He comes up behind me, holds out my coat, and helps me into it. He does every gesture smoothly and perfectly, with gentlemanly grace you wouldn’t expect from a guy who smashes pucks across the ice every day. He adjusts the collar of my coat just right, and when his fingers brush against my neck, static electricity sparkles between us.
Once he’s bundled me up, he offers me another wink and returns to the kitchen. “Good luck,” he says.
I rush out the door so he won’t see me blush. This is just an arrangement. Have to remember that.
Just as Jayce said, a Black Mercedes is waiting outside of the building. A middle-aged man in a black suit with a thick mop of dark hair and brown eyes is standing by the back passenger’s door.
“Miss Holloway?”
I come to a stop in front of him. “Are you Frank?”
He smiles. “Yes I am. Mr. Vaughn said you would need a ride to the performance center today.”
Once again, I’m caught off guard by Jayce’s thoughtfulness. “Uh, yes, that’s right.”
Frank opens the car door for me. “We should get going then, Miss Holloway. I don’t want you to be late.”
Grinning, I slip into the car, sinking into the soft leather seat, and Frank closes the door behind me. He gets in behind the wheel and pulls smoothly into traffic. I place my smoothie in a cup holder and sit back to try and relax, closing my eyes to go over my pitch in my head before we arrive at the site.
However, instead of building schematics and layouts, my mind conjures up the image of Jayce, shirtless and standing in his kitchen, or putting my coat on. Damn…why’s he have to be so fucking hot? How am I not supposed to think of him bending me over and fucking me until I pass out when he’s walking around like that?
Not only that, but he’s been so amazing to me. Anticipating my needs, listening to me when I have ideas or make suggestions, caring for me in a way no man ever has before.
And we’re not even together like a real couple. How would he be with a real girlfriend?
The thought makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. Ugh…I don’t like thinking of him being so thoughtful with some other, faceless girl.
Suddenly, the car comes to a stop, yanking me out of my wandering thoughts.
“We’re here, Miss Holloway,” Frank tells me.
“Oh.” I look out the window at the performance center we’re parked in front of. I’d been so lost in thought about Jayce, I didn’t even realize how much time had passed. That’s so unlike me. I’m usually so paranoid about arriving on time to places I’m constantly checking my phone. “Thanks, Frank.”
“I’ll wait for you to finish your meeting,” he tells me. “Just come outside and I’ll pick you up.”
I smile at him as I open the door. “All right. I appreciate it.”
“Good luck, Miss Holloway!”
Climbing out of the car, I shut the door and turn to face the performance center, craning my neck as I take it all in.
The building rises three stories, its façade a mix of faded sandstone and dark panels well past their prime. Tall vertical window strips climb the front like ribs, some cracked, some fogged, some reflecting the Denver skyline in a warped, ghostly way. Years of snow and sun have weathered the trim into a patchwork of rust, peeling paint, and stubborn grit.
The marquee stretches out over the sidewalk like a relic from a glamorous era, big retro letters clinging to its edge, half burned out, half flickering, barely hanging onto life. I can still faintly make out the old venue name beneath layers of dust and neglect. The underside is lined with bulb sockets, most of them empty.
A wide set of concrete steps leads up to the main entrance, which is three sets of double doors, all glass, all smudged and dulled with age. The brass handles are tarnished, but there’s something regal about them. I can’t help hoping they’re able to be saved. To the right, a towering mural spans the side wall. Faded silhouettes of dancers, musicians, and actors frozen mid-motion.
The whole building takes up nearly half a block, its size impressive even in its decay. Overgrown planters flank the entrance, filled with dead shrubs and one tenacious bush that refuses to die. The sidewalk is cracked. The paint on the loading dock doors is peeling in long curls.
And yet, I can’t help but see potential. The lines. The structure. The bones.
There’s so much that can be done here.
Sucking in a deep breath, I make my way up to the entrance and through one of the unlocked glass doors.
“Hello?” I call, stepping into the lobby. “Mr. Romero?”
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to find a tall, handsome man who looks to be in his sixties walking toward me with a smile. He has thick, silver hair and is dressed in dark slacks and a gray sweater. As he approaches, I can see his eyes are a deep blue.
