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They stood there for a moment, still wrapped in each other's arms, neither quite sure what to do next. The reality of what had just happened was starting to sink in, bringing with it a host of complications.
"We should . . ." Eden began, but trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence.They should what? Stop? Talk about this? Pretend it never happened?
Genevieve seemed to sense her uncertainty. She stepped back slightly, her hands still on Eden's waist. "We should call it a night," she said decisively. "I think you’ve made decent progress with the scene."
Eden nodded, grateful for Genevieve's authoritative calm in the face of her own tumultuous emotions. "Right," she agreed. "Thanks."
As they stood there, eyes locked, breath mingling, Eden felt a mix of exhilaration and terror. What did this mean for them? For the play? For her career?
But beneath all those questions, there was a certainty Eden couldn't deny. Whatever happened next, whatever consequences they might face, she knew one thing for sure: she wanted more. More of Genevieve's touch, more of her passion, more of . . . everything.
And judging by the look in Genevieve's eyes, sparking with desire she was trying to hide, Eden wasn't alone in that feeling.
The rehearsal room suddenly felt too small, too charged with everything Eden could barely admit to herself.
“I’ll um . . . I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess,” she mumbled, extricating herself from the hold Genevieve had on more than just her physical body.
The director cleared her throat. “Yes. Tomorrow, Miss Rowley.” She turned back to her table of scribbled notes, immediately breaking the bubble that had held Eden hostage.
7
GENEVIEVE
Genevieve stared at the script pages spread across her desk, the letters blurring together into meaningless shapes. Her mind, usually laser-focused on the task at hand, kept drifting back to the events of the previous evening. The softness of Eden's lips, the warmth of her body, and the sweet scent of her floral perfume. It all swirled in Genevieve's memory, refusing to cede space to anything she furiously tried to concentrate on.
She shook her head, hopelessly attempting to dispel the distracting thoughts. This was ridiculous. She was Genevieve Howard, for God's sake. Award-winning director and respected professional, not some lovesick teenager unable to control her hormones. And yet, here she sat, replaying that kiss over and over in her mind like her favourite record.
A war raged within her. On one side was her ironclad professionalism and the rules she'd lived by for decades. On the other was a desire so powerful it clawed at her focus again and again. Genevieve had never felt anything like this before, not even during the early days with Amy. This was something else entirely. Raw, primal, and utterly beguiling.
Genevieve reached for her coffee, grimacing as she took a sip of the now-cold beverage. How long had she been sitting there, lost in thought? The clock on the wall informed her it had been nearly an hour since she'd arrived at the theatre. A completely wasted hour of daydreaming.
Unacceptable.
She forced her attention back to the script, determined to make at least some progress before the day's rehearsals began. But no matter how hard she tried to unravel the words before her, her traitorous mind kept conjuring images of Eden. The way her blue eyes had widened in surprise just before their lips met. The soft gasp she'd let out when Genevieve had pulled her closer. The feeling of her fingers tangled in Genevieve's hair.
"Damn it," Genevieve muttered to herself, pushing away from her desk in frustration. She was getting nowhere. She stood, pacing the length of her office, trying to walk off some of the restless energy that had taken hold of her. She needed to get herself under control. She couldn't afford to be distracted by a beyond-inappropriate infatuation with her lead actress, no matter how enthralling said actress might be.
A knock at the door startled her out of her thoughts. Genevieve froze, her heart rate instantly accelerating. She had to get a handle on herself before anyone noticed a crack in her usually untouchable demeanour.
"Come in," she called, reassured by how steady her voice sounded.
The door opened, and there she was. Eden Rowley, looking like she'd stepped out of a pre-Raphaelite painting, all golden hair and wide, expressive eyes. Genevieve's breath caught in her throat at the sight of her.
"Good morning, Ms. Howard," Eden said quietly, hovering timidly in the doorway. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
Genevieve swallowed hard, fighting to maintain her steely composure. "Not at all, Miss Rowley. Please, come in." She gestured to the chair across from her desk, grateful for the barrier it would provide between them.
Eden stepped into the office, closing the door and rendering them alone again. She moved to stand by the chair Genevieve had indicated, but didn't sit, wringing her hands in front of her.
"What can I do for you?" Genevieve asked, determined to maintain an air of professionalism. She could do this. She could treat Eden like any other actor, could pretend that nothing had happened between them.
Eden bit her lip, a gesture that Genevieve found entirely too enticing. "I . . . I had some questions about today’s scene, if you have a moment."
Genevieve arched an eyebrow. "Oh? And what might those be?"
"Well, I . . ." Eden trailed off, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. She seemed to be struggling to find the words, her eloquence on the stage deserting her whenever she fell back into being herself.
Genevieve waited, her suspicion growing with each passing second. She'd seen Eden talk about this script for hours, diving deep into character motivations and thematic elements. The idea that she suddenly had questions she couldn't articulate was . . . unlikely, to say the least.
