Regina Kyle - Triple Threat

“Look at it this way.” Noelle poked at her own salad, sans chicken, cheese, nuts and dressing. Ballerinas! No wonder she was so darned skinny. “Whatever went on in that hotel room, it changed his mind about doing the show. And that was the point of your visit, right? So you done good.”

“Noelle’s right.” Ethan stuffed a French fry into his mouth. “This is a good thing. For everyone.”

Holly groaned and laid her head down on the table. “Not me.”

“Yes, you.” He nudged her under the table with his knee. “Didn’t your therapist say you needed to get over your fear of intimacy? Since you and Nick got down and dirty...”

“We did not get down and dirty!” Much.

“...it would seem you’ve got that hurdle cleared.”

“And there is no hurdle because I am not afraid of intimacy.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Noelle squeezed Holly’s hand. “If you’ve got a hurdle, Nick’s a great guy to jump.”

“I hate you.” Holly raised her head and shot them her best screw-you glower. “Both of you.”

“Hate us all you want, Hollypop.” Ethan flipped money onto the table for the check. “You’re still stuck with Nick for the next eight weeks. At least.”

Eight weeks. Eight long, excruciating weeks with the one man in the western hemisphere who could make her forget her name, address and Dramatists Guild number just by looking at her.

She was never going to make it.

Unless...

“Fine. But you have to promise me two things.” Holly pointed a finger at Ethan’s chest. “First, don’t ever call me Hollypop in front of Nick Damone.”

He nodded. “Done. What’s the second thing?”

“Whatever you do, do not—under any circumstances—leave me alone with him.”

* * *

NICK HAD TO find a way to get her alone.

He shifted in the painful metal folding chair. He should be focusing on the scene Malcolm and Marisa were rehearsing, or reviewing the script. Instead, he was fixated on Holly.

She was sitting only feet away across the tiny rehearsal room at Pearl Studios where they’d spent the majority of the past week, behind a table with Ethan and their stage manager, Jimmie Lee, looking more like the Holly he remembered from Stockton. She’d swapped the fancy clothes for cropped jeans and a flowery little top that did nothing to hide her cute little figure. The pink polish on her toes taunted him from the tips of her flip-flops. Her hair was brushed to one side like before but was softer now, her bangs falling gently across her forehead. And as far as he could tell, the only makeup she had on was that raspberry lip gloss he’d had so much fun kissing off.

But she might as well have been across the Grand Canyon for all the good it did him.

He continued to stare at her, trying to Jedi-mind-trick her into looking up from her script and acknowledging him. But just like every other damn day, she seemed intent on finding new ways to avoid him. Showing up at the last possible minute. Skipping out before lunch break. Running for the door the second they were done for the day.

How was he supposed to break down her defenses if she wouldn’t even look at him? Maybe he could—

“Does that work for you, Nick?”

He snapped to attention at Ethan’s voice. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t catch that,” he admitted, tapping his pencil on his script. “I was, um, making some notes on my character’s backstory.” And plotting how to win over the playwright.

“I’d like to run Malcolm and Marisa’s scene one more time to fine-tune the blocking, then pick up from your entrance at the top of act two.”

“Sure thing.”

“I need a break,” Malcolm huffed. “I’m dying of thirst. It’s, like, a thousand degrees in here. What kind of low-rent production is this anyway? First the power goes out, then your caterer gives us food poisoning, now the air conditioning’s on the fritz.” He dropped onto a folding chair, took a sip from a bottle of water one of the production assistants handed him and grimaced. “And can I get some Evian, for Christ’s sake? This cheap stuff tastes like crap.”

“What about Thing One and Thing Two?” Nick asked, noticing for the first time that Malcolm’s ever-present personal assistants, two recent Columbia film school grads eager for whatever showbiz scraps he threw their way, were missing. “Isn’t that their job?”

“Sean’s getting my dry cleaning. And Seth’s waiting for the movers to deliver my big-screen TV.”

Poor guys. Nick had left his assistant back home, to watch his house in Malibu and handle his fan mail. He wasn’t such a diva that he couldn’t go it alone for two months.

Unlike some people, he thought as Malcolm continued to gripe under his breath about the water .

“Take ten, everyone.” Ethan pulled a bill out of his wallet and handed it to the production assistant. “Can you run down to the deli at the corner of Eighth and Thirty-seventh and get Mr. Justice his water?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks, Wes.” Holly rewarded the PA with a dazzling smile, reminding Nick of yet another reason he was so drawn to her. She knew everyone’s name