Tinsel My Heart (5 page)

Damn it, that wasn’t his job. Or it didn’t used to be. “Ty always did that. Glad-handed the cast and crew, kept everyone on an even keel. I miss Ty not just as my friend, but as my partner. This is the first thing I’ve ever directed without him.”

Jack could do it. They’d traded duties back and forth enough that each could hold their own on any aspect of a production. But working solo felt so different. Not having Ty there to joke with, to pick his brain, to... “Damn it to hell, I am a starfish.”

She picked up the end of her braid and tickled his cheek. “Told ya.”

The silken hair set off a chain reaction in his body. Blood pounded south in great, galloping leaps and bounds to pool in his crotch. Jack hadn’t experienced an insta-hard-on like that in years. He quickly shifted the black script binder across his lap.

“You’ve changed, Becca.”

“Since high school? I would hope so.” Then her lips pursed. “Okay, you’ve piqued my curiosity. Exactly how have I changed?”

“You’ve grown from a pretty girl into a beautiful woman.”

“Oh.” Her pale cheeks turned the color of ripe strawberries. It made Jack wonder if her nipples were the same color. Or would turn that color after he used his lips on them. “Um, thank you. And let me just say that adding a few pounds of pure muscle didn’t hurt you any, either.”

Interesting. Might as well push a little harder, see what developed. “Here I thought you were going to comment on my righteously masculine goatee.”

As if lifted by marionette strings, her hand rose, scraped along the end-of-day stubble on his cheeks to trace the outline of the goatee. “It, ah, makes you look devilish.”

“Want to dance with the devil?”

“What?” Her gaze flew up to meet his as her hands dropped to her lap. “You want to dance?”

Super literal people made flirting much more difficult. Jack sighed. “Metaphorically.” When she still looked bewildered, he continued. “Forget it. Do you want to have dinner with me?”

She blinked, rapidly. Looked down at her hands twisting together. “That depends.”

It wasn’t a complicated question. Jack didn’t want her take on the crisis in Syria. Why would a simple dinner invite come with conditions? “On what?”

Becca looked over both shoulders, as if to check they were still alone. Or as alone as you could get in a three-hundred-seat theatre full of people milling about from the lobby to the dressing rooms. “Are you just lonely, Jack? Because of Ty?”

“I’m a grown-ass man. I can eat by myself,” he growled.

“I know. I guess my real question is, do you want to have dinner with just anyone? Or do you want to have dinner with
me?
” She fluttered her hands up to cover her heart.

Now he got it. Well, he didn’t get why she had the crazy female insecurity, but at least he knew what she was driving at. “I want to have dinner with you. Only you. Not because we used to be good friends. Not even because we’ve slid pretty well back into those roles. And not just dinner.” Jack grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re a beautiful woman who heats me up every time you slide those cool lake eyes over me. With enough talent and know-how and passion for my business to make for interesting conversation. So what I want from you, Becca, is a date.”

To his utter surprise, she didn’t blush again. Or look away. Or for that matter, look flustered at all. Instead, she mimicked his pose, putting her hand to his mouth. Rubbed her soft thumb in a slow glide across his lower lip. Her eyes darkened from the clear blue of Lake Harriet in the summer to the darkness of a winter’s night. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Of course I’ll go out with you.”

No matter how many he tried on for size, women never failed to confound him. Jack didn’t know what he’d said to peel off her timidity. Didn’t care, either. Just looked forward to an evening filled with more surprises from the woman he was discovering he liked even more than the girl he used to adore.

Chapter Five

Jack felt guilty. Instead of a night out, Becca was slaving away in her kitchen. Well, her grandmother’s kitchen. For this was clearly the house of an old lady, not a vibrant woman not yet thirty. The stiff-backed brown couch had crocheted doilies on the armrests. Copper molds that he guessed were for decades of the dreaded gelatin salad covered the kitchen walls. It didn’t look as though any of the furniture had been purchased since Elvis made his debut.

“I know you said the production budget can’t afford midnight pizza. But I can afford to take you to dinner. Anywhere, really.”

Steam from whatever she had going on the stove gave Becca’s cheeks a rosy glow. “Jack, you’re famous.”

