Amanda
“So is this guy a permanent fixture or what?”
Brielle asks the question with all the subtlety of a freight train.
I nearly choke on my coffee.
My wardrobe manager grins shamelessly as she wheels another rack of costumes into my dressing room.
We're finally back in New York.
Back home.
Well.
Sort of.
I still keep my apartment in Hoboken because, despite being a Broadway actress, I apparently remain a Jersey girl at heart.
And after the insanity of California, sleeping in my own bed with Less beside me had felt delicious, decadent, perfect—normal.
Dangerously normal.
Too good.
This morning we shared coffee in my kitchen.
He'd kissed me goodbye in the hallway.
Then walked me all the way downstairs because apparently elevators are now tactical operations.
And somehow, seeing him standing there in jeans and a black T-shirt, holding my travel mug while I locked my apartment had made my heart squeeze.
Like maybe—please, pretty please with a cherry on top—this time could be different.
But hope is scary.
Because I've hoped before.
Three years ago, I'd hoped too.
And just look how that turned out.
All that time wasted.
Left alone and wondering what I did wrong.
If maybe he finally caught up to the fact that I’m not in his league—never really was.
Wondering if he just never really loved me at all.
Fuck.
I sniff, fighting back a tear.
Alessio is currently standing beside the dressing room door.
Arms crossed.
Back to us.
Pretending he doesn't hear Brielle.
Which is ridiculous.
The man can hear a mouse fart three counties away.
I make frantic shushing motions.
Brielle ignores me.
Naturally.
“Oh, come on. I need the dirty details, Amanda! Please? I haven’t had a date in six months. And he is literally gorgeous!”
Behind us, Less mutters, “Yep, I heard that. And, uh, thanks.”
Brielle squeaks.
I burst out laughing.
Then I grab one of the dresses and disappear behind the silk screen.
Not that it matters.
The man has seen me naked more times in the past forty-eight hours than my gynecologist.
A happy, satisfied sigh escapes me at the thought.
And honestly?
The man remains an excellent lover.
Always was, in my humble opinion.
I'm not exactly Mata Hari.
Before Less I'd had two serious boyfriends.
Compared to Alessio?
Well.
He might as well be a certified sex god.
But when Brielle used the word permanent something inside my chest tightened.
Because the truth is?
I don't know.
I don’t know if he’s here to stay or just passing through.
And that scares the shit out of me.
Because I know I still love him.
I know I never stopped.
I know seeing him every morning makes me happy.
But I also know heartbreak.
And heartbreak doesn't disappear just because the sex is amazing and the kisses make your knees wobble.
“So?” Brielle asks again. “Deets, woman, come on! What's with tall, dark, and broody?”
I pull the dress over my head.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“I've got a tiny stalker problem, and he's just here to protect me.”
“Uh huh. And the sizzling attraction I can practically see between you two?”
The skepticism in her voice could power Manhattan.
“It’s nothing. We have history is all,” I murmur.
She pulls back the screen for me, and I step out and turn.
“Ooh. That looks incredible.”
I glance down.
The costume is beautiful.
A corseted bodice with soft layers somehow makes my waist look smaller and my chest look—well, wow.
The girls are propped up and practically spilling over.
As for my hips, ass, and thighs—my problem areas, according to the dresser from my last show, and well, fuck her and the horse she rode in on, by the way—they look. Well, I mean, they're all still there, obviously.
But draped in sheer layers with this cinched waist thing going on?
Somehow I look curvy and seductive instead of fat and frumpy.
I glance at myself in the mirror and damn.
I look good.
“Come here. Let me pin it.”
Brielle drags me into the center of the room.
And of course, Less turns around at exactly the same moment.
His eyes widen.
His mouth literally drops open.
“Fuck, Rusty. Warn a man next time.”
I bark out a laugh and catch him making a subtle adjustment to the front of his jeans.
And that's hot.
So hot, I wish Brielle wasn't here right now.
But she is.
So all my bad girl thoughts will have to wait until later.
“Shut up.”
“I'm serious. You look gorgeous, Amanda.”
His eyes travel over me again.
Slowly.
Warmly.
Appreciatively.
And somehow I'm blushing like a teenager.
“Amanda Perkins blushing?” Brielle gasps dramatically. “Oh, this is serious.”
Less winks at her.
Which immediately turns the poor woman pink.
“Aww,” she says. “You guys are adorable.”
I roll my eyes.
But secretly?
I love hearing that.
Because I want us to be adorable.
I want us to be real.
Which is terrifying.
Thirty minutes later I'm back in leggings and a tank top.
My hair is pulled up in one of those messy buns other people make look hot—but mine never does.
No makeup either.
This is it. The real me.
Ready for rehearsal.
I gather my tea and towel.
Only for Less to take both from my hands automatically.
“No script?” he asks.
“Oh!”
I blink.
“You're right. I should bring it for notes.”
He smirks.
“You already memorized it, didn't you, Rusty?”
The pride in his voice warms something inside me.
Because he remembers.
He remembers that I always memorize early.
It’s like he remembers everything.
I smile.
“Guilty.”
“Show off.”
“Says the man who can probably dismantle a weapon blindfolded.”
“Hmm. If you really want to see some of my better skills, I can show you later, Rusty. When we’re home,” he murmurs the last bit into my ear, and it’s like tiny little electric bolts zip down my body.
Whether from the warmth of his breath or the heat in his words is a toss-up.
I shiver, and Less makes a low humming noise and places one hand on the small of my back.
Together we walk toward the stage.
And my nerves immediately return.
Because today is my first official rehearsal for Haunting the Met.
