Page 19 of Safety Net (Mendell Hawks #3)

CELESTE

Lincoln and I decided to visit the Playhouse a few days before the rest of the cast to map out how we want our sets to appear on stage.

I spend an hour on my makeup before our meeting. Just the mirror and me. It was a meditation of sorts. The only meditation I experienced that breeds long-term results.

My makeup routine was sacred. The application process required consistent focus. Whenever I sat in front of my mirror and unloaded my supplies, I became grounded—in harmony with the present.

What I felt influenced which part of my face I emphasized.

Tonight, I was hopeful. So, I mixed orange and red blush shades on my cheeks.

I outlined my lips with my favorite brown and topped them off with clear gloss.

My go-to getting-ready playlist filtered through my portable speakers.

The playful hum of one of my favorite tracks, The Flower Garden, inspired a delicate floral pattern design on the corners of my eyes.

It was more detail than I usually had energy for.

But I knew I was seeing him. And I knew he'll notice. I want him to, and I didn’t consider that too much until I was behind the wheel.

I wanted someone to notice me. Not my music, me.

Not someone. Lincoln. Just Lincoln.

What did that mean for me? Most days, I felt so in touch with my feelings I might drown in them. Right now, I couldn't untangle a single thread of the knots in my belly.

The car behind me beeped. My heart jumped. The light turned green, and I'd been daydreaming about Lincoln's hand on the small of my back as I read one of his mystery books.

My hands clutched the steering wheel. I kept my gaze straight when the car behind me merged into the lane next to me to pass. My chest tightened when they lined their car next to mine for the typical "What the hell are you doing?" stare before they sped off and cut in front of me.

I should let it wash off me. It was a stranger I’d never see again.

Road rage that, in the grand scheme of things, would have no long-term effects on me.

And yet, I let those two minutes consume me.

I became someone unable to perform simple tasks, like pressing the gas when the light turns green, and understanding how a guy could make her feel.

When I pulled into the parking lot, a cloud of unworthiness seemed to hover above me. Who would want to work with someone incapable of being normal enough to go outside without spiraling into a self-loathing cyclone? Who would want to be with someone like me?

I tried to ground myself by swiping on another coat of lip gloss. I considered pulling out my liner, too, but a van pulled up a few spaces away, and I recognized that shade of yellow anywhere.

My stomach bottomed out. I topped off my lips once more before opening my door. I tried to smile and make my expression welcoming.

Lincoln smiled when he got out of the van. His expression faltered when he laid eyes on me.

"Hey," Lincoln said. "We're not doing that."

We met at the back of my car. He smelled of spice and sun.

The t-shirt he wore clung to his chest, revealing his ripple of muscles.

I don't think I've seen him out of a long-sleeved tee and a Mendell sweatshirt.

It was distracting enough to channel my nerves from the red light incident to when I helped Lincoln into his house when he fell.

When my knee landed between his legs, his hand held onto my waist to keep me from falling on him.

I'm oddly fond of the memory now. When moments from that day pop up, they're covered in this soft, welcoming haze.

"Doing what?" I managed to ask. I sounded like I'd been hiking for hours in silence, and I finally stopped to give someone else directions.

"Second-guessing." Lincoln used two fingers, gesturing at my face. "You've got 'abort mission' written all over you."

"Do I?" I raised a brow. I could have sworn I wore a look of displeasure. I would have sworn anyone else would have seen my expression and decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.

Not Lincoln. He moved within arm's reach.

His smile was back, settled in its usual tilt.

There was excitement in his movement as he rocked back and forth, unable to keep still as he told me, "I've been up all night working on the set designs. "

I came down from my nervous high to rest on the soft cloud that was Lincoln's enthusiasm.

I could burrow into this feeling, relax in its security.

One of the things I've come to appreciate about Lincoln was his familiarity with excitement.

He found a way to water it, allowing it to grow into something he could survive on. "All night?"

"When I tell you this is going to blow your mind," Lincoln spoke with his hands, pulling them closer and further apart as he mimed his idea. "I'm talking towers, gazebos, gondolas."

My eyes widened. "You're going to make the gondola?"

