Chapter 30
Thirty
Swayze
“We’re going to be late to rehearsal.” But the protest came out weak, as I was currently pinned to the wall.
“Worth it,” Colter growled, thrusting inside me twice more for good measure, drawing out the fluttering aftershocks of our orgasms. “I wasn’t going to make it not getting to sink into you until tonight. Been dreaming about this all shift.”
“Well, God.” My head fell limply back against the wall.
I’d never craved anyone the way I craved Colter, and the feeling seemed to be mutual.
The demon on my shoulder was whispering that we could skip one rehearsal.
Then the better angel pointed out that I was the freaking lead and in almost every scene.
“We need to get going, but I don’t know if my legs will actually work. ”
On a chuckle, he eased free of me and lowered me to the floor.
I wobbled like a newborn deer. “Right. Must clean up and get dressed.”
I came perilously close to crashing back down the stairs on my way up them, but less than five minutes later, we were speeding to the theater in Colter’s truck.
We were definitely late, and I could only pray that the baseball hat I’d grabbed was enough to hide the sex hair.
Inside, Monique and Blair were speaking to the cast and crew from the stage. We hurried down the center aisle and slid into empty seats.
“So nice of y’all to join us,” Blair said dryly.
The smirks around us told me the hat hadn’t done its job. Mortified, I sank down lower in my seat and tried to tune in to what was being said.
“We’re ramping up marketing efforts now that we’re in March.
The show opens in six weeks, and we need to pack the house every night to hit our fundraising goals for the library.
” She gestured to Blair. “Blair’s been working her magic on getting us some press coverage, so we’ll have some folks joining us during rehearsal today.
A few of you might get pulled aside for interviews about the production. ”
My stomach knotted. Interviews. With press. Not only did I quail at the idea of the attention, I hadn’t done anything to make myself presentable for pictures.
“It’s just local stuff,” Blair added, as if reading the room’s collective anxiety. “The Gibson Gazette will be here, and we’ve got interest from a couple of regional outlets—newspapers and maybe a lifestyle blog or two.”
Regional. That was manageable. I forced myself to breathe normally.
This wasn’t Sydney or London. Nobody here was going to recognize me or care about what happened half a world away.
I’d been in Gibson Hollow for months now, and not once had anyone looked at me with that dawning recognition that used to make my skin crawl.
I’d finally stopped flinching every time someone pulled out their phone near me. Stopped scanning faces for that particular gleam that meant they knew exactly who I was and what I’d done—or supposedly done. Small town anonymity had been a gift that couldn’t have had better timing.
This would be fine. A puff piece about a community theater production to raise money for the library. Nothing more.
Colter’s hand found my knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. When I glanced over, he wasn’t looking at me, but the corner of his mouth curved up just slightly.
The knot in my stomach loosened.
“All right, people!” Monique clapped her hands together. “Let’s make some magic. Places for the top of Act One!”
Chairs creaked as the cast moved. I stood, smoothing down my shirt—which was definitely on inside out, fantastic—and headed for the stage with the rest of the ensemble. The familiar buzz of pre-rehearsal energy hummed through the theater as everyone found their marks.
Just another rehearsal. With a few extra people watching.
Nothing to worry about.
The opening number swept me up the way it always did, the infectious energy of “Honey, Honey” filling the theater.
Bristol’s voice rang clear as Sophie. After all her hesitation, she was really coming into her own in the role.
When the time came, I let myself sink into Donna—this woman who’d built a life on her own terms, who was strong and vulnerable and so much more complicated than people gave her credit for.
Movement in the back of the house caught my eye during “Money, Money, Money.” Three figures slipped into seats near the sound booth. The lights kept me from seeing details, just silhouettes against the glow of the exit signs.
I turned my focus back to Monique and Miss Glory, selling every line, every gesture.
The harmonies clicked into place, our voices weaving together in a way that gave me goosebumps.
I’d forgotten what it was to perform, not for attention or applause, but just for this—the pure joy of creation, of collaboration, of making something beautiful with people who cared.
The number ended to scattered applause from the handful of observers.
We transitioned into the next scene. I moved offstage for Sophie’s bit with Sky and his friends, grateful for the breather. My water bottle waited in the wings, and I’d just taken a long drink when Monique materialized beside me.
“Got a minute?” She gestured toward two people hovering near the edge of the stage.
My pulse kicked up, but I nodded and followed her over.
“Swayze, this is Marcus Chen from the Gibson Gazette.” A man in his fifties with kind brown eyes and a reporter’s notebook extended his hand. I shook it, relieved by his easy smile.
“And this is Tasha Williams. She runs a regional theater blog called Footlight Fever.”
The second woman was younger, maybe early thirties, with dark locks pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Her handshake was firm, professional.
“It’s wonderful to meet you both,” I said, falling into the pleasant, camera-ready persona I’d perfected over years of brand partnerships and sponsorships.
“We’re thrilled to cover this production,” Marcus said. “The whole town’s buzzing about it. Raising money for the library rebuild—it’s exactly the kind of story people want to hear.”
“Community theater with heart,” Tasha added, tapping something into her phone. “My readers eat this stuff up. Plus, Mamma Mia!? Always a crowd pleaser.”
We settled in, and the pair began to tag team me with questions.
“So what drew you to Gibson Hollow?” Marcus asked, pen poised.
“The mountains,” I said easily. “I was looking for somewhere quiet, off the beaten path. A friend recommended the area, and it seemed perfect.”
“And you have theater experience?”
“Some. High school theater, mostly. I played Sophie in a production of Mamma Mia! years ago, actually.”
His eyebrows rose. “Full circle moment.”
“Exactly.”
Tasha leaned in. “What made you want to get involved with this particular production?”
