His expression softens. “Laura—”
I turn back to my laptop. “What's your first evidence for personal agency?”
He watches me for a second, then lets it go. “Romeo crashes the Capulet party. Active choice, knowing the danger.”
“With external motivation—Benvolio pressures him to go, he's trying to get over Rosaline—”
“But he chooses to stay. Chooses to approach Juliet. That's agency.”
We volley back and forth, the tension easing as we fall into the rhythm of the argument. After a few minutes, I realize I'm actually enjoying this.
“You know,” Scotty says, tapping his notebook, “I see why you were the understudy for Juliet.”
My eyes widen. “Wow. Rude.”
He laughs. “No, no—listen. You’d make a terrible Juliet because you wouldn’t fall for Romeo’s sad-boy poetry for five minutes. You’d have shut him down at hello.”
“That’s why it’s called acting. But you're right. I have standards.”
“Like not dating hockey players who accidentally assault you with their equipment?” His eyes twinkle with amusement.
I choke—literally choke—because what kind of man says something like that with a straight face?
Despite myself, I burst out laughing. “Yes, Scotty. That's exactly my standard. No dick-slappers allowed.”
He shakes his head, laughing. It's dark and low and altogether unfair. “I'm never going to live that down, am I?”
“Not in this lifetime,” I say, surprising myself with how easy it feels between us suddenly. “It's going in my autobiography. Chapter One: The Day I Got Bitch-Slapped By A Penis.”
“What a legacy I'm leaving,” he groans, burying his face in his hands, but I can see he's still smiling.
“If it makes you feel better, it was memorable,” I offer, immediately regretting my word choice.
“Good to know.” His head pops up, eyebrows raised, that infuriating smirk back on his face. “Hopefully I’m not still haunting your nightmares?”
I blow out a breath, ready to give him a sarcastic response when I see the time on my phone.
3:30
“Shit.”
I should've left fifteen minutes ago if I wanted any chance of making it to the venue on time. The bus route alone takes forty-five minutes, and that's if I don't miss a connection. Claire is going to kill me. This is a premium client—the kind who books six months in advance and tips in hundreds. The kind I can't afford to piss off.
“Everything okay?” Scotty asks, looking up from his notes.
“Fine,” I lie, shoving my laptop into my bag with more force than necessary. “I just—I need to go.”
He’s still staring at me as I gather my things. “My job,” I remind him. “It’s across town, and if I don’t leave right now, I’m not going to make it.” I'm already standing, mentally calculating bus schedules and whether I can sprint the three blocks to the stop in these shoes.
“How far across town?”
“Far enough that this is a problem.” I zip my bag closed, anxiety clawing up my throat. This gig pays $350 an hour. I can't lose it because I got too caught up arguing about Romeo and Juliet with Scotty Hendricks.
“I can drive you.”
I freeze, my hand on the strap of my bag. “What?”
He opens his arms wide. “I’ve finished practice, and I have no game tonight, so I’m all yours. Use me however you want to.”