He leaned against the door frame with his shoulder. “So what? If anything, that helps me get good reservations.”

After a final swirl, she abandoned the wooden spoon in the deep pot. Wiped her hand on a ridiculously frilly red apron that wouldn’t look out of place on a 1950s housewife. “It was all over the paper this morning that you’d arrived. A ‘hometown hero finally returns’ story.”

“Damn it.” Jack liked it when his movies made the papers. He loathed it when they did a personal angle on him. Why couldn’t the press be satisfied commenting on his work? The last time paparazzi got in his face was at the gym. Did America really give a shit whether he used the treadmill or the elliptical?

Becca brushed by him to close the floor-to-ceiling brown—of course—drapes in the living and dining rooms. As if she was worried there was about to be an incursion of flashbulb mania. “Didn’t the paparazzi stake out your hotel?”

“I’m not famous enough to compel the big guns to fly to the middle of the prairie. Local photogs are probably interested, but they won’t find me.”

“Why not?”

“Because Jack Whittaker isn’t a guest at the Grand Hotel. Jonathon Harrow is,” he said with a wink and a theatrical flourish of his arm.

“Wait a minute.” Her brow furrowed in thought as she tapped a finger against her lips. “Isn’t that the name of the guy Judy Garland dumps in favor of Fred Astaire in
Easter Parade?
”

“Good memory. Some people use cartoon characters or superheroes as fake names. But I think it’s way more obvious to have Darth Vader staying at a hotel. Why not just put up a billboard that says Movie Star—Please Stalk Me.” Seriously. People were idiots. Or fame whores who just wanted to get caught. Jack liked to think he was neither.

“Makes sense.” She crossed to a carved wooden hutch, threw open the doors. Bent over, as if looking for something. Or maybe just to taunt him with the view of her heart-shaped ass in those tight jeans. “I’d forgotten how much you loved that movie.”

Jack pushed off the doorframe to join her, drawn like a compass magnet being pulled to true north. “You can’t beat the classics. Astaire, Gene Kelly, Peter Lawford. Suave guys in tuxes romancing beautiful women who could sing and dance.”

Giving in to impulse, to the need to touch her, Jack gave a quick tug on Becca’s wrist, spinning her into his arms. Then he swung her into a quick waltz around the coffee table (covered with a miniature snow-capped village), into the foyer and back through into the kitchen (where even the dish towels were Christmas themed, just like the refrigerator magnets). Christmas spread throughout the house with the insistence of a bad rash. A rash circa the Kennedy administration, at that. God, all that stuff just looked—old. Old knick-knacks belonging to an old, dead woman. Creepy. It’d be distracting if Becca wasn’t so supremely soft and pliant beneath his hands.

Something between a delighted giggle and a squeal trilled from Becca. “Jack, you’re such a good dancer. When did that happen?”

“What makes you think this isn’t natural talent?” He fox-trotted the length of the pantry. The more complicated step gave him an excuse to press more firmly against the sweet curve at the small of her back.

“Because I saw you herky-jerky your way through three homecoming dances. Pathetic. Embarrassing to watch.”

“Don’t hold back.” Annoyed, Jack spun her out, and then reeled her back in, fast and hard against his chest. “Really.”

A little breathless, she panted, “I’m sure you’ve got more than enough fawning toadies in your line of work. A dose of honesty’s good for you.”

“Fine. You want the truth? My manager sent me to dance class last year. Wanted me to be able to keep up at the post-awards ball if a starlet took me for a spin.”

“It worked. Now you’ve got moves.”

“Oh, I’ve always had moves. I just prefer to use them in the bedroom.” Jack lifted her up, gave a slight toss, then let her slide slowly down his body. He only hoped it tortured her as much as it did him. God, those slim thighs bracketed his dick until the center of her notched against him. Definite torture.

“Um. Oh.” Becca swallowed, her gaze darting away from his. She looked flustered. Turned on—yes, every bit as much as him. “I’ve got an idea.” Breaking out of his embrace, she hustled into the living room.

Jack followed a few steps behind, after adjusting the suddenly tight crotch of his black jeans. “Trust me, I’ve got some ideas of my own.”

