Page 16 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)

CONNIE

T he smell of the theatre— any theatre—is a comfortable and familiar amalgamation of odors. The scent of wood and a subtle hint of dust. Then there’s the tangy metallic scent of the stage lights when they’re first turned on, or the faint perfumes and colognes clinging to the costumes.

It smells theatrical. Like the tears of tragedy and the hearty laughs of comedy. It smells like the otherworldly scent of the muses floating above the stage smiling over us.

And I couldn’t be happier to be back on familiar grounds.

Today is the day.

I might not be the new owner officially , the paperwork is still ongoing, but it’s mine in every other sense of the word. The previous owners handed me the keys a few days ago, and I’ve been crawling out of my skin with excitement ever since. I’ve been dying to get the ball rolling.

Now, here I am, making my way down the empty aisle of the auditorium, waiting for the renovation crew to show up at nine.

I arrived an hour early, wanting to introduce myself slowly to the Remington before I took on my new role.

Everything is happening so fast.

Just how I like it.

That way, there’s no chance of backing out or getting cold feet. Full steam ahead. No thoughts, just gut feelings to help guide me through these life-altering changes.

Quietly stepping on stage, I turn to face the room and let out a pleased sigh, my palms flat on my hips.

The Remington might not be the biggest or most impressive theatre in Marsford Bay, but it’s certainly the oldest, with a long history and heritage attached to it. It’s revered fondly by all Marsfordian theatre nerds, including me.

The theatre opened at the turn of the century; the interior architecture influenced by the Italian Renaissance with accents of gold and red.

Over the fan-shaped auditorium is a shallow balcony and a few box seats.

My favorite detail of the spacious room is the domed vault ceiling paired with its opulent, but weathered, chandelier.

It perfectly conveys the dramatic flair of theatre that we all know and love.

The regional theatre is beautiful and exudes a sense of wistful nostalgia that makes my insides feel all warm and tingly.

But if I squint hard enough, I start to see the wear and tear of years past: Faded red seats, cracks in the wood, and even the paint peeling off the walls near the murals of lively theatre scenes.

It’s in dire need of some TLC, and lucky for the Remington, I have the money to do just that.

A whistle near the auditorium doors snaps me out of my daydream. Startled, my gaze lands on Huxley, casually strutting down the main aisle, arms crossed as he looks up and around the room. There’s a grin on his lips that has me questioning if I’m seeing things.

“So this is the reason for your big return, huh?”

I can’t tell by his tone if he’s being sincere or if he’s just trying to fuck with me, so I choose to ignore his comment altogether.

I glance at my phone.

“You’re like, half an hour early.”

Huxley drops his backpack and jacket on one of the seats in the front row and walks up to the stage, holding a thermos.

His buzzed blue hair has faded into a turquoise kind of green.

He’s wearing the same boots as always, an old pair of blue jeans, and a black, faded Incubus t-shirt with white paint stains all over it.

The short sleeves showcase the tattoos on his arms—if I’d have to make an informed guess, they were all acquired in prison—which just makes his whole … thing that much hotter to ogle at.

God, this was a bad idea.

I step up to the edge of the stage, looking down at him. He’s still sporting that unfamiliar grin, and I’m now convinced we have a serious case of a body-snatcher on our hands.

“Soph dropped me off on her way to class,” he says. “I was waiting outside, but realized the front doors were unlocked.”

I drop down and sit, letting my legs hang over the edge of the stage, my palms flat to the ground on either side of me.

“Yeah, I’ve been here since eight.” I pause, still quite wary about how casual this moment between us feels. “No car?”

Huxley twists the cap off his thermos, and the soothing scent of coffee wafts between us, mingling with his own scent: A subtle mix of spicy black pepper and vanilla. My stomach immediately grumbles at the smell of coffee—I was too wired to eat this morning.

He takes a slow sip before answering my question, “I only got my license back a few months ago.”

“Oh, because of … yeah.” I’m not sure why the mention of his prison sentence turns me into a fumbling fool, but I don’t bother elaborating when Huxley just nods.

