A Midsummer Night's Fling (Stage Kiss Series Book 1) (26 page)

Judith folded her arms and eased back in her chair, ready to be entertained. "Sonnet one-twenty-nine."

Max groaned. He knew that sonnet. But not
backwards
. He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember the lines well enough to deconstruct them.

As he thought, Lachlan began speaking, his usual smooth delivery fractured into disjointed fits and starts. "'Hell this to . . . men leads . . . " Lachlan gritted his teeth and got out, "well knows . . . ah, bollocks, that's the wrong line, isn't it?" He glanced over at the judges, grimacing.
 

Judith was shaking her head. "Sorry. Yes, you skipped a line. Max, care to give it a try?"
 

Her smile was sharp, and Max knew then he had to at least try. He puffed his breath out.
Get this done and you can have some aspirin later
. "Hell this to men leads . . . ah . . . " He could do it
forward
fine
.
"'Well knows none yet . . . " Max slumped on his stool. He could never get through a whole sonnet like this.
Keep going anyway
. " . . . dream behind proposed – Oh, fuck!"
 

Isabelle snorted. "Yeah, you screwed that line up good. Seems we'll need another tiebreak – "

Nicola shot to her feet. She had her eyes shut, her hands pinned to her sides as she rattled off, "Hell this to men leads that heaven the shun to, well knows none yet, knows well world the this all. Dream a behind, proposed joy a before."

Max sank onto his stool in awe.

Nicola continued, "Woe very a. Proved and. Proof in bliss a. Extreme." Nicola opened her eyes and drew in a breath through her teeth. She cocked her head to the side. "That's more than Lach or Max could do. Shall I continue?"

Isabelle had been following along after Nicola's recitation. "She's word perfect so far." The artistic director eased back, looking impressed.

The other artistic director looked like she'd been slapped. Judith blinked several times then frowned and flicked her hand. "All right, a nice party trick. Can she
perform
it?"

Nicola's nostrils flared, and her fists turned white at her sides. "'The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action; and till action, lust is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme . . . '" Nicola threw her head back, shouting each word, truly lust in action. She looked wild and joyful and wry. Her gaze wandered to Max, and her throat moved as she swallowed. She glanced at Judith, but as she spoke, the words seemed to be meant for him. "'Mad in pursuit and in possession so . . . "

Max folded his arms and tried not to look sick. He was getting a Dear John note in the form of a Shakespeare sonnet. Her voice, her eyes, her posture were all saying:
what we had was incredible, Max, but it was crazy
.
And it can't happen again
.
 

Nicola was using fucking Shakespeare to break up with him.

She wet her lips, staring at her feet as she continued, "'Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well to shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.'" She glanced at him one final time as she finished. He was expecting her to show regret or resolve or sorrow. She
had
just dumped him via sonnet.
 

Instead she seemed wryly resigned, her eyes pinched, but the corners of her mouth turned up with wry affection.

Oh
.

Maybe that hadn't been:
What we had was crazy
, a
nd it can't happen again
.

Maybe she'd been saying:
What we had was crazy, but it's going to happen again anyway
.

Max hopped from his stool.
Nicola.

"The winner!" Isabelle declared, thrusting Nicola's fist into the air.

Wait, what?

The pub patrons burst into applause. An arrow of people surged through the crowd and pulled Nicola toward the bar. Everyone wanted to buy the new Sonnet Champion a drink.

"A woman of hidden talents," Lachlan murmured in his ear. "You lucky git."

Max watched with dawning horror as Nicola consumed several drinks in a row.
No, no,
no
.
 

Lachlan jiggled Max's shoulder. "You still driving me home, mate?"

Max rolled his eyes heavenward. What evil thing had he done in a past life to deserve taking
Lachlan
home that night instead of Nicola?

Chapter Sixteen

That then I scorn to change my state with kings . . . Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream . . . Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night
. . . Nicola blinked, and planted her hands against the bar, trying to get the world to slow down a bit. Shakespeare lines kept running through her head, bits and snatches, phrases orphaned from their context.
 

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings
. . .
 

Every time she thought of Max reciting that sonnet . . . to
her
. . . her chest actually hurt. Him looking at her like that, saying those words,
meaning
them. She couldn't
breathe
when he looked at her like that.
 

"You about done with your carousing, poppet?"

Nicola blinked and, with great difficulty, turned her head to the side to see Lachlan. Her body felt heavy, like towels soaked with water. Except she'd soaked her muscles in alcohol.
Could Lachlan even lift me right now?

He snickered, his eyes crinkling with amusement. His skin was pale, his hair a silky red, his eyes very blue.
 

Nicola eased away. "Where's Max?" She wanted Max, not Lachlan. No matter how aesteh, estetic. . . astehtically . . . no matter how
pretty
Lachlan was.

"Max is giving us a ride home, my blossom. You're not driving anywhere for sure. Come along." Lachlan was still smirking as he caught her by the arm and helped her off her stool. The floor seemed a lot farther away than it had been when she got
on
the stool.
 

"Must say I'm jealous," Lachlan murmured. "I don't get this many drinks when I win a Sonnet Faceoff."

"They must like me better than you." Nicola grinned at him, feeling loose-limbed, feeling happy.
 

"Hmm." Lachlan held her arm as he threaded through the crowd. People called to her and she waved, but Lachlan didn't slow until they reached the door. "Here, hold on a mo while I visit the john." Lachlan released her and left.