“Aha!” Becca brandished a box. “Here it is—
Easter Parade
. We can watch it after dinner if you want.”

“Is that a videotape? Did I step through a time vortex back to the twentieth century?”

“Very funny. Gram wasn’t great with new technology. So we stuck with VHS instead of updating to a DVD player. Doesn’t mean you’re in the Dark Ages. We’ve got WiFi.” Becca bumped him with her hip. “You’re making me nervous, staring over my shoulder. I’ve got about six things that have to happen at once to finish off this recipe. So go sit down.”

Instead, he roamed over the dark orange shag carpet in the living room. Jack was looking for any semblance of Becca’s personality in the house. Because everything he saw screamed little old lady. It made him sad to contemplate a vibrant, energetic young woman like Becca pushing herself to the side for so many years. But then he turned down the brown shag carpeted hallway toward the stairs.

Both sides of the hall were covered floor to ceiling with framed awards, posters, programs and news clippings. A timeline of all Becca had accomplished over the past ten years. He recognized most of the names of the various shows. Classics, avant-garde new stuff, musicals—Becca did it all. And according to the slew of rave reviews, she had the magic touch.

“You’ve got quite the brag board out here,” he said.

“It’s too much, I know. But Gram was so proud, I couldn’t rein her in. I barely talked her out of framing my contracts. Silly, huh?”

Not at all. “My first contract was for a thirty-second tampon commercial.”

“That’s not a story you love to tell, I bet.”

“You’d lose that bet. It hangs over the desk in my office to this day. Those leak-proof tampons are how I got my start in this business. I’ll always be grateful.” Although, to be perfectly honest, he’d be a few ticks more grateful if it’d been a commercial for beer. Or a sleek and speedy sports car.

“Geez, I’m tempted to change my brand out of support,” she joked.

Now he regretted it a little more. Tampons were about the last thing he wanted to be discussing with Becca. “My point is that you should be proud. Look at all you’ve accomplished. There are tons of producers in New York who don’t have a body of work this consistent and acclaimed.”

She appeared in the doorway. “I don’t need a big head, Jack. Fact is, I don’t need any praise at all. I do the work because I love it. The good part about being a producer is that I’m pretty sure I’m missing that insecurity gene that plagues most actors. I don’t need to be stroked.”

For years he’d kept a wall up around his feelings toward Becca. Of course, memories of her poked through with unnerving regularity. His sturdy mental wall looked more like a Whac-A-Mole game. Yet somehow, in the past three days, it had vanished completely. Now Jack was completely open to her. To all the tenderness and passion and attraction he’d felt for her back in high school. Except magnified a hundredfold by the reality of what an amazing woman she’d grown into. And now here they were, connecting on a level he’d never been able to even share with Ty.

“Funny—that’s exactly how I feel.”

“If you try to tell me it didn’t thrill you to win the most coveted award in all of movie-making, I’ll call you a liar.”

“That was cool,” Jack admitted with a shit-eating grin. It made him part of a very small, very private club, full of his idols. Being told he was on par with them definitely carried weight. Almost made up for dealing with the parties and press and endless distractions that came with it.

“But even though Ty and I got that golden statue for best director, it wasn’t our award. It belonged to the whole cast, the crew, the writers. A film’s a puzzle full of a million pieces. The director just puts them together the right way.”

“And the producer,” she said with a shake of her wooden spoon.

“I think of you more as a magical puppeteer, pulling everyone’s strings.”

Becca shrugged. “That works.” She disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Sure you don’t need help?”

“When was the last time you made chicken parmesan?”

“Ah...” Chicken parm. Thank God. When she offered to make him dinner, he’d been worried she might serve the typical Minnesota hotdish—a flavorless combination of Tator Tots, ground beef and cream of mushroom soup. The uncomplicated dump, stir and bake recipe was all his dad had been capable of in the kitchen. Jack’s stomach roiled at the memory.

“Or cooked anything more complicated than a bowl of cereal? You live in Manhattan, land of twenty-four/seven delivery, right?”