There’s a part of me that hungers for more of his story and if it was anyone else I’d be unapologetically asking questions. But because it’s him , I say nothing.

Silence settles between us just long enough for me to start to squirm. Surprisingly, Huxley doesn’t seem bothered by it, and I question his motives. Is this all an act? Did Ozzy tell him to be on his best behavior or else? It’s not as if Huxley ever heeded Ozzy’s warnings before.

Wordlessly and with a raise of his eyebrow, Huxley offers me his thermos. It takes me a second to move, but eventually, I take it out of his hand.

I take a tentative sip, not wanting to burn my tongue. I don’t miss Huxley’s eyes dipping to my mouth. The slow, deliberate slide back up to meet my gaze has my nape tingling.

“Black,” I state, trying to break this already excruciating tension. “I should have guessed.”

Huxley takes the thermos back and takes a sip, followed by another wry smile.

“The coffee was such shit in prison. I used to put, like, three packs of sugar just to mask the taste.” A pensive laugh rolls over his lips, and my body suddenly feels electric.

“I’ve kind of become a coffee snob since getting out. ”

I can’t help but stare at him for a beat too long. This is the first time I’ve ever heard him be so upfront about prison. Then again, we've never really had a legitimate conversation without being surrounded by his family.

What if this is just a version of him I’ve never seen before?

Maybe he’s actually making an effort to squash the animosity between us, and this unassumingly flirty demeanor is a natural part of his personality.

“I’m a croissant snob,” I blurt out.

“Oh?” Huxley says with another soft chuckle. He turns and leans his back against the stage looking onto the empty auditorium.

“Yeah.” I chuckle a little awkwardly. “I spent a semester in Paris — been a croissant snob ever since.”

“Paris, huh?” Hux pauses, letting out another short whistle. “Must be nice.”

I expect his response to have more bite to it, but instead his words are laced with subtle melancholy. He hands me the thermos again, and I take it.

“It was nice …” I trail off while studying his side profile, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

I notice small freckles peppered across his ear and it makes my stomach twist.

Given his past, I assume he’s never been out of the country before so I venture with a question. “Would you like to travel?”

He nods pensively before looking over at me and flashing me a side grin. I take a sip of the black coffee just for something to do.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Brazil,” he says, “I don’t know why, it just speaks to me.” His expression turns a little morose before adding, “Never left Marsford Bay, except for prison.”

My heart sinks at the thought of how lucky my life has been compared to his, and I try my hardest to smooth the feeling away from my facial expression. I might not know Huxley as personally as I’d like to believe, but I do know he wouldn’t take kindly to pity.

I’m about to respond when the doors of the auditorium open and a group of four file in.

I ignore the pinch of disappointment at having our conversation interrupted when Huxley was finally warming up to me and push myself off the stage so I can stand next to him.

Huxley’s eyebrows furrow. “Whit?”

His attention is on the man leading the team; backward cap, flannel shirt, and a tool belt bouncing around his waist with every step he takes.

“Huxley? Well, I’ll be damned,” he says with a booming voice, brown eyes shimmering. “What a coincidence!”

Whit’s attention turns to me, offering his hand. “You must be Connie,” he says with a smile. “I’m Whit with Garafola and Sons. We spoke on the phone.”

I shake his hand, adding a distracted, “Pleased to meet you.” But I’m far more interested in how Huxley knows the handyman. I decide to add more context myself. “Huxley is the extra set of hands I mentioned on our call.” I take a breath. “How do you know each other?”

Whit’s face lights up, looking at Huxley and then back to me. “That is great news,” he exclaims with so much sincerity. “Huxley’s in my woodworking class.” He claps Huxley’s shoulder with warmth. “He’s my best student.”

Woodworking class?

Huxley’s cheeks pinken, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment. He stays silent, his gaze cast down to the floor before finally looking back up.

Whit turns to the three others. “This is Penelope, Maverick, and Bruno,” he says, pointing at his team one by one.

