Chapter 2
Lily
I open my dressing room door and am once again greeted by the unwelcome sight of white roses on my vanity. My stomach twists and nausea fills me as I smell the pungent fragrance of the roses, overtaking the usual backstage mix of hairspray and stale perfume.
I hover in the doorway, heart racing as if I’ve just run up three flights of stairs. I can’t move my eyes from the roses. The stems are trimmed to the same precise length, the leaves and blooms arranged with almost obsessive care. Someone spent a lot of time putting this bouquet together, and that thought makes my skin crawl.
I hear a sound behind me and my head snaps back. I let out a sigh of relief when I see it’s just my costar, Shay.
“Another one?” Shay exclaims, stepping inside with a wide grin. She leans over the flowers, inhaling deeply before looking around the flowers. Then she frowns and looks at me, green eyes filled with a deep knowing. She’s the only one I’ve shared these weird occurrences with—the sense of being followed, the strange “gifts.”
“No note of admiration this time?” she asks, turning to look at the arrangement once again, toned arms reaching for one of the flowers. I shake my head. It’s weird there’s no note this time, there usually is some kind of message included, letting me know what this mystery freak thinks of me, my outfits, my hair. A few months ago, when I first got the flowers, I called them pretty.
Now the sight of them is enough to drive all warmth from my body.
It’s like the sender is trying to tell me, You already know what I want to say.
Shay frowns as she plucks a bloom from the stem. “This is the first time this week, right?” she asks, sympathy flooding her gaze.
“Yeah,” I admit, feeling defeated.
“You know you need to report this to someone. The theater manager, the cops, anyone . This is getting dangerous, Lil,” she tells me. This is why I love Shay. The acting world can be filled with fake people willing to use anyone, do anything to get ahead. Shay isn’t like that. She’s the first genuine friend I’ve had in so long and I honestly don’t know what I would do without her.
“I know. I hate it. It’s freaking me out and I don’t feel safe going to work or coming home, but what am I supposed to tell people? That I’m scared because I’m receiving gorgeous flowers and notes a bunch of times a week? No one will believe that this is an actual issue.”
“Hey,” Shay says, dropping the rose in disgust, “I believe you and I think you would feel a lot better if you just told someone about this, someone who could keep an eye on things for you.”
“Yeah,” I say, resigning myself to this fate.
Shay gives me a warm hug before telling me we need to get ready for rehearsal. I nod and she leaves, leaving me alone with only the sickening scent of the bouquet to keep me company. I quickly change into my costume before heading out to the safe.
Tonight is an open rehearsal, so a small audience gathers in the dark. People pay just to see how we run lines, block scenes, and fix mistakes.
I never understood why anyone would do that. Are they really just fans of the show? Do they like seeing us make mistakes? Or could one of these people be the man who has been following me around, leaving me things, following my every move? The thought sends another wave of nausea through me as Martin, our director and the theater manager, stands in the aisle, his voice booming through the echoing space. “No, no, no,” he calls, gesturing wildly with his arms. He’s in his fifties, with deep-set eyes, a slight paunch, and a knack for making any sentence sound like a drill sergeant’s command. “Hit your mark, Lily. Take two steps upstage, face right, deliver the line. Then cross center.”
I follow his direction and hit my lines as my eyes float to the audience. My gaze immediately snags on the guy I impulsively blew a kiss to the other night. I don’t know why I did that, but the stage spirits must have been possessing me since it was a gesture so far outside my normal comfort zone. Something about him drew out a bolder side of me.
He’s broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark jacket, with hair the color of midnight. He seems out of place among the other watchers who wear casual T-shirts or slouch in their seats. His posture is straight, almost rigid. His blue eyes fixed on me, intense but beautiful. He’s the kind of handsome that’s usually associated with leather jackets, power bikes, and danger. Serious danger.
Without thinking, my hands automatically go up again and I blow him yet another kiss. I expected him to ignore it or maybe just smile a little.
But he doesn’t.
He reaches out, catches the invisible kiss, and places it on his chest.
My heart soars and I almost break out into a dance. I didn’t expect a man that looked like he fought off ten men without breaking a sweat, to catch my silly kiss.
I have no idea what to do next, so I snap my head away to hide my flushed cheeks and walk backstage to my dressing room.
My reflection in the dressing room mirror looks exhausted, hair flattened by the wig cap I’ve been wearing. If I look like this, why was he looking at me like that?
After I change, I look at the white roses that remain perched on the vanity. A shiver runs through me. I have to get out of here.
Outside, I hurry down the block, looking over my shoulder a few times because I can’t kick the feeling of someone following me. I used to luxuriate in my walk home, it gave me a chance to decompress from my stage persona and feel like myself again, but now it just fills me with dread and fear.
I distract myself by thinking about Mr. Blue eyes and before I know it, I’m on the steps of townhouse. Just as I’m about to head inside, I get the strangest sensation that someone actually is watching me.
I freeze, my pulse thrumming in my ears. Slowly, I turn, scanning the dimly lit street. A few stragglers walk past, lost in their own worlds. A car hums by headlights sweeping over me.
Nothing.
My fingers shake as I reach into my purse to reach for my keys, wanting to get inside as quickly as possible. I try telling myself that I’m being paranoid and ridiculous, but as I shut the door behind me, I swear I hear something outside.
The hair on my arms rises. My body moves before my brain catches up, grabbing the first weapon-like object I can find—a flimsy umbrella—before yanking the door open.
My heart stops.
He’s standing there.
The man from the audience.
The one who caught my kiss.
Up close, he’s even more devastatingly and ruggedly handsome. He’s huge, towering over me, his frame all hard muscle wrapped in a black coat. His expression is unreadable, but those piercing blue eyes—God, they pin me in place, unreadable yet unwavering.
“What the hell?” I hiss, brandishing the umbrella like a sword. “Are you seriously stalking me?”
His answer is immediate. “Yes,” he deadpans.
It takes all my restraint not to laugh. It would be just my luck for my stalker to turn out to be handsome and funny. But his response sets me at ease, although I’m still not sure why he’s here and that fills me with nerves once again.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
Something flickers in his gaze, something dark and knowing. “Because you blew me a kiss.”
A shiver ripples through me. “That was part of the play.”
He cocks his head. “You did it twice.”
My mouth opens, but no words come out.
I did.
And now, looking at him, I know it wasn’t just an act. Not entirely.
His lips quirk, the barest hint of amusement. “You did it twice, honey. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”
The term of endearment sends butterflies through my center. Traitor. It’s just because no one has ever called me “honey” before, no one has ever liked me enough to chase me down and while I should be scared, I only find myself more curious about this man who followed me home.
“Okay…” I trail off, realizing I still don’t know this dark haired man’s name.
“Will,” he says, sensing my curiosity. I hate that he’s intuitive.
“Okay, Will, clearly there’s something more to this because you don’t seem like the kind of guy who would take something like a blown kiss so seriously. Why are you really here?” I ask, sick of playing games, sick of having to beg for answers.
“Well, honey—Lily, sorry,” he catches himself before continuing. I realize he must have gotten my name from the theater poster because I never told it to him. This guy is good. “Someone actually is following you,” Will finishes. The air leaves my lungs as I am confronted with two facts: one, that someone really is stalking me, and two, that someone besides Shay actually believes me.
Shit.