She holds the phone above her face, squinting at the message. “He said he had fun the other night and can’t wait to see me again.”
“And…?” I ask, already knowing what’s coming.
She sighs, the drama draining from her voice. “I don’t know, Stel. He’s nice. Sweet. Safe. But he doesn’t make me want to ruin my reputation in a prop closet.”
I laugh, tossing a popcorn kernel at her. “Then maybe he’s not your final curtain call.”
She groans again, dragging a pillow over her face. “Don’t make this poetic. I’m already spiraling.”
She peeks out from under the pillow. “Okay, but like… if I volunteer to help backstage tomorrow, is that desperate?”
“Yes,” I say flatly.
She lifts her chin. “What if I wear my sheer black blouse and bring cinnamon rolls?”
“Okay, that’s sluttyandstrategic.”
She grins, her spiral momentarily replaced by scheming. “He’s just so… refined. I bet even his moans have good grammar.”
I snort into my drink. “You’re disgusting. But I fully support this chaos.”
She smiles, already texting back Colin a polite but vague “Maybe sometime next week,” and then turns to me with a glint in her eye.
“Operation Curtain Call Seduction is officially in motion.”
We wake up early and head to the school, Ansel tagging along under the very transparent excuse of “wanting to help”—we both know she’s here to flirt with Mr. Lightheart.
I step onto the stage, eyes scanning every corner. It all looks perfect. I tilt my head, squinting, and then I see it—a section of the false building wall left half-painted. No idea how we missed it. Instead of spiraling, I head to the supply shop, grab the paint, and fix it myself.
By the time I’m wiping the last stroke clean, Ansel and Theo step out onto the stage. He’s holding a cup and hands it to me with a soft smile.
“Prickly pear latte,” he says. “Figured you could use it.”
I take a long, slow sip, letting the warmth hit my soul.
“Stella, you did phenomenal on this production,” Theo adds. “I know we’re recording tonight so it can go in your portfolio, but… you’ve got an A+ recommendation from me.”
He starts to walk away, but spins on his heel. “Ansel, would you like to come backstage and check out the costume studio?”
Her wide-eyed glance at me says everything. “I would love to,” she says, her voice dipped in honey as she follows him.
I head back to the supply room, but knock over the bottle of turpentine as I put the paint away.
“FUCK!” I shout, grabbing a wad of paper towels to clean the mess.
Once the floor’s dry and smelling faintly of regret and chemicals, I head back to the front of the house. I have about an hour until everyone starts arriving.
And that’s when I see him.
Donovan.
Standing there like a fever dream, flowers in hand, eyes locked on me.
He’s in a dark suit that hugs his frame like it was stitched for him, all six feet of muscle and tension. My breath catches as I walk closer. His blue eyes are electric today—the kind of blue that makes you forget every coherent thought. The deep merlot tie at his collar draws them out even more.
It’s the exact shade of my nails.
And just like that, the chaos of the morning fades. Everything in me stills.