They all wave, muttering a small Hi in response.

Silence settles between us while Whit smiles, watching Huxley and me just standing there.

He clears his throat. “Should we start with a tour of the theatre? See what we’re dealing with?”

His request snaps me out of it, reminding me that all five sets of eyes are waiting for me to give clear instructions.

“Yes, of course,” I say, straightening my shoulders. I plaster a smile over my nerves. “Sounds like a plan.”

I lead them out of the auditorium to start with the building’s facade, and we slowly make our way around the Remington, assessing what needs to be done.

It’s late afternoon when I get a text that makes my heart fly into my throat.

“Shit,” I say under my breath. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Scrambling out of my office, I rush through the backstage corridors, heading for the foyer.

I find Gael standing near the box office, holding a giant bouquet of roses.

Oh jeez.

Gael and I have been casually hooking up over the holidays, but nothing about our situation should have warranted him showing up like this on my first day at the Remington—with flowers no less.

I barely remember even telling him about it.

To my dismay, some of the renovation crew is also in the lobby fixing some lights and signage, Huxley included. I want to crawl into a hole and die.

“Gael,” I squeak, walking up to him. “What are you doing here?” My tone is friendly, but inside, I’m peeved at his presence here.

“I thought I’d come by and congratulate you on your first day,” he answers, beaming and clearly unaware of how weird it is for him to be here in the first place.

“Oh, well, uh — thank you,” I say, awkwardly taking the roses from him while dodging his kiss.

Gael’s back is to Huxley, who’s up on a ladder near the front doors. Unfortunately, he has a front-row seat to our interaction, and I can feel Huxley staring at me without having to even look.

“I’m really busy today, though,” I mutter with a thin-lipped smile, taking a step back while clutching the bouquet. “I need to go back to the office.”

Gael smiles back, still not picking up on my body language.

Ignorance is bliss, I guess. Must be nice.

“No problem,” he says with a wink as he slips his headphones on his head. “I was heading to the gym anyway.” He bumps my chin with his fingers and winks. “Talk to you later, babe. ”

Oh my god, kill me.

I nod and smile, mentally pushing him outside the theatre myself. I watch the door close before I start back to life and bolt backstage, ignoring Huxley’s prying eyes.

I’ve made it to the corridor outside my office when I realize I hear footsteps behind me. I let out a small yip, my heart flying into my throat when a strong hand grabs me by the arm and swivels me around. I come face to face with icy green eyes, narrowed and prying.

“Huxley! The hell are you doing?”

His hard stare is startling, his full lips pressed together in what I can only guess is disdain. He stays silent for a few seconds, the tension palpable, then cocks his head to the side.

“What is this?” he asks flatly, plucking a petal from the bouquet, keeping it trapped between two fingers.

I step backwards, keeping my chin high.

Something about his attitude is pissing me off.

“None of your fucking business,” I reply, my tone dripping with annoyance.

I try to move away, but Huxley steps in front of me, not letting me pass.

I scoff. “Are you being serious right now? Are you trying to intimidate me or something?”

He chuckles wryly, his eyes so cold they burn. “Why so jumpy?”

He crowds me, and I take another step back, but I hit the wall behind me. The bouquet’s plastic wrapping crinkles between our bodies, and my heart rate doubles. I can’t tell what I’m feeling, all I know is that a confusing part of me is enjoying whatever is happening right now.

“Don’t tell me you’re dating that chump?” he says mockingly while plucking another petal from the bouquet, this time flicking it to the ground.

The need to rile him up gets the best of me. “If you call fucking, dating , then yes, I guess we are.”

I watch his jaw clench, my heart slamming in my chest, my back still pressed against the wall. His expression shutters, and I feel the energy suddenly shift between us.

His voice is a lot softer when he speaks again. “So any loser will do, right?” His words sting, but his next sentence hurts even worse. “You fucked me , so I guess that checks out.”

I’m stunned but manage to mutter out, “You’re not a —”

But it’s too late. Huxley is already storming down the corridor before I can even finish my sentence.