Oliver Pax is here.
And I’m like seconds from fangirling.
Legendary composer.
Brilliant.
Demanding.
Terrifying.
And supposedly impossible to please.
But I’m going to try, dammit.
The stage itself is beautiful.
Simple tables have been arranged for the creative team.
Chance Madoc, the producer, and his wife, Leandra—who is co-starring in the show as the intermediary between my character and the Phantom—rise to greet me warmly.
“Amanda! Oh my goodness, it's so great to finally have you here,” Leandra gushes, crossing the space to hug me.
And just like that, some of my nerves ease.
She smells expensive and floral and somehow manages to radiate sunshine despite being one of the biggest stars to have ever graced a Broadway stage.
“Thank you,” I say with a laugh. “Believe me, I've been looking forward to this.”
“And so have we,” Chance says warmly. “Oliver's been driving us all insane waiting for you to arrive.”
Leandra gasps dramatically.
“Chance!”
“What?” He laughs. “It's true.”
Her husband grins while she swats his arm.
“We're thrilled you're here,” she says. “And honestly? I can't wait to hear you sing this role.”
“Now you're making me nervous.”
“Good,” Chance says cheerfully. “Fear keeps artists humble.”
I laugh again.
God.
These people are normal.
I expected rich and famous weird.
Instead, they feel nice.
Warm.
Which makes the giant grump seated beside them stand out even more.
Oliver Pax—the legendary writer and composer.
Unsurprisingly, he's unsmiling.
Silver threads through dark hair.
Simple black shirt.
Dark pants.
Arms folded across his chest.
Watching everything.
Not in a creepy way.
More like he's cataloguing details nobody else notices.
He doesn't stand.
Doesn't smile.
Merely nods.
Which apparently counts as enthusiasm in Oliver Pax language.
“Don't mind Ollie,” Leandra says fondly. “He's just a giant grumpy bear. Aren't you?”
Oliver grunts.
Actually, grunts.
Then finally opens his mouth.
“Miss Perkins.”
I guess that means hello.
“Mr. Pax.”
His eyes hold mine for a second.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Then another nod.
That's it.
Good Lord.
Someone, please give this man a cookie.
Or a hug.
Maybe both.
I smile politely and turn toward the stage.
Behind me, I hear Alessio introducing himself.
“You're the bodyguard?” Chance asks.
“Yes, sir. Alessio Figueroa. Sigma International Security.”
Something inside me pinches.
Because I want him to say he's with me.
Not Sigma.
Me.
But that's ridiculous.
He's working.
And honestly?
It's better this way.
Safer.
Smarter.
Not nearly as romantic.
“Just don't get in the way,” Oliver Pax says flatly.
Before I can even react, Less answers.
“Not planning on it.”
His voice is calm.
Respectful.
Professional.
But I know him.
I know the man standing behind that tone.
And if Oliver Pax knew the same man I know?
He'd understand that “not planning on it” really means something else.
Something like, if anyone touches her I'll bury their body somewhere nobody will ever find it.
Somehow the thought makes me smile.
Because despite everything—despite all my fears.
Despite the scars he left behind.
Despite how fast this is happening—I trust Less.
Which might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
Because trust is what broke me three years ago.
And now?
Now I'm handing it back to him all over again.
God help me.
The stage manager waves.
“This scene's just you, Amanda.”
I nod.
Perfect.
I close my eyes and slip into the role.
Christine alone.
Contemplating the Phantom's offer.
No pressure.
Just the opening emotional centerpiece of the entire show.
Wonderful.
I walk toward center stage.
Behind me, I hear Less moving off to the side.
Giving me space.
Always watching.
Always close enough.
And somehow, just knowing he's there settles me.
He always did.
I take my mark.
Lift my chin.
Take a deep breath.
And suddenly—the world disappears.
No fear.
No doubts.
No broken heart.
No stalkers.
No critics.
Just music.
I open my mouth to loose the first note—but then I hear Less shout.
“AMANDA! WATCH OUT!”
Everything happens at once.
I hear a horrible metallic groan.
People start screaming.
There’s a crash.
And before my brain can even understand what's happening—Alessio's hard body slams into mine.
His arms wrap around me.
Hard.
Protective.
Possessive.
The force sends us both tumbling to the floor.
Something enormous explodes behind us.
The world explodes in noise.
Glass shatters.
Metal screams.
The entire theater erupts in chaos.
Dust fills the air.
People are shouting.
Someone is crying.
And all I know—all I feel—is him.
Less.
He’s covering me.
Shielding me with his entire person.
His body is wrapped around mine.
His arms holding me still.
His hands are protecting my head.
“Rusty!”
His voice sounds panicked.
Terrified.
“Look at me! Are you hurt?”
I blink.
“Less—”
“Look at me!”
I do.
Those dark eyes are wild.
Absolutely wild—his focus entirely on me.
“Talk to me, Rusty, please!”
“I-I'm okay,” I say quickly, wanting to reassure him, but still too stunned to know whether or not I’m lying.
“Fuck, you’re bleeding,” he growls and those hands still cupping my face move to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear.
I wince and he curses.
“Shit, I’m sorry. It’s small. A cut by your hairline,” he says, and curses some more.
“I'm okay, really,” I tell him.
His eyes close.
Just for a second.
And when they open again—I've never seen murder look so calm.
He starts to stand, carrying me with him.
Then I see it.
Behind him—lying in pieces across center stage—is a massive lighting fixture.
Exactly where I'd been standing.
Exactly where I almost died.
And suddenly I know one thing with absolute certainty.
This wasn't any accident.