My heart thundered so loudly I was sure he could hear it. Just a fraction more and—
The beard chose that moment to slip entirely sideways, sliding down my chin like a drunken caterpillar.
Ben's laugh rumbled through his chest. "Maybe we should practice with the beard more before trying anything else."
"Anything else?" My cheeks flushed.
"Anything that might dislodge important costume pieces." He stepped back, though his fingers trailed along my arm before letting go. "We've got six days until opening night. Time to get everything right."
"You seem very confident about that."
"About the beard?" His smile deepened. "Or about the other things we're not talking about?"
"Both. Either." I fidgeted with the beard's elastic. "Everything's complicated enough without adding..."
"Without adding what makes you feel most alive?" He caught my hands again, steadying them. "Some complications are worth it, Alex."
A crash from the stage shattered our moment. "Sorry!" Jack's voice carried down the hallway. "Forgot my script and knockedover a prop table. Don't mind me. Carry on with whatever you're definitely not doing in there."
Ben's forehead dropped to my shoulder as we both laughed, breaking the tension. "We should probably..."
"Yeah." I reluctantly stepped back. "The beard needs work anyway."
"Tomorrow?"
I stared into the mirror one last time—saw myself in the red coat with Ben's reflection beside me, the two of us framed together like we belonged in the same picture.
"Tomorrow," I said.
Chapter eight
Ben
The kids arrived earlier than I expected.
I was reinforcing the corner bracing on Santa's throne when I heard the telltale squeak of hospital wheelchair wheels against the lobby floor. Then voices—high, excited, barely contained.
Damn. I'd hoped to have more time to prep Alex.
Noel appeared in the doorway first, navigating on his crutches. A canvas bag hung off one shoulder, threatening to unbalance him.
"Little help?" He jerked his chin toward the bag.
I caught it before it could pull him sideways. Heavy—felt like it was full of bricks, but when I looked inside, it was just letters. Dozens of them, addressed in crayon and marker.
"You brought the wish lists?" I set the bag on a front-row seat.
"And the wish-makers." Noel grinned as Maria—one of Charice's colleagues who always slipped the kids extra graham crackers during craft time—shepherded six kids through the door. She caught my eye and shrugged apologetically.
"Someone may have mentioned Santa was practicing tonight," she said, settling herself among the kids as they claimed seats with the territoriality of regular theatergoers.
My stomach tightened. Alex wasn't ready for this. Hell, I wasn't sure Alex had prepared himself for tomorrow's blocking rehearsal, let alone an audience of kids who'd treat him like the real deal.
I found him in the wings, half-hidden behind a flat. Mr. Sartorial's alterations had transformed the suit—it actually fit now, following the line of Alex's shoulders instead of drowning him.
Everything about his posture screamed discomfort. He kept tugging at the beard like it was choking him. Even nervous, even drowning in red velvet, he was beautiful.
"Hey." I kept my voice low, positioning myself between him and the kids' view. "You've got this."
