Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(6)

Two hours later, Preston stared at the stage with terrible sorrow crowding his heart as the curtains closed on the lifeless body of Elise Klassan. He’d paid far closer attention to her performance tonight, and though he was still distracted by her breasts, he found himself even more interested in her: her expressions, her gestures, the tone of her voice, the sound of her laugh. As the hours ticked by, he realized with certainty what he’d only glimpsed at the end of last night’s performance: Elise Klassan was a phenomenal actress. The reason Preston hadn’t been able to shake her today was because she seemed so real. Because as much as the lines were inelegant and cheesy, she still made him believe. What had the man said before the show? Remember her name after tonight. No doubt he would. With a bit of longing he knew he’d remember her name for the rest of his life.

He felt a little dazed and a lot bewildered. What now?

Did he just hail a cab and ride home now? Did he walk home, processing his feelings? Did he dare try to meet her? How exactly would he manage that?

Again, the final two patrons remaining in the theater, the man turned to Preston as the last straggler filed out into the lobby. “So?”

“Fantastic,” murmured Preston.

“Yes, she was. I needed to be sure, but there’s no doubt in my mind now. She’s got it.”

“It?” asked Preston, leaning down to pick up his Playbill.

“The ‘it’ factor. She’s got it in spades.” The man cleared his throat, picking up his umbrella and standing up. “You can’t look away when she’s on stage. Not even in this louse of a show. Imagine what she could do with a great play if this is what she manages with garbage.”

“Yeah,” said Preston, standing up. “You’re right.”

He slid his gaze back over to the stage longingly, then gave himself a mental kick in the ass. He didn’t know this woman. She’d be beyond-creeped-out if he suddenly appeared backstage to…to… what? What would he do? Tell her he enjoyed the show? She wouldn’t believe it. She had to know the show was terrible. Tell her he enjoyed her? Creepy. Tell her he dreamed about her last night? Serial killer creepy.

Never having experienced the sort of fan feelings reserved for young girls screaming about Justin Bieber, he felt embarrassed for himself, confused by the depth of his feelings for a woman he’d never met, never spoken to. It was unnerving and with the bar exams bearing down on him, closer every day, he didn’t have any more time to waste on this infatuation with a promising young actress.

He scoffed softly, turning back to the man. “Well, that’s it, then. I guess I better…”

“How’d you like to meet her?”

Preston’s heart tripped. “W-What?”

The man nodded, grinning back at him. “Sure. I’m headed backstage. Why don’t you join me? I’ll introduce you.” He chuckled lightly. “You can be her first fan.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“You don’t want to meet her?”

“Yes! Yes, I do, but—”

“So come on.”

Without another word, the man turned to exit his row and Preston followed. Who was this guy anyway?

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what’s your connection to—”

“The show? I have none. Thank God.”

Preston kept following the man as he walked confidently to the stage, stepped up a small set of stairs to the left of the curtain and pushed a red button on the wall, turning back to Preston.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Preston looked closer at the man, then shook his head.

The man chuckled. “You’re not a Broadway regular.”

“No. My girlfriend—that is, my friend, Beth, dragged me here last night—”

He looked affronted. “Dragged you?”

“She’s a patron of this theater and a few others.”

“Oh,” said the man, nodding in surprise. “I should have guessed from your Brooks Brothers shirt and pricey jeans. But you didn’t seem like an *.”

Preston was taken aback. “I hope I’m not.”

Before the man could answer, a young woman peeked out from the curtain, her hair in a haphazard black bun, wearing dark-rimmed glasses and holding a clipboard.

“Yes?” She straightened her glasses and her eyes widened like saucers. “Oh! Holy sh—I mean, oh, my gosh! Mr. Durran. Welcome. I-I’m Kat Singleton, the Assistant Stage Manager, and I’m a huge—”

“Ms. Singleton,” said the man patiently. “I’d like a word with Elise Klassan.”

“Of course! Oh, my God—of course!” She flicked her eyes to Preston, who was watching the exchange with fascination. “Um, come with me, sir, um, Mr. Durran.”

They followed Kat onto the dark stage, through a labyrinth of ropes, curtains, sets and technical boards, through a door and into a poorly lit back hallway where various people bustled back and forth, most with headsets on, and all looking exhausted. The hallway was made of cement blocks, tight, narrow and dirty with a strong smell of hot lights and mildew, but Preston barely noticed, wound tight with anticipation, scarcely able to believe that he’d be face to face with Elise Klassan in a matter of seconds.

Kat stopped at a nondescript door and knocked. “Elise?”