I’ve loved you my whole life, I thought helplessly. It was more than okay, it was all my fantasies come true.
“It’s fine. I’m not a virgin, Trey.”
His eyes danced with amusement. “I meant the room.”
“Oh.” Laughter bubbled inside me. It felt like champagne, or happiness, spilling everywhere. The suite was crimson, rose, and gold with Louis XV furniture and a flat-screen TV. Elaborate sconces cast pools of light on the plasterwork walls. The heavy silk drapes were looped back, framing Paris, lit up like a birthday cake beyond the windows. “It’s stunning.”
“You’re stunning.”
I turned. Trey was watching me, arrested laughter in his eyes. My insides turned warm and liquid.
Then—thank you, yes!—we were kissing again, his lips smiling against my mouth, and the warmth surged, heavy and golden. His body was hard and lean against mine, all angles and strength. I could feel myself melting, softening to receive him.
We made it to the bed, and it was better than my fantasies. And even then, when our breathing was ragged and our bodies tangled together, he raised his head. His face was flushed, his hair curly with sweat. “You good?” he asked, thoughtful and protective, and if I weren’t already in love with him, that question at that moment would have done it.
I kissed his shoulder. “I am excellent.”
He smiled into my eyes, creating a sweet ache in my chest. “Yes, you are.”
And that was all either of us said for a long time.
CHAPTER 8
Beth
Backstage, Then
The Branson theater was more like Fellowship Hall back home than the cramped, dark warren of rooms I had imagined. Same white-painted trim and sand-colored walls and carpet. Same granite countertops and oversize coffeemaker in the kitchen. Same double sink next to the stalls in the ladies’ room.
I rested my forearm on the porcelain toilet, breathing the mingled scents of pine cleaner and vomit. My gauzy angel costume collapsed around me.
“Beth, honey? You in there?”
It was Mercedes, my roommate. We were both in the chorus, sharing a cheap apartment on the outskirts of town with two other non-Equity performers. “If you’re not in the union, the pay sucks,” Mercedes said when we moved in together. “But at least you can always find work.”
Mercedes was a year younger and a million times more, well, more everything than me. More talented, more experienced, more beautiful, more confident. Her voice was big. Her clavicle flared like wings—the real deal, built in bone, not the limp costume I wore. This was her second season with the Christmas show.
“Be right out,” I called through the locked door.
Shakily, I got to my feet. Spit. Wiped. Flushed. When I exited the stall, Mercedes was waiting, leaning against the sink, dressed as a sexy elf in white cowboy boots and spangly red short shorts that showed off her thigh gap.
“Throw up again?” she asked sympathetically.
“It’s just nerves.” Mostly nerves.
“Gosh, I’d be nervous, too, singing a duet with Colt.”
I flushed. I wasn’t part of the initial cast. I was an alternate, an also-ran, aNice try, sweetheart. Which was something of a relief, honestly. I’d auditioned for the show only because my voice instructor insisted it would be good practice. But then one of the singers broke an ankle and dropped out of the cast, and Colt heard my song “Leave a Candle in Your Window,” and wanted it in the show, and the next thing I knew we were singing onstage together.
I turned to the mirror, blotting my smeared mascara. “I still can’t believe he chose me.”
“Nobody can.” Mercedes grinned to remove the sting from her words. “You sure you’re okay now?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Because if you need me to go on for you, I can change real fast.”
A chill settled in my stomach.
