I shot him my most smoldering look. “You sure you can’t stay just a little bit longer?”
He leaned into my ear. “Sweetheart, you know I’d stay in here with you all day if I could.”
“Okay, okay, I should probably get moving too.”
“Big day?”
“We’re holding a casting call for the new Broadway production of Cats.”
“Didn’t you sing something from that show at your high school graduation?”
A warmth radiated through my body. Although Becca had given me a hard time about Sam being my one and only, there was something wonderful about having that kind of history with someone. He was my own personal touchstone, able to recall special moments from not just his own life but mine too. I wouldn’t trade that kind of intimacy for all the hall passes in the world.
“Good memory. I sang the song ‘Memory’ and was pretty good. Maybe I should audition for Stephen.”
“I think that ship has sailed by now, don’t you?”
“Acting, you mean?”
“It’s a super competitive business. You know that firsthand.”
“Competitive yes, but people do break in, if they have the chops.”
“Like me?” Sam pulled a shampoo bottle off the ledge, held it like a microphone, and began singing the famous song from the musical.
I snatched the bottle back and kissed him hard on the lips. “Go. I’ll see you tonight.”
“For one of your famous home-cooked meals?” he teased.
“Not if you want to live to see the wedding.”
“Maybe someone will give us cooking lessons for our wedding. I’m getting tired of takeout, aren’t you?”
I shrugged.
“Since I’m off the next couple of days, it might be a late one. You don’t have to wait up for me to get home,” he said.
“I’m going out with Merritt tonight, remember?”
Sam got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, and I watched as beads of water slid down his washboard stomach. He’d always had an athletic body but had been working out with a trainer these last few months, getting ready for the wedding too.
“That’s right, of course. What are you two up to?”
I held up my hand. “Nothing too crazy, scouts honor.”
He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side like he didn’t believe me.
“I promise. Besides I have Boot Camp in the morning,” I said.
He nodded. “Tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her tomorrow.”
“I will.”
I finished showering, slipped on my robe, and wrapped my hair in a towel. I sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up my phone. There was a text from Merritt saying she, Naomi, and Alec were about to board their plane from LA. I quickly dialed her number, but it went straight to voicemail. She must have already turned it off for the flight.
Merritt was my older (almost seven years) and, admittedly, much cooler sister. We looked a lot alike, both of us with sandy-blonde hair and light brown eyes, but at almost 5’9, she had a good seven inches on me. She lived in LA and was the showrunner for a long-running medical drama called Urban Healers about an inner-city ER. She met her wife, Naomi, on set when she was hired to consult on a three-episode arc. Naomi was a pediatric neurosurgeon who specialized in particularly aggressive forms of brain cancer. The two of them could not have been more different, my sister the free-spirited creative and Naomi, the more sensible academic, but they had a wonderful relationship and had just celebrated their fifth anniversary. Last year, they decided they wanted a family, and three months ago they had little Alec.
Tonight, Merritt and I were hitting the town. Naomi offered to watch Alec at the hotel, so we could have some one-on-one sister bonding time. Ever since our mom passed away a couple of years ago, we vowed that even though we lived on opposite coasts, we wouldn’t let more than a few months go by between visits. I texted Merritt to tell her to let me know when she landed and then quickly finished getting dressed for work.
The Gerber Casting Agency held all their castings in a nondescript building in the heart of Times Square. I always liked to leave at least forty-five minutes to subway over from our apartment in Tribeca. Once a sea of deserted warehouses, Tribeca was now one of New York’s hippest neighborhoods. Sam spent close to two years searching for the perfect home we could put our own spin on. He used every penny of his bonuses to put a down payment on an industrial loft with two bedrooms and one bath.
The apartment had exposed bricks, silver piping running across the ceiling, and huge white ornate Roman columns that separated the rooms. The realtor told us the space was used as a sweatshop back in the early 1900s. Sam thought the apartment’s unique history gave the place even more character, but I was never entirely comfortable with its sordid past. Over the last few years, we did a complete gut renovation, replacing the kitchen, bathroom, and restoring the original wood floors.
The apartment was gorgeous, but I’d always wanted to live a little closer to midtown and the action. Maybe it was my California upbringing, but to me, living in New York meant large high-rises and sidewalk bodegas. It meant running into your neighbors in the lobby and hearing their fights through the thin plaster walls. Our walls were concrete, and the building’s elevator opened directly into our apartment. The only time I ever saw a neighbor was when a package would get accidentally delivered to our apartment, and I’d walk the box or envelope over to its rightful owner.
As soon as I exited the busy subway station on 42nd Street, I immediately felt more like a New Yorker. I grabbed another cup of coffee from a street cart vendor and hurried over to the casting. Courtney was waiting for me outside the building.
“Stephen needs you to pick up his breakfast.”
I threw my head back and sighed. “You couldn’t have texted that to me, so I could’ve picked it up on my way?”
She ignored my comment and kept talking. “He wants an egg white omelet dry with Swiss, mushrooms, and bacon.”
I tilted my head and smiled. “I know his order by now.”
“Great, see you upstairs,” she said, spinning on her heels.
I zipped my coat back up and walked six blocks back to Stephen’s favorite deli. The cooks all knew me by name, as did the cashiers. They should—I’d been picking up Stephen’s breakfast, lunch, or dinner at least three times a week for the last nine and a half years.
One of the cooks leaned over the glass counter. “What’s the big man in the mood for today, eggs or oatmeal?”
“Eggs. Dry.”
“With Swiss, mushrooms, and bacon. What about you? Toasted corn muffin?”
“I’m still watching my carb intake,” I replied.
“What’s the official wedding countdown?”
“About eight weeks to go.”
He eyed me up and down. “Looking good, lady. If you change your mind about that slouch of a fiancé, I’m still available.”
I threw a few bucks into the tip jar. “Thanks, Mike.”
“Eggs’ll be up in a minute.”
I grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler by the register, paid, and hurried back to the casting. The only thing Stephen hated more than lateness were cold eggs.