Page 19 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)

CONNIE

“ H e’s cute,” Jamie whispers beside me, pointing to the stage.

I look over at her, my mouth wide open in mock shock. “James Elizabeth Ferdinand,” I whisper back. “You are a taken woman.”

It’s my second week at the Remington and the first full day of auditions. I called Jamie and asked if she wanted to come and judge the auditions with me.

She agreed immediately.

We’ve spent the past hour sitting in the far back of the auditorium, eating M&Ms and critiquing the actors’ performances.

Jamie quietly bursts into a laugh, hiding behind her hands. She clearly knows I’m just teasing, but says, “I still have eyes .”

I smirk and glance back to the actor currently on stage. He is cute, I must admit. Lean but with broad shoulders, like a swimmer’s body, his auburn hair falling in waves down to his shoulders. Talented too.

I make a note to tell Virginia that he’d make a good Petruchio. As the director, she’s in charge of the casting, but as the producer, I still have my fair share of influence .

“So, are you not going back at all? What about all your stuff?” Jamie asks, picking up our conversation from earlier.

I shrug nonchalantly.

“I’ll just have movers pack it all up and ship it here when I finally find a place.”

“Don’t you —” Jamie pauses as if thinking. “Don’t you want to have at least some kind of farewell to your life there?” Her tone is dejected, as if even thinking about it breaks her heart.

My smile is slightly morose when I look at her, but I break the moody tension with a joke. “I’m not the nostalgic sucker here.”

She purses her lips as if insulted. “You’re acting like a sociopath, Constance.”

I chuckle behind my hand, and Jamie does the same.

“Wow,” I say playfully, elongating the word for extra effect. “Did you just government name me? Must be serious.”

“I did ,” she whispers harshly. “You can’t lie and say that this isn’t you running away from all your problems.”

I turn thoughtful, my gaze sweeping over the Remington, a new actor now auditioning on stage.

“But look where it got me,” I answer seriously. “You can’t tell me this feels like a mistake.”

Jamie’s gaze turns watery, and she’s seconds from crying, but miraculously manages to hold it in. She smiles weakly and shakes her head. “No, this isn’t a mistake.”

I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear my best friend say those words until just now. Relief washes over me like a cool, rejuvenating wave.

“Have you heard from Oliver?”

My mood sours, but I answer her anyway, “Not since he checked into rehab before the holidays. And if there is a God,” I say, being purposefully dramatic, “I’ll never hear from him ever again. ”

“You never really had closure with that either —” Jamie starts, but I cut her off.

“Jamie.” My tone is slightly irritated. “Drop it.”

She holds up her hands in surrender and settles back into her chair, grabbing the half-eaten bag of M&Ms from my lap. We watch more of the auditions in silence.

I’m startled by Jamie’s excited waving until I see Huxley walking up the aisle toward the exit doors.

He looks like he’s been working up a sweat, his white t-shirt and hands stained and dusty.

Taking the bottom hem of his shirt, he lifts it up to wipe his face, giving me a full view of his toned stomach.

I cough, trying to hide my audible reaction to his physique.

He’s effortlessly sexy, and I want to crawl under my seat and pretend I never saw him like this. I swallow hard, trying to save face, especially in front of his sister-in-law.

Huxley waves back, barely a hand gesture at all, paired with a thin-lipped smile. He doesn’t stop to say hi before disappearing out of sight.

“Huxley is allergic to small talk,” Jamie mutters, then looks at me. “How is he? Staying out of trouble?”

I puff out a sardonic laugh. “He’s not a teenager anymore, Jamie.”

“I know,” she whispers back, popping an M&M into her mouth. She chews, looking pensive. “We just worry about him, you know?”

“He’s fine.” I try to placate her feelings by adding, “Turns out the foreman is his woodworking teacher.”

Jamie lights up as if I just told her the greatest of news.

“He is?”

Her smile is so sweet it makes my teeth ache.

“Yeah,” I answer, chuckling at her reaction. “They seem to get on pretty well.”

Jamie sighs wistfully. “I knew him working for you would be a good idea.”

Yeah … Some great idea, Jamie.

We both fall silent again, watching the actor on stage.

I chew on my next question.

It’s none of my business.

I deliberate some more.

“Is uh — Is Huxley still dating that girl?”

I internally cringe, hoping my question is innocuous enough not to raise suspicion.

Jamie lets out a puff of air. “Hell if I know. God forbid Huxley tells Ozzy anything. We get all our information from Soph.”

I laugh under my breath at her exasperation as I try to conceal my disappointment at the lack of information.

My next question slips out as if having a mind of its own. “I mean, you both wouldn’t really care who he dates, right?”

God, I’m so obvious.

I’m uncertain why I’m even asking the question in the first place. It’s not as if I have any intention of dating Huxley. Thankfully, Jamie doesn’t pick up on my lack of finesse.

She’s watching the next actor step on stage when she answers me. “As long as he’s happy.”

I watch Huxley half-jog up to the curb where I’ve parked outside his apartment. As promised, I’ve been driving him to and from work since last week. We haven’t snapped at each other once since, and I’m starting to think that our shared secret history is finally behind us.

“Morning,” I sing-song as he opens the door.

“Hey,” he mumbles under his breath as he gets in. He drops his bag on his snowy boots and rubs his hands together. “It’s cold as tits out there.”

“Yeah,” I answer distractedly as I pull into the street. “Says it’s snowing all day. It’d be the perfect day to just stay in and watch movies.”

“That’s too bad,” Huxley responds.

Something about his tone has my throat going dry, and I pretend I can’t feel his eyes on me.

“Want to put something on?” I ask innocently, steering the conversation into a much safer territory—like who’s in charge of the aux today.

“Sure.”

He fiddles with his phone, and moments later, a song starts to play. Happily distracted, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, and we listen to music in comfortable silence all the way to the theatre.

“I didn’t know you were into Southern Gothic,” I tell Huxley as I park the car, commenting on the playlist we were just listening to.

“Yeah,” he says, a little surprised. “You like it?”

I shoot him a grin and a sideways glance. “I love.”

Walking into the Remington, we’re about to part ways when Huxley stops me.

“Hold up, I have something for you.”

I swivel around to face him. “Me?”

“It’s nothing,” he says quickly as he unzips his bag slung on one of his shoulders.

He hands me a small paper bag. It looks like it’s from some kind of bakery.

Shocked, I tentatively take it from him and try to catch his gaze, but he’s avoiding eye contact.

“What is it?” I ask as I open the bag. I’m trying to keep my tone playful, but inside, my heart is beating like a drum

“It’s nothing, really,” he repeats again, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Probably stale by now.”

Inside the bag are two croissants. They look buttery and flaky—just how I like them.

I’m suddenly warm all over.

My eyes flick up, unable to control the beaming smile on my face as Huxley’s gaze finally meets mine. He looks nervous.

“There’s a small bakery on Dulley,” he says, obviously trying to sound casual. “I popped in before you picked me up this morning.” He gives me one of his dry smiles. “Hope they’re good enough for a croissant snob.”

I laugh softly, smiling widely. “That’s so sweet of you,” I say. “Thank you.”

He makes another dismissive gesture. “Just a thank you for all those rides,” he says, avoiding eye contact again, his hand rubbing the back of his head. “Anyway, I should go find Whit. See you later.”

And with that, he leaves with an informal salute, clearly uncomfortable with the entire exchange that he initiated. I stare at him walking away until he turns into a corridor, still clutching my bag of croissants, as a mystifying feeling blooms behind my chest.