Chapter 12 #2
Gage must have noticed her discomfiture. He didn’t say anything at first, scanning the brochure he’d picked up, as they waited in line.
“You look fine.”
“I didn’t ask,” she said, trying to keep her tone level.
That made him look at her. His gaze meandered from the top of her head, working its way down.
The back of her neck tingled in response, and that tingle got lower and lower, until everything beneath her skin hummed.
“You look beautiful.”
Bea inhaled sharply.
And then, like nothing had happened, he collected their tickets and flutes of champagne, and paused expectantly. She started into the theatre, heels clicking quietly.
Then came the bell. An announcement. Crowds pressed forward, elegant and impatient. But not on her. His body blocked the chaos like it wasn’t allowed to touch her.
They found their seats, and moments later, the lights dimmed. A hush fell across the room. Reddish light lit the stage, revealing a minimalist set and two actors frozen mid-glance.
It was modern. Slick. Emotional. A story where no one said what they meant until it didn’t matter anymore.
Where love didn’t fall apart, it just dissolved, because no one was brave enough to name it.
Bea had always found those stories the most tragic.
Not because of the ending, but because of all the space between what could’ve been said, and what was.
Georgina wasn’t the lead, but she might as well have been.
The moment she stepped onto the stage, she owned it.
Her voice was clear and unforced, her presence magnetic.
She played the best friend of the heroine, the one with biting wit and a tragic backstory, the one who never quite got the love she deserved.
Bea watched, transfixed. Aching. She blinked hard. Too late. A tear slipped free before she could catch it.
Intermission.
She dabbed at her eyes before the lights came on fully.
Gage stretched, rolling his shoulders before turning to her. “I’m getting another drink. You want anything?”
She shook her head. “I don’t drink more than one glass. So, I’m fine. Thank you.”
He nodded once. Then he was gone, slipping into the crowd.
Bea leaned back in her seat, taking the moment to enjoy this surreal experience she was now living. The play. The atmosphere. Gage’s presence beside her.
When he returned, he took his coat off before sitting down again. The drink in his hand caught the light.
“Is that a Coke?” she asked, smiling.
“One’s enough for tonight,” he said cryptically.
He probably wasn’t saying he skipped the champagne because of her. She definitely shouldn’t take it that way.
Her stomach did something ridiculous anyway.
“She’s good, isn’t she?” Gage said, tilting his head toward the front.
Bea caught the trace of something soft in his expression. Fondness. A touch of pride.
“She is,” she agreed sincerely. Then, after a moment, she added, “You’re a good cousin, you know that?”
“You sound surprised.”
“Not exactly surprised. Just curious.”
Gage rested his arm next to hers. Only the fabric of his shirt separated their bare skin, which was touching from wrist to elbow. Goosebumps raced down before she could stop them. “I’m a King. She’s an Ashcroft.”
She had to swallow twice to make sure she had enough voice to speak. “And that means?”
“She got to play,” Gage said simply. “I didn’t.”
Those words brought her attention back to him.
No bitterness. Undiluted fact.
Bea ventured, “And you want to make sure she still can?”
For a moment, she thought he might let the question hang. But then, he said, simply, “Yes.” No elaboration. No unnecessary sentiment.
Bea offered a gentle smile. “That’s…really nice.”
Gage went still. Then, a quiet exhale—almost a laugh, almost something else. “No one’s ever called me nice before.”
Bea blinked. “I didn’t mean—”
His lips curved, slow and knowing. “You did.” He took a leisurely sip of his Coke, gaze never leaving hers. “I’ll correct that.”
Her breath caught, the space between them tightening.
She paused.
Then carefully, she wondered, “You don’t want me to think you’re nice?”
Gage tilted his head slightly, the barest shift in posture. “Nice isn’t the word I want in your mouth when you think of me.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, just for a second, before flicking back to hers. “But I can think of a few that will be.”
So much for Act II. Her brain had officially left the building.
The applause had barely died down when Georgina found them outside the theatre, still glowing from the stage lights, her makeup slightly smudged.
“Well?” she prompted, hands on her hips.
“You were incredible.” Bea beamed. “The monologue was flawless.”
Gage, hands in his pockets, nodded. “Not bad, Georgie.”
Georgina rolled her eyes. “I’ll take it.” She turned to Bea. “Come celebrate with us. The cast is going out.”
Bea shifted on her heels. “Uh…I was going to ride home with you.”
“Oh, you sweet thing.” Georgina patted Bea’s cheek gently. “You think I’m going home?” She gave them both a look, all eyebrows and implication, then smiled like a casting director seeing exactly how the scene would play out. “Looks like you’re riding with him.”
Bea stiffened. “I could just—”
Georgina looped her arm through a castmate’s and started backing away, eyes still on Bea. “Don’t wait up!”
They were surrounded by people, by movement, by conversation, but Bea barely registered it. Everything narrowed to him.
“It’s out of your way.”
“It is.”
“I could find another way home.”
“You could.”
But if she were honest with herself, which she generally tried to be, she didn’t want to. And it wasn’t like there was an easy alternative to the way the night had neatly arranged itself.
He gestured toward the exit.
She didn’t say more. Just stepped forward.
Because the truth was, she’d already decided.
GAGE
She hadn’t said much since he’d told her what he wanted in her mouth.
Gage didn’t mind the silence. He’d already said enough.
He hadn’t expected a reply, just tension. And that, she gave him freely.
Bea sat beside him, posture careful. Hands folded in her lap. Eyes forward. Like pretending he wasn’t there might help. But he could feel her attention, thrumming under all that stillness.
He reached for the water bottle in the center console. His knuckles skimmed her knee.
Not an accident.
She stiffened. Didn’t move. Just sat there, trying to act unaffected.
He took a sip. The smile pulled, but he kept it buried.
“You’re quiet,” he said, remembering how she’d opened the conversation on the way.
“So are you.”
“Do you want me to say something?”
“Not if it’s going to be one of your smug comments.”
That tone. The nippy edge of it. She was rattled and trying to assert control. He liked the effort. Liked watching her response to him.
They pulled up to Mayfield Hall. He let the engine idle.
She didn’t reach for the door.
His eyes dropped to her knee, remembering the way she’d frozen at his touch, yet she hadn’t pulled away. He wanted to test that again.
“Enjoy the night?” he asked.
She looked at him at last. Not sure what he meant. He’d left it vague on purpose. “Yes,” she said carefully. “Georgie’s play was great.”
“And the company?”
He watched her sort through the question, weighing her answer in real time. “Acceptable.”
He almost smiled. She was wound tight now. Pretending it didn’t show.
Gage leaned across her. Slow. Deliberate. Knew the second she stopped breathing.
He unbuckled her seat belt, catching the latch before it snapped back. His fingers grazed her collarbone, her shoulder. The barest contact.
She was trying so hard not to crack.
“We’re here,” he whispered.
She exhaled. Sharp.
His own breath had shortened, but he ignored it. Want didn’t dictate timing.
“Go inside, Bea. Before you change your mind.”
She hesitated. Only for a second. Then nodded, opened the door, and left without looking back.
He waited until she disappeared through the glass, then shifted into gear.
He’d have to earn every inch. She wasn’t going to come to him easily. Good. He was built for exactly this.