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“Well, well, well,” he said, crossing his arms. “Glad to see you here to insult my work all over again. We’re sold out tonight and the second act is almost over.”
“I’m not here to watch your show.” I pulled the envelope from my breast pocket. “I’m here to say sorry.”
He stepped back, looking scared to take it from me. “What type of poison did you put on the pages?”
“None.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s a goddamn apology, and it’s one of the ones I wrote by hand. I didn’t mean to affect your production back then, even if it was a shitty play with the most terrible acting I’ve ever seen.”
“Seriously?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything publicly about it.” I held out the letter again. “I’m sorry.”
He stared at me for a few seconds before taking the envelope. “Can we bury the hatchet without me reading a word of this?”
“How so?”
“Well, um…” He looked nervous. “We’re doing well box-office wise so far, but I think we’d do even better if you were spotted here and maybe made a comment about how much you love it so much that you had to stop by—just to see your favorite part.”
“Sold.” I snatched the envelope back. “I’ll make an appearance at the bar during the intermission.”
“Thank you.” He snapped his fingers. “Brenda, can you get Mr. Hunter a drink and escort him up to the bar area?”
“Absolutely.” A redhead suddenly appeared at my side. “Follow me, Mr. Hunter.”
“Is this play any good?” I asked. “Be honest.”
She blushed, ignoring my question. “I saw your pictures online.”
“That’s nice. Is this play any good?”
“I saved them in my phone.” She lowered her voice. “I touch myself to them at night. Usually, I have to switch my porn videos after a few viewings, but I’ve been using your pictures for two weeks straight now. You have a gift. Feel like giving it to me later?”
I ignored her until we reached the top of the steps.
“I’ll get you a drink.” She pulled out her phone, snapped a selfie with me without permission, and disappeared.
I knew that drink wasn’t coming anytime soon, so I signaled for the bartender.
“Yes, sir? What can I get you?”
“Scotch on the rocks, please,” I said. “It’s on the owner’s tab.”
He nodded and made it within seconds.
The doors to the theater opened for intermission shortly after, sending audience members into the bar area.
I turned my head and nearly dropped my drink at the sight of Penelope. She was a vision in a tightly fitted top, with a plunging neckline that cut below her breasts.
She was utterly oblivious to the way every man was stealing glances of her, completely unaware of how she was the center of attention without even trying.
She didn’t tell me she was coming here tonight.
Picking up my drink, I walked over to her.
“Hey,” I whispered into her ear from behind. “You look good.”
“Thank you.” She turned around to face me. “You do, too. I mean, as always.”
Silence.
“Did you come here by yourself?” I asked.
“No, this was another spur of the moment surprise from Simon,” she said. “We were talking Broadway and I told him that I’ve always wanted to see Wicked.”
You’ve never told me that.
“He showed up with yellow roses and told me I had an hour to get ready. I didn’t have time to put on any makeup.”
“You’ve never needed it.” I looked her up and down, and she blushed. “You forgot to do something else, though.”
“What?”
“Here.” I gently grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a corner. I slid my hand around her neck—feeling her skin heat at my touch.
“Hayden…” She looked into my eyes and her cheeks flushed red. “What are you doing?”
I tore off the small price tag from her shirt and crumpled it. Then I pushed it down deep into her pants pocket.
“Oh.” She swallowed. “Why are you here? This director hates you.”
“I’m well aware.” I held back a laugh. “I came here to deliver my apology, but he asked me for a favor instead.”
“How nice of you.” She lowered her voice. “His first play really did suck, though.”
“I know. Is this one better?”
“It’s beyond amazing.”
“You look really good, Penelope.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I mean that.”
We stood staring at each other in silence, struggling for a new line of conversation for some reason. The thoughts running through my head were an insult to the word ‘inappropriate’ and I wasn’t looking at her like she was “just my best friend” at all right now.
She’s your best friend’s younger sister…Your best friend’s younger sister…Travis’s little sister…
“Mr. Hunter?” A woman suddenly stepped in front of us. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m Myra Tate from Vanity Fair, and I’ve been trying to get a comment from you for months on the new Tinder lawsuit. I know this is probably unethical, but I can’t help but ask if I could borrow a few minutes of your time tonight.”