"That's the easiest thing on the list." He nodded, eyes alight with thrill and confidence.

I would laugh, but shock stopped me. I'd figured Lincoln and my job tonight would mainly consist of deciding which boxes to pick through in the Playhouse's storage room.

"I didn't…I don't expect you to make new sets," I said. "That's so much work. We could just reuse some of the stuff from previous shows."

"I want to do the work," he said. "Your story deserves personalization. And we'll still use some of the other stuff. I just wanted to ensure the big moments hit, capture your vision."

"I don't think this project will be worth all this effort," I said. "You working outside of the hours we're together is..."

"Is?"

"I just want you to get the proper credit you need for class. And if you're working on it outside of our time at the Playhouse, I don't know if you'll get credit for it."

"It's not about the credit," Lincoln said. "I'd work on this even if it wasn't for my course."

I blinked; my chest tightened with all kinds of emotion I didn't know how to translate. "Really?"

He nodded. "I like doing something besides a party or wondering when my next party will be. I had all this pent-up energy since our season ended. I need to let it out somehow. You're doing me a favor, Celeste. I promise."

I studied him. We didn't know each other well enough to understand our different types of smiles or which eyebrow tilt meant we were being honest. But somehow, I trusted how breathless he sounded.

Lincoln wanted to be here. He was genuinely interested in my work.

I didn't know what to do with the thrill overflowing in my belly.

His joy was contagious. He's some new, bright sun, pulling things into its orbit and giving them much-needed life.

I want to be the closest planet. I want to be near enough to be wrapped in his warmth.

"I have the form you need to fill out to get credit." I perked up with energy, hurried to the back of my car, and returned to the front of Lincoln to give him the folder. "You and Jack just have to fill out the time sheets and get the playhouse manager to sign them."

Lincoln accepted the folder. "Do you know if your aunt would be okay with doing it weekly? We have check-ins with our supervising professor every Friday."

"Of course," I said. "Aunt Robyn's good with keeping up with paperwork. She runs this place mostly on her own. You'll probably be able to meet her today. I think they're rehearsing for one of the summer shows."

Lincoln smiled. "Perfect."

"Should we…um, go inside?" I asked.

Lincoln nodded. "I'll follow your lead."

I resisted the urge to pick at my nails as we walked.

The sun dipped below the mountains, leaving the air cool.

Monroe's Playhouse was a historic building, featuring a brownstone exterior and an old, yellowed marquee.

Inside, the walls were lined with red velvet, and the floor was an elegant marble, making everything feel far more sophisticated than a small college town had any right to be.

Tinsel possessed a tiny, well-known community of theatre lovers.

It gave birth to a couple of big names in Broadway today and continued to nurture smaller ones.

I started up the stairs toward the mezzanine, pressing my index finger to my lips when Lincoln met my gaze.

He mirrored my gesture and winked. I swallowed a laugh, stomach fluttering from the smile he gave me.

He followed me so closely that I felt the heat radiating off his body.

I envisioned pausing without warning on the staircase.

He'd bump into me if I did. I'd feel his hard chest on my back.

My cheeks burned from imagining being pressed against him.

Was this how others felt when indulging in fantasy?

It was far more physically demanding than I had imagined.

I didn't get turned on by people. Arousal in correlation to someone else had been foreign to me.

I learned about horniness by sneaking romance books into my library stacks in high school.

I would thumb through the pages, wondering what it meant to have my core heat or how one's breast swelled at the mere sight of someone.

I didn't like the thought of a stranger touching me.

I didn't like the idea of someone I didn't know in my space.

Except recently, every time we talked, I something in me wanted to be closer to Lincoln: no needy core or pebbled nipples but a gentle want to feel his fingers against mine.

I hoped our hands brushed when we sat in the back row and both set our arms on the armrest. I wanted to test these new emotions, see if the desire in my veins would react to his touch and be satisfied by it.

But our fingers were nowhere near each other when we settled.

And Lincoln didn't seem flirty. He was a million miles away.

His gaze was on the stage, his eyes wide and mesmerized as he watched the actors practicing below.