facing the audience, waiting for Peter to signal me. A wall of heat pressed against my neck and shoulder blades. When he leaned forward close to my ear, the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up at the whisper of his breath.
“I know several knots I’d be happy to teach you.”
Nothing he’d said was particularly naughty, but the rolling timbre of his voice and the intimacy of his nearness sent an avalanche of dirty thoughts through my head.
