Finally. She is in my arms, and I didn’t even realize how much I needed it. I put my head in her neck, inhaling, all of my territorial instincts roaring to the surface. She’s mine . . .

I groan and carry her over to the end of her bed, splaying her down as I hover over her.

Ask her.

“Elena?”

“Hmm?” She smiles up at me.

“Is there anything you need to tell me?”

She stills, holding my gaze. “Like what?”

It feels so wrong to even question her. It’s . . . Elena. She’s sweet and good and kind.

“Sophia . . . shit . . . Elena, can I trust you?”

Her eyes search mine for a long time, deeply. She knows what I mean, talking about me, selling a story if we don’t work out— “Yes,” she says softly, and I close my eyes and kiss her.

Chapter 29

ELENA

“O happy dagger, this is thy sheath. There rust, and let me die!” I stab myself with the fake dagger and collapse to the ground across Jack, draping myself over his chest, my face away from the audience. My hair is down in long waves and falls down my back. Wearing a thin ankle-length white dress with bell sleeves and a lace-up bodice, I’m in full costume tonight, opening night just three days away.

“Nice death, Juliet. Wish we could have just stayed alive,” Jack murmurs.

I flick my eyes down at him. He’s so carefree like this, none of that Sophia stuff in his head. His hair is swept back off his face as he lies on the stone like a slab one of the prop guys made. Wearing a tight black shirt, skinny jeans, and motorcycle boots, he sports a fake gold gun tucked in a holster. He looks fucking amazing. I’ve barely kept my hands off him all night.

He looks up at me.

I grin. “You just drank poison because you couldn’t stand to live without me. Why are your eyes open?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You smell good. Your fault. That dress is hot. Trying to figure out how to get my hand under it without anyone seeing.”

I giggle, trying to keep it muffled. It’s been two weeks of this, us at practice together, the intense feelings I feel every time he looks at me and says his lines, especially the ones where he talks about loving me.

No, Elena. Don’t rush . . .

But I can’t help it.

I’m flying high when I’m with him, when he’s inside me, murmuring my name like a litany, his hands on my body.

But when I’m alone . . .

Taking chances, I remind myself in my head.

Isn’t it worth it?

We might fall apart at any minute.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, keeping his voice low. “Did I flub my line? Too much tongue with that last kiss? Shit. Too much tongue.”

My lower body clenches at the way he kisses me onstage. The first time it happened was a few nights ago, when it wasn’t required, but there he went anyway, laying one on me during the balcony scene. The whole crew watched us, and I didn’t even care. “I don’t think she meant make out . . .” I try not to laugh. “Your lines were great.”

“I still worry I’m going to forget a line.”

I shift slowly, managing to squeeze his hand. “I’ll be here. Just picture them all as meerkats out there, wearing top hats and being ridiculous. Good trick I learned early on.”

He pauses, still whispering. We’ve learned to turn our mics off so no one can hear us. “Hey, I scratched my car last night driving it in your shed. Saw it when I left this morning.”

“Poor Porsche. You’re lucky I made room for it.”

“Aunt Clara waved at me this morning when I pulled out of your driveway. You want to come to the penthouse tonight? It’s Friday, and you don’t have to work tomorrow. I need to work out early, but we can hang out later. Watch some TV. I miss my K-drama.”

I stare at his shirt, lost in thought. I haven’t been back to the penthouse since we had sex there after the bakery; I’ve been brushing him off when he suggests it. And I probably should talk to him, but my pride keeps getting in the way.

I refuse to ask him to ask me to go to his real home.

I . . . I shouldn’t have to.

“Elena? You’re frowning.”

I gaze up at him, tracing my eyes over the chiseled planes of his face.

“What is it?”

I swallow as his forehead furrows.

“Elle?”

I sigh softly at the nickname he’s picked up from Topher. Amber eyes study mine, his thick lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he blinks. Everyone on stage fades away as clarity arrives, slamming into my heart like a great tidal wave.

I should have known.

And maybe I did know since the night he carried me in the rain. Who says love can’t happen so soon? Because this feeling in my chest is so big it hurts.

