for one certain gentleman, even though he’d said he’d been kicked out by one of the ushers. Even though she’d left him standing on the metal platform. Even though—
Her roving stopped.
Because sure enough she found him, three rows back. Right.
Their eyes locked.
He gave her that smile. A knowing smile. A private smile. A smile that couldn’t look more delighted for her if she had just recited a flawless ten-minute monologue.
Despite the hard-and-fast rule in the first chapter of every acting book on the planet, she smiled back.
Just as her eyes fell upon the woman beside him looping her arm through his.
* * *
Four scenes and sixty minutes later, Bree dodged the cast relaxing backstage to get to the dressing room. She changed so fast she was tempted to brag to Stephen about it. After all, no one but actors talked competitively over dinner about the record speed with which they could change into and out of clothes. But because she was about to attempt the impossible feat of driving home, pulling together something edible, and bringing it back for the Barter’s 30th Annual Spring Gala in less than twenty minutes, she had to forgo the opportunity to brag to her supervisor—or for that matter, sneak into the front of the house just to “run into” the duct-tape man who’d saved her night.
Not that she really wanted to spot Chip arm in arm with a woman who was a physical manifestation of the word pearly. Silky smooth blond hair, flawless cream skin, two rows of perfectly white teeth. Not that Bree had noticed while she sat stuck on her mossy log prop for the rest of the play. At all.
And yet . . .
She slipped her phone out of her pocket as she exited the front of the theatre and skipped down the steps two at a time. Sure, maybe the actors typically used the back doors to escape to their cars. Maybe she had only eighteen minutes to get home and back with something edible. Maybe Stephen had expressly forbidden the cast from exiting through the front doors in slouchy sweaters and holey jeans while the patrons filed out in diamonds and silk ties.
But what was life without mixing it up, eh?
She pressed on Cassie’s name in her list of contacts and held the phone up to her ear.
Bree appreciated the view from beneath the illuminated awning overlooking Abingdon’s Main Street. The air was crisp and cool as it nipped at the hem of the dress she had borrowed from her roommate, one of the dozens of ostentatious outfits poking out of Evie’s closet. It was a solid three inches too short, but then, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Though the Barter paid a decent share, Bree wasn’t about to splurge on a two-hundred-dollar dress she’d only wear once in a while.
The matinee audience had spilled out of the theatre and now milled about the area, some walking along the sidewalks, some moving across the crosswalk. Waiting cars hummed on both sides of the road.
Yes, Bree thought, turning slowly in a circle, this was a delightful view.
Inspirational.
She was glad to take a beat and experience the Barter world from this angle, with no ulterior motive whatsoever—
“What are you doing?”
The sound of Cassie’s voice in her ear jumpstarted her.
“What do you mean, what am I doing?” Bree turned and started, a little wobbly, down the sidewalk.
“I answered the phone two minutes ago. You’ve been doing that thing with your teeth.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But of course Bree did know what her best friend of twenty-six years was talking about, and of course Cassie knew that Bree knew exactly what Cassie was talking about.
Leave it to her best friend to answer the phone and sit there listening to her nervous tick like a creeper.
In the background of Cassie’s line, screaming erupted.
“Hold on a sec.” Cassie’s voice was brisk and husky, which really was the appropriate term for the woman who in the past year had gone from single chum and adventure pal, to single chum in custody of three kids, to, as of precisely thirteen months ago, married chum loaded down with six kids—four of them under five.
After some prodding, then vague threats, the screaming died down to a reasonable level.
“So, what’s going on down there?” Cassie asked. “Why the beatbox session?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” But Bree’s feet slowed as her eyes fell upon him. Chip. Her right foot floated six inches off the ground.