The play begins, and we’re swept up into the tale. We dance, we banter, and when Elizabeth and Darcy meet for the first time, there’s a spark that’s never been there before, even in our private rehearsals.
Peter’s distaste and aloofness are perfect, and even the moments of awkwardness that shine through are perfectly Darcy. He’s a natural, even if he doesn’t believe it.
I confront him about how he’s ruined Jane’s life, and our blocking slips closer to each other until there’s barely an inch between us, only the muscle memory and our lines holding us back from falling into each other. This character has never felt so alive to me, my body aching from the fact that both Elizabeth and I just want to touch him, feel him, and neither of us is able to do so.
And then it’s the end, and suddenly Peter is on one knee in front of me, promising his love, and there’s a tug in my gut that I can’t ignore. When he takes my hand, I feel like I can’t breathe. And when the show is over and the curtain has fallen, I barely hear the applause because Peter has pulled me into the wing and kissed me breathless.
It takes Drew practically shoving us back onto the stage to run for our curtain call, and the cheering when we come out is one of the best highs I’ve ever felt. Ever will feel. Second only to that kiss.
The curtain call is over, and Peter takes me by the hand and pulls me backstage, back through the dressing rooms and into the prop room. I should protest, say that we need to change out of our costumes so we don’t keep people in the theatre, so we can go out to the cast party. But I want this too.
The second we’re through the door his lips are on mine, and every kiss we’ve had until now has never felt like this. Peter’s hands slide down my back, pulling me closer. “You were amazing,” he whispers against my lips.
“I could say the same thing for you,” I breathe. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”
“Amber Dwyer,” he says, pulling back to look at me, “I am falling in love with you, and I’m terrified to ask you, but—”
“Me too,” I say quickly. “Me too me too me too.”
Then he’s kissing me and I never, ever want it to end.
9
Amber
Present
I wasn’t expecting the urgent care to be this busy. Guess I should have known. This is L.A. Everything is busy here all the time.
Peter picked me up again when we got here. I told him that he didn’t have to, that I could just lean on him, but he didn’t listen. So now I’m cradled against him while he walks us through the automatic doors and up to the reception desk.
The girl in scrubs working reception looks up and her eyes go wide. She obviously recognizes Peter, but she doesn’t say anything. I imagine it’s probably not the first Hollywood celebrity to walk through the doors. Though I would love to know if anyone else came in carrying a woman like she’s a damsel in distress.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“She fell,” Peter says, the rumbling vibration of his voice rolling through me. “Hurt her ankle. We need to make sure it’s not broken.”
The girl nods and hands me a clipboard. “Insurance paperwork. We’ll get you in to see someone as soon as possible.”
“Thank you,” I say, and take the pen she hands me. Peter walks toward the waiting area, and I whisper, “You can put me down now.”
He smirks down at me. “Unless you’ve miraculously gained the ability to walk in the last five minutes, you’re going to stay here with me.”
A blush heats my cheeks, and I look away. “I don’t want you to get tired,” I mumble.
“Is that what you’re worried about? That you’re too heavy?” My blush deepens, but I stay silent. He laughs, low and soft. “Amber, you’re not too heavy for me. And I would hold you all night if you’d let me. But I know you won’t. So for now, let me help you elevate your foot.”
He sets me sideways in one of the waiting room chairs and sits in the one beside me, pulling my legs into his lap and gently lifting my ankle in spite of my wince. “Sorry,” he says.
“Not your fault.” I say, trying to focus on the paper in front of me. Trying to not focus on the fact that I miss his warmth and that his arms were way more comfortable than this chair. Get it together, Amber. You don’t need his arms to be comfortable. You need to get this taken care of so you can go home and prep for tomorrow’s shoot.
I hear the sound of a phone camera, and look to my left. Across the waiting room, there’s a girl with a phone pointed at Peter. “Shit,” I mumble. “Peter, twelve o’clock.”
He glances over at the girl and back at me. “So? It’s not like this is a compromising photo.”
“No,” I say, giving him a look, “but I’d rather not have any rumors of injuries on set. I’m going to message Gina. Can you text Wendy?”
He nods. “Sure.”
Gina is the head publicist for Undercover, and I swear that we’d be lost without her. She’s a genius that can spin almost anything, and having her make a statement about my clumsiness will be easy for her. I’m sure she’ll make it sound charming and quirky instead of me looking like an idiot. At least that’s what I hope is going to happen.
I outline the incident quickly, let her know that I’m currently at urgent care and that I’ll keep her updated. It’s late for working hours, but I’m not surprised that she texts back immediately. Par for the course with Gina. She never stops working, which is probably why she’s so good at her job.
And I love her for the fact that immediately she’s asking if I’m okay instead of worrying about the story. But the minute I tell her that I think I’m okay, she’s on it.
Peter’s on his phone too, and I know that his publicist is just as good. Between the two of them, I doubt that an injury story would get any play. On a lot of shows, an injury story wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but it will be if it’s on a show led by a woman. If spun in the wrong way, it could paint me as irresponsible and dangerous to work for. That can’t happen.
“So,” Peter says, interrupting my thoughts. “Now that we have some time are you actually going to talk to me?”
“I talk to you every day.”
“No. You don’t,” he says softly.
I look up at him, and I find it hard to meet his eyes because he’s right. I’ve kept every conversation I’ve had with him light and professional, restricted to nothing but the show and his character. Nothing since that first day and the incident with the scone. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. We always talked about this for you, but you’re here, Amber. You made it, and I feel like I know nothing about how you got here. The internet only does so much, you know?”
I roll my eyes. “You googled me?”
“Of course I googled you. I feel so stupid for not doing it sooner. If I had, I would have seen all the amazing you work you’ve been doing. Been aware that we were living in the same city. But what happened after…you know.”
I do know. The thing. The thing that I refuse to think about and that I’m not going to talk about and that I should really let go. Looking back, it’s not that big, but ten years can make small things into impassable obstacles. So for now, while we’re fine, I’m going to brush past it and just pretend like nothing happened.