Nicola blinked at the expanse of chiseled male chest in front of her. She traced her fingers over the soft gray shirt, feeling dense flesh beneath her fingers. A broad, wide hand caught her wrist and pulled her fingers away. "Ah, the tactile phase," Max murmured.

She stared up and up and up at Max as he towered over her. A monolith of a man. A miracle of men. Soft blond hair, striking blue eyes, a suave curve of mouth, strong chin, great neck, good hands, tall, sexy . . . Damned aesthetically pleasing that man.
Before, a joy proposed
. . . "Hiya, Max."

"Hi, Nicci." He cupped her elbow with his hand and guided her out. The chill, crisp air of the evening splashed against her like being thrust into a cold shower.

She leaned against him, that big body radiating warmth. Something was poking at her back-brain. A
thing
she had to talk to him about. "I wanted to talk to you," she told him.
 

"Me too."

"They kept buying me drinks, though."

"I saw that." He clicked his key ring, unlocking his SUV, then he popped the door open for her. When she hesitated, he put his hands on her waist and hoisted her up onto the front seat.

Her stomach swooped and she clasped his wrists, keeping his hands pinned to her waist.
 

Romeo & Juliet
kept running through her head. Ridiculously. Incessantly
. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night . . . Romeo leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen
. . . "Max."

The line of his jaw stood out strong beneath the scruff of his beard. She traced the muscles, there, the bone. An insistent thrumming had started inside her, like a guitar string vibrating after it's been plucked. Each heartbeat seemed to come slowly, and too far apart. "Max?"

He covered her hand, holding it against his skin, but he was shaking his head. "You're drunk, honey. We'll talk in the morning."

He pulled away and slammed the car door shut, closing her in, shutting himself out. Max waited outside, his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders stiff as he faced the pub, as if he couldn't even look at Nicola.

She sat in the car and watched him, trying to lift her brain out of its boozy lethargy.
 

Her breath fogged the window glass, and she sketched her fingers through it, making nonsense shapes. Her heart was still pounding, blood popping through her veins with little fireworks of feeling.
Max. Max. Max
.

Yes, she was drunk tonight, and confused, and suddenly very scared. But, like her finger streaking against the cool glass, cutting clear lines through the fog, she sensed a new clarity within herself. A truth. She wanted Max. Wanted to touch him, be with him.

She'd wanted that for weeks, ever since she'd opened the door and saw him on her doorstep again. Nobody else caused this riot inside her. Nobody else would do, not even the glorious Lachlan – who was born to be a fun fling if any man ever was.

Nicola hunched into her seat, hugging herself, and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.
What am I going to do?

She couldn't go back to Max. He'd broken her heart.
Twice
. They had tried to be together and failed. Then tried again and failed. And tried. And failed. Tried. Failed. Enough times for her to lose track. Enough times to wear down her heart's endurance until the organ seemed a patched, threadbare thing, incapable of the overflowing, exuberant love she'd given as a girl to Max.

"'My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep,'" she murmured, remembering. "'The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.'"

But Juliet had it wrong: the sea could dry up. The bounty was not infinite, not inexhaustible. You could pour out your love to someone, even receive their love in return, and yet still you might find yourself parched in the end, bereft. Alone.

She scrubbed the steam off her window and stared out at Max, devouring the sight of his profile as he disappeared again, obscured by her breath fogging on the glass.
But I could have him again for a little while
. She could take the
Anything Goes
job. That would leave them only the summer. A summer fling. A
Midsummer
fling. Surely neither of them could get too badly hurt in so short a time. She wouldn't risk her heart, it wouldn't be a
relationship
, but she had been subconsciously working herself up to have a show fling with Lachlan . . . why not one with Max instead?

"
Yes
." Her breath puffed out in a gust, and the entire window was masked by steam.

Lachlan stumbled up, and Max tugged the door open for him. "Need any help getting in, Lach?"

"No, you wanker." The car shifted as Lachlan hoisted himself in.

Max closed the back door, circled around to the driver's seat, got in, and started the car. "All right, me hearties, no one needs to barf before we head out, right?"

Nicola shook her head. Lachlan flashed Max a "peace sign" from the backseat.
 

"OK then," Max said. "Hey, Nic, did you want me to drive you home?"

She jumped as he addressed her, and a slow burn started in her cheeks. "Um, no. My car's still at the theater, so if you take me home I won't have any way to get back for rehearsal tomorrow. Can I crash at The Bunkhouse again?"

"You can sleep in
my
room!" Lachlan caroled from the backseat.
 

"You can sleep in the spare room," Max said, glowering at Lachlan in the rear view.

"No fun, Maxim. You're no fun at all." Lachlan's voice was hoarse, and he sounded blurrier than he had before. Nicola wondered if he'd used his "bathroom break" to scam another drink.

"Thanks, Max," she murmured, marveling at herself than she could sound so calm while inside her heart seemed ready to break her chest with its pounding. Max's house. She'd be sleeping only a few feet across from him tonight. And, unlike the other night, she wouldn't have Tierney snoring next to her like an unconscious duenna.
 

The radio was keyed to something mellow and acoustic, and a low grumble started from the backseat: Lachlan murmuring, "'This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle . . . '"

Nicola frowned and turned around. Lachlan's eyelids were heavy, and he was slumped sideways in his seat, held upright only by the seatbelt. "What is he doing?" she whispered to Max.

Max chuckled and flicked the radio off. "Listen."

Lachlan's voice filtered softly to the front seat, melodic, almost chanting as he murmured the Shakespeare lines, "'This other Eden, demi-paradise, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this
England
. . . '"