I’m deeply, irrevocably in love with my Romeo. His awkwardness when he meets strangers, the way he holds me at night against him, the silly pop songs he hums, the way he looks at me.

I want to spend every night with him.

But not at his penthouse.

My throat tightens.

“Are you sick?” Jack says, his hand that’s away from the audience rubbing my arm.

“No.” I lick my lips. “Jack. I don’t want to go to the penthouse. Ever. We should talk about it.”

He has to know this. He has to get it.

He frowns. There’s a long pause as we look at each other, and I watch his face, looking for any clues to see if he knows what’s on my mind, and I think he does, because he grows still. “Elena—”

The sound of Ms. Clark’s voice breaks him off. I’m not facing the front, but I know exactly where she is, stage right, saying her lines, wearing a long purple dress with a fur-lined cloak. The princess. She stamps her foot. “How am I supposed to say my lines when those two won’t shut up?” she calls out.

My eyes flare, and I ease up and turn around, grimacing when I see Laura, who’s got her head cocked as she watches us from the floor.

“They’ve been talking during my entire speech!” She tosses her golden-blonde hair over her shoulder and crosses her arms.

“Uh, sorry,” I say, biting my lip as I ease off Jack and move to standing.

She gives me a death glare. “It’s been happening every time you two are supposed to be dead. Would it kill you to let the rest of us say our lines? Also, all the kissing is ridiculous. There will be kids at this show. Can you tone it down a notch?”

Jack stands. “Right. Yes. We were just . . . discussing how to do the scene better.”

“Uh-huh,” she says. “Everyone here knows you two are dating, so just chill with the excuses. We’ve all seen the video of you two in the rain, running into that hotel. It was all over the TV. I honestly think your relationship is interfering with the entire play.”

I smirk. Someone is bitter she never got a call from Jack.

I dart a look at Jack as he exhales and lifts his shoulders, his expression saying, What do I say?

Patrick comes out onstage, dressed in his red shirt and pants, playing Tybalt, who’s already dead by Romeo’s hand. He glances at Ms. Clark. “Oh, it was fine. It’s not like it’s opening night. We barely heard them backstage.”

Crap, they heard us?

Ms. Clark looks at her manicured nails. “Still, it would be nice to have a practice where they aren’t all over each other.”

“You’re right,” I say, just wanting to keep the peace, even though I think she’s clearly going on way too long about it. I flutter my lashes at her. “Would you like for us to start the scene from the beginning, or would you like to just say your lines?” There’s so few of them, my sharp look tells her.

Her lips tighten. “Whatever Laura thinks” is her reply.

“They should do that death scene again!” Timmy calls from a folding chair on the floor. He grins up at Jack. “Jack looks awesome when he drinks that poison and falls down.”

I smile.

Jack does a little bow. “My biggest fan.”

Laura laughs. “Okay, let’s pick up when Romeo comes in the tomb and sees Juliet? Ready?”

We all nod and get into our places.

And this time, when I stab myself and fall across Jack, he keeps his eyes tightly shut, never once opening them to look at me, like I want him to . . . so much.

“Two more days till the play!” Timmy tells us as we grab our things after practice the next day.

Jack ruffles his hair. “Can’t wait, little man. Want to go throw some footballs for a minute?”

Timmy holds up his ball. “I’m ready!”

They laugh and head off across the gym.

I hide my smile. Does Jack have any clue how good he is with Timmy?

“Y’all look great onstage, Elle,” Topher murmurs.

I sigh. “Yeah.”

Laura nods. “Best couple ever. I’m so happy you guys are dating.”

“Yeah.” I nod, that trickle of uneasiness hitting me when someone uses that word.

He still hasn’t come to Sunday lunch. He still hasn’t told me how he feels . . .

Neither have you, a voice says.

But we haven’t spent one night apart—at my house. I’ve gotten used to him getting up before the sun is up and making me coffee, then chatting with me on the back porch before I go to work and he heads off to Nashville. Then he comes back in the afternoon, and we eat and laugh and read, then make love. I’m living in a bubble of us. I feel . . . disoriented and at sea . . . waiting for the tide to push me back onshore, to reality.

Our play will be over soon, and then, yes, then, I’ll make a decision for us to really talk.