“I plead the fifth on the grounds my answer might incriminate me.” Sounded great, though. The smells coming out of the kitchen were heavenly—if heaven was in southern Italy, and didn’t stint on the garlic. He certainly didn’t want to do anything to screw it up. A little restless, Jack paced back into the living room. And stopped dead in his tracks, wholly shaken by a trio of Christmas ornaments on the mantel.

Three lopsided, wooden cutout bells. He recognized them right off as his, Ty’s and Becca’s. Everyone in the drama club had made one to decorate the Christmas tree for the auditorium stage. Then the shop class students cut them out on a jigsaw. Jack’s was the most lopsided bell. He’d tried to spruce it up by painting it lime green and covering it with glitter, but it still looked like something a first grader made.

All of them had been die-hard drama geeks. Their senior year, they ran the school’s holiday pageant together. It was Jack’s only good Christmas. Due, in large part, to all the extra time he got to spend with Becca. Her sparkling smile, the way she could laugh through any situation, no matter how messed up, how they’d effortlessly worked as a single, well-oiled unit. How he’d recited Latin declensions sixteen times a day—or more—to beat back the non-stop hard-ons that he’d been unable to control. It all came rushing back to him.

Why had she kept the ornaments? Put those god-awful ugly things in a place of honor, no less? Nostalgia? Or was it even possible that those long-ago days meant as much to Becca as they did to him?

“Can you grab the corkscrew? It’s in the drawer of the end table.”

“You betcha,” Jack said. Then almost bit his tongue. That Minnesota colloquialism had been scrubbed from his vocabulary the day he left the state. Along with everything else that reminded him of home. How’d it slip out of his lips so easily?

Jack sank into a knobby brown wing chair. Before the drawer was halfway open, a stack of papers caught his eye. Funny after all this talk of contracts, to see the one for what had to be her next show lying right there. Jack picked it up—only to find another contract beneath it. The first was an eight-month contract for a dinner theatre just down the road in Minnetonka. Looked like they wanted her for the rest of the season and through summer. It offered a good chunk of stability, something quite rare in the theatre world.

But underneath it lay an offer from an Off Broadway theatre. Good reputation. One that attracted big-name actors for star vehicles. In other words, it was a job that could catapult her career to the next level. It started in February. She’d have to choose one or the other. Not that it was a choice at all.

“Hey, Becca?”

“There’s a bottle of chianti on the top of the wine rack. Yes, you can go ahead and open it now.”

“Thanks.” He grabbed the wine and the corkscrew. Chances were good they’d both need a drink for this conversation. Back in the kitchen, Jack opened the bottle with tight twists of his wrist. Figured there was no point in beating around the bush. “Why didn’t you mention that you’re moving to New York?”

Her spoon clattered against the pan. “I’m...I’m what now?”

“Moving. To my city. The Big Apple.” Interesting the way her face scrunched up as if she was about to pop an aneurysm. Perversely, it made him want to poke the bear a little more. “I’ll give you a file of the best take-out menus in the city as a housewarming present.”

Becca turned, gave him her back. Pretended to hunt for something in the refrigerator that Jack was sure she didn’t really need. “I don’t know where you’d get that idea.”

She must be pretty conflicted to go to all the trouble to lie to him. “Look, I saw the contract.” Jack raised a hand to hold her off when she whirled around fast enough to fly her braids out behind her. “I wasn’t snooping. You’re the one who told me to get the corkscrew. It was hard to miss. So why aren’t we toasting to your big Off Broadway debut?”

Grabbing a wineglass, Becca half emptied it in three long gulps. “Nothing’s decided.”

“It better be. Looks like you’ve got a matter of days to stop farting around and sign one of those contracts. What’s the holdup?”

Clearly, he’d touched a spot sorer than a tooth needing a root canal. He could tell from the flurry of noisy activity. Becca snapped a potholder off the fridge, and sent its magnetic hook flying across the room. Opened and then slammed the oven after pulling out the chicken. Opened and slammed the cupboard doors after retrieving two plates. He sensed a pattern. Because he didn’t want to pick china shards out of his dinner, Jack grabbed them before she could slam them onto the counter. And then noticed the mistletoe and holly pattern stamped in the middle of each plate. Waaaaay over the top. At this rate, he expected to go into the bathroom and find toilet paper printed with Christmas carol lyrics.