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Bennett’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit. I hurt you, didn’t I? I’m so—”
“No.” My voice broke as I shook my head, trying to smile but unable to.
Sex had never made me feel so defenseless and vulnerable.
His concern softened into a knowing look. I couldn’t look at him anymore; I was so undone. I turned my head to the side and closed my eyes, crying silently and feeling ridiculous at my reaction.
He fell to my side and turned my body till my back was against his chest. He pulled me close and wrapped his body around mine, holding me tight.
“It’s alright, Betty,” he murmured softly.
I couldn’t say a word. But I wrapped my arms over his and squeezed further into his embrace.
“It’s alright.”
I fell asleep to his quiet reassurances in my ear and his mouth pressing soft kisses against my neck.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
~BENNETT~
“My family is here,”I told Betty as I strode back to my dressing room to get my jacket, the last piece of Paul’s costume for Act One that I wasn’t already wearing.
Betty flounced into my dressing room where Frank was gelling his moustache. He’d gone all out as Mr. Velasco and grown a longer moustache that he could style into what might’ve been considered suave at one time. With his fedora and seductive European accent, he played the part of the charming, eccentric older gentleman perfectly.
Now, if I could just worry about my own part, that would be great. But I’d been distracted all day. To be honest, I’d been distracted a lot longer. Apparently, I’d completely forgotten to approve the order for truffle oil needed for last night’s guest chef, who I’d hired out of Baton Rouge. He’d come a long way to teach and cook for Cajun Cuisine Night.
I’d made it my own priority to be sure I had stocked whatever the chefs needed, and usually, this wasn’t a problem for me. When I corralled Lucille this morning to find out how the couples' cooking night had gone, she said it went well since I’d left her in charge because of my dress rehearsal. Except for the truffle oil incident. She’d figured out that I carried truffle oil in a special cooking section of the store for serious cooks.
The chef was delayed in getting started because of that, but otherwise, it had gone well. But all I could think about for the rest of the day was that I’d slipped up. Pissing off well-known local and regional chefs was not good business. My little enterprise to bring something special into Beauville could die on the vine if chefs found out I wasn’t running on the level of professionalism they expected.
Chefs were typically very particular and high maintenance to begin with. Not having all their needs met could be considered a slight, like their job wasn’t important enough to me if I didn’t remember to provide all their ingredients.
Not only that, Hale would kill me. He wasn’t a chef, but he enjoyed discovering top-tier new restaurants and forcing the chefs to be his friends. Yes, this was something that he did with frequency and great success. Strangely enough.
So my brain was buzzing all day, especially when the chef wouldn’t take my calls till late this afternoon when I could finally apologize for the blunder.
I also realized my distraction was because of the beautiful redhead leaning back on the doorjamb of the men’s dressing room. Not that I blamed her for my addled brain. But she’d been subdued ever since the other night when she cried after we had sex.
At first, I thought I’d hurt her but quickly realized she was emotional because her heart was so in it. Perhaps too in it for her liking.
So I didn’t say a word. I’d let her come around and accept what was happening slowly. I didn’t mind waiting, especially now that I knew she was experiencing the same hardcore feelings I was.
But right now, I needed to focus on today’s Sunday performance, where all the regular season ticket holders showed up. My family was also in the audience. None of that really bothered me, except I always wondered if Dad was here solely because Mom had dragged him kicking and screaming to show his parental support. Not that I needed it at my age. Much.
“Is that what’s got you so frowny today?” Betty asked, crossing her arms then her ankles. Her lime-green minidress fit her to perfection, showing the full length of her luscious legs.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Are you nervous about me meeting the parents?” she asked, quirking an auburn brow.
“What? No.” I huffed out a laugh and finger-combed my hair to the side to look like the put-together attorney of Paul Bratter.
“You need more than that,” she said, squeezing in front of me, her back toward the wall-to-wall counter and mirror that went to the ceiling.
“Five minutes,” Brittany called into the open door of the dressing room.
“Thank you, five!” we all called back in unison, a stage technique to keep us aware of our time and keep the stage manager happy that she knew we were ready.
