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“Just because I don’t understand where you’re coming from doesn’t mean…” My words broke off, uncertain, and I took a step toward him. “I want to understand you.”
Aaron’s expression held a soft note of confusion as he looked down at me. “Why?”
Because you understand me, I thought.You’re the first person who’s understood me since my mother died. You’re the first person that’s made me feel seen.“I just do.”
Maybe it was the stage itself softening the space between us, or the look in his eyes—but in that moment, I could see underneath Aaron’s arrogant charm, spotting someone lonelier than he let on. Someone whose smile didn’t touch their eyes. I knew that feeling. Maybe that’s why I wanted to understand him—because part of me already did.
I took another tentative step closer. “Maybe we could?—”
The sound of the music hall’s door creaking open silenced me. Our gazes locked, and I was sure mine had to be full of panic.
And it only intensified when I registered voices.
Without thinking, I grabbed Aaron by the sleeve of his sweater and jerked him around the clutter on the stage, toward the corner. I hauled him behind the thick maroon stage curtains, shoving him up against the wall, trying to hide us in the meager corner of darkness that the stage lights didn’t touch.
I looked down at my teal polo and mouthed a curse. Too bright. If anyone walked on stage, they’d see us immediately.Crap, crap, crap.
Aaron’s hands landed on my upper arms, and in one swift motion, he spun me around. His dark sweater and dark pants disappeared into the shadows, shielding me—shielding my stupidly bright polo—and caging me into the corner of the stage. My back hit the wall, and his palms stayed firm on my arms, skin hot against my own, his body between me and discovery.
Whoever had walked in let out a large huff of air—male. “I’ll never understand the fascination with this place,” he grumbled, and the voice was familiar. “Rhythms of Hope acting like this is more than just a child’s theater.”
“Apparently, integrity can’t be bought,” someone responded dryly. Familiar again. It clicked then; they weren’t staff members.The Wallets.
“Oh, come on.” A third man. This one sounded almost clearly like Mr. Holland. “They’re a charity. That means they’ll fold the second the numbers don’t work in their favor. I can’t imagine anything else stopping them.”
“Sentiment. They actuallycareabout this place.” The second man scoffed. Mr. Massey? “You know what’s better than music? Massages. Maybe their CEO needs one.”
I sucked in a breath, and Aaron gave my arms a soft squeeze. My gaze lifted to his, a scant few inches between us. With his dark eyes on mine, Aaron gave his head a small shake.
There were footsteps out on the main floor, not on the stage. I strained to hear. “We really need to convince them by the fundraiser if we want to have the sauna ready by summer.” Definitely Dr. Conan. The voice was coming closer. “The contractor won’t wait for us forever. He’s already told me he has other jobs.”
“Impatient idiot,” one of them muttered.
“Hopefully letting them see the space will make them realize how small it is. Unfit for what they want to use it for. Otherwise, my wife and I were talking, brainstorming, on how to make it harder for them to operate.”
“What were your ideas?”
“Zoning restrictions. Inspections. You have friends in city hall, don’t you, John? One call, and suddenly, they’re drowning in fines and paperwork.”
“Huh.”
I nearly blew our cover by gasping, because the voice came almost directly at our side. Mr. Holland had walked around the stage to the stairs, coming up. I grabbed a fistful of Aaron’s sweater and tugged him closer while he simultaneously pushed forward, pressing me wholly into the corner. There was nowhere else for me to go, and no more distance between us. My nose nearly brushed his chest, and he ducked his head, his chin grazing my temple. His skin was warm to the touch.
Don’t see us,I chanted desperately in my head, tightening my fingers around Aaron’s sweater.Don’t see us, don’t see us.
Footsteps creaked on the stage’s floor, and I held my breath.
“Or we could make them think selling is theironlyway out,” Mr. Holland murmured as he walked deeper onto the stage. “We make it clear that holding onto this place is a liability, not a legacy. One whisper about outdated safety codes or water damage. Investors hate risks—so do donors. Take them away, and what’s left? A building with no revenue and no future.”
Listening to The Wallets scheme like lame villains might’ve been laughable, if A) I wasn’t distinctly aware that Aaron could probably smell my morning-shift sweat or B) this wasn’t the Du Ponte Music Hall they were talking about. How could they look around and see nothing but a waste of space? How could they not feel inspired? Or, at the very least, showsomeappreciation to the dedication Nancy Du Ponte possessed to create something beautiful. How was it thatno onecould see its magnificence?
Dr. Conan’s voice was close, following Mr. Holland onto the stage. “And if that doesn’t work?”
There was a smirk in Mr. Holland’s voice. “Then we remind them what happens when they stand in the way of progress.”
One of Aaron’s hands slid from my upper arm to the wall behind me, bracing himself. It brought him even closer, and this time, my nosedidbrush along the collar of his shirt. I drew in a deep breath, but I shouldn’t have.
The scent of Aaron waseverywhere—in my nose, in my lungs, in my mouth. Smooth cedar and crisp bergamot with just a whisper of something darker, something undeniably masculine. I couldn’t tell if it was his cologne, shampoo, or body wash from his shower—and Ireallyshouldn’t have thought about it at that moment. I still had a fistful of his sweater, and it pulled the collar down, exposing a long stretch of his throat. A throat that my lips were inches away from.