“The cause.” That answer came without hesitation or artifice. “The library is the heart of any community. When I heard about the flood damage and how they’ve been struggling, it felt important to help however I could. Plus, the Sasspatch Society is pretty persuasive.”
Marcus chuckled at that. “They certainly are. My wife’s already bought tickets for opening night and two more performances.”
“That’s what we love to hear.”
“What do you hope audiences take away from the show?” Tasha asked.
I considered that, thinking about the past few weeks of rehearsals.
“Joy, I think. That’s what Mamma Mia! is really about—celebrating life, friendship, and love in all its messy, complicated forms. And if people leave the theater humming ABBA songs and feeling a little lighter, while also supporting a cause that matters? That’s pretty much perfect.”
Marcus scribbled in his notebook. “And you’re playing Donna opposite Colter Gibson as Sam.”
Heat crept up my neck. “I am.”
“There’s definite chemistry there,” he said mildly, glancing toward the stage where Colter was running through blocking with Gunner and Dean. “Makes for a believable romance.”
“We work well together.”
The understatement of the century, but he didn’t need to know that.
Marcus tucked his pen away. “I think I’ve got what I need. This is going to be a great piece. Thank you for your time, Swayze.”
“Thank you for covering it.”
He shook my hand again and headed up the aisle, already pulling out his phone.
Tasha didn’t move. She was still studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
“So,” she said, her tone shifting to something more conversational. “High school theater, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re really good up there. Like, really good. Near professional level.”
“Thank you. I’ve had some training.”
“Where’d you study?”
The question landed like a stone in my chest. “Here and there. Nothing formal.” I didn’t want to bring up JP and somehow piggyback on his reputation.
“Huh.” She tilted her head. “You just seem so polished. The way you move, your stage presence—it’s not amateur hour.”
I forced a laugh. “Well, I’ve done this a long time. Since I was a kid.”
“Right, right.” She tapped her phone again. “And before Gibson Hollow, where were you living?”
“All over. I traveled a lot for work.”
“What kind of work?”
The questions were coming faster now, each one sharpening her focus. This wasn’t idle curiosity anymore. This was a reporter sensing a story beneath the surface.
“Freelance design work,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Graphic design, social media content, that sort of thing. It allowed me to be location independent.”
“Social media content.” Her eyes brightened. “Like influencer stuff?”
My heart hammered. “More behind the scenes. Strategy, branding.”
“Interesting.” She studied me for another long moment, and I could practically see the gears turning. “Well, I’d love to do a more in-depth profile if you’re interested. Really dig into your background, what brought you here, your journey to this role.”
Every instinct screamed at me to shut this down. “That’s kind of you, but I’m not that interesting. The focus should really be on the production and the cause.”
“Sometimes the people behind the production are just as compelling as the show itself.”
I smiled and hoped it didn’t look like a grimace. “Not this time.”
Tasha angled her head to concede the point. “You were talking about how the show is supporting the rebuild of the local library. Wouldn’t your platform be of great benefit to that?”
The air left my lungs.
“What?”
Tasha’s expression shifted—not unkind, exactly, but calculating. Like she’d just confirmed a theory. “I mean, I know there was some ugliness around what happened, but that hardly seemed like an excuse to just disappear. Makes people wonder if something else was going on.”
My hands went numb. The theater sounds—voices on stage, someone adjusting a light overhead—compressed into white noise.
This. This was the thing I’d been running from. The moment someone finally looked at me and saw who I’d been. What I’d supposedly done.
“I don’t find that relevant to the show.” My voice came out mechanical, distant. “I’m just here to help.”
“But if you still had access to your followers—”
“I said it’s not relevant.”
Tasha opened her mouth to press further, but then warmth surrounded me. Colter’s arm slid around my waist, solid and grounding.
“I think we’re done here.” His tone was pleasant enough, but there was steel underneath. “Appreciate your coverage of the show.”
He was already steering me away before she could respond, guiding me past the edge of the stage, through the wings, down a narrow hallway I’d never noticed before. My feet moved on autopilot while my brain spun uselessly, replaying Tasha’s words on loop.
Makes people wonder if something else was going on.
Because, of course, it did. The internet thrived on conspiracy theories, on the assumption that public confession meant hidden sins, that silence equaled guilt.
Colter opened a door to the stage manager’s office, cramped and cluttered with binders and lighting gels. He pulled me inside and shut the door, muffling the sounds from the theater.
“What was that about?” His hands found my shoulders, ducking his head to catch my eyes. “What did she say to upset you?”
I tried to lock it down. Tried to summon the practiced calm I’d learned over years of brand partnerships and carefully curated content. But my chest was too tight, my breath coming too shallow, and the walls of this tiny room pressed in from all sides.
“Swayze.” His thumb brushed along my jaw. “Talk to me.”
“I can’t—” My voice cracked. “Not here. I can’t do this here.”
Understanding flickered across his face. He didn’t push, didn’t demand explanations right this second. Just nodded slowly.
“Okay.” His hand found mine, fingers lacing through. “When we get home.”
Home. The word landed somewhere soft and terrifying in my chest.
I managed a nod, but my mind was already racing ahead, trying to construct the right way to explain.
How did I tell him that the woman he’d been sleeping with, the woman who’d been growing closer to his daughter, had a digital footprint full of accusations and screenshots and think pieces dissecting every choice she’d ever made?
Colter squeezed my hand. “We should probably get back out there before Monique sends a search party.”
“Yeah.” I forced myself to breathe. “Yeah, okay.”
He studied my face for another moment, then pressed a kiss to my forehead. “It’s going to be fine. Whatever it is.”
I wanted so badly to believe him.
But as we headed back toward the stage, I couldn’t shake the cold certainty settling in my bones that once he knew the truth, once he understood what kind of attention I might bring to his quiet life, to his daughter’s world, everything between us would change.