At that point, screen legend Ramón Martín will take over, and with his intense Hollywood fame comes even more intense pressure on Robert to make sure the orchestra lifts Ramón into the Broadway stratosphere. If Robert wants to walk around outside a little and drink his coffee to procrastinate, I’m game. I’m not going to make him go into that building any sooner than he wants to.
He takes a sip, studying me. “How’d you sleep last night?”
“Painkillers and emotional exhaustion ensured that I fell like a brick into bed.”
Robert nods at this, eyes narrowed. “And how was your morning?”
He’s working up to something. I squint suspiciously back at him. “It was fine.”
“After what happened on Monday night,” he says, and lifts his cup, “you still went to see him at the station today?”
Damn it. I should have known he was onto me.
Maybe I will make him go inside. I pull open the heavy side-entrance door and bat my lashes in his direction. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Robert follows me into the cool shadows of the theater. Even with the sounds of people working behind the scenes and onstage, it’s quiet compared to the electric atmosphere of show time. “You go get me coffee at Madman every workday.”
“I like their coffee.”
“As much as I love that you bring me caffeine every morning, you and I both have perfectly functional coffeemakers in our apartments. You’re taking the subway ten blocks and back every morning for fancy espresso. You think I don’t see what you’re doing?”
I groan, turning to move deeper inside, toward the stairs leading to the second-floor offices. “I know. I’m a mess.”
Robert holds the stairwell door open, looking incredulous. “You still like him even after he left the paramedics thinking you were a jumper?”
“In my defense, I went there this morning in an attempt to confront him.”
“And?”
I growl into another sip. “And I didn’t say anything.”
“I understand what it’s like to have a crush,” he says. “But do you think you should put him so squarely in your daily routine?”
As we ascend, I poke his side with my undamaged left elbow. “Says the guy who moved from Philly to Des Moines because he fell in lust with the waiter serving him a rib eye.”
“Fair point.”
“And if you don’t approve, then point me in the direction of someone better.” I spread my hands, looking around us. “Manhattan—particularly musical theater—is a beast for single women. Calvin was a safe but fun little diversion. I never planned on getting nearly murdered in front of him, let alone actually speaking to him.”
We emerge from the stairwell, and Robert follows me into his office. It’s a tiny room along a hallway with four identically tiny rooms, and is in constant disarray, with sheet music everywhere and paintings, photos, and notes on Post-its lining every inch of wall. Robert’s computer is, I think, one generation older than the desktop I took to college six years ago.
He pokes at the keyboard to wake up his screen. “Well, I notice that Evan in strings is always looking at you.”
I do a quick mental file through his strings section. All that comes to mind is his lead violinist, Seth, and Seth is not attracted to the ladies. Even if he were, Robert wouldn’t let me date him even over his dead body; despite being invaluable to the production, Seth has a knack for throwing tantrums and stirring up drama within the ensemble. He is the only person I’ve ever seen make Robert truly angry.
“Which one’s Evan?”
Twirling a finger over his close-cropped hair, he says, “Long hair. Viola?”
Ah, now I know who he means. Evan is sexy in a Tarzan kind of way, but . . . the rest of him might be a little too wild. “Yeah, Bobert,” I say, holding up my hands, “but the fingernails on his bow hand . . .”
“What are you talking about?” Robert laughs.
“How can you not see this? It’s like he’s plucking his strings with a shark tooth.” I shrug. “He just seems oddly carnivorous. I don’t think I could overlook it.”
“Carnivorous? You devoured your lamb chop last Wednesday. It was feral.”
He’s right. I did. “I cook great lamb, what do you want from me?”
From the doorway comes the sneering groan of my boss. “What the fuck are you even talking about?”
With a grin I answer, “Lamb,” just as Uncle Robert answers, “Man claws,” and Brian’s frown turns radioactive.
In an effort to keep nepotism at the minimum I don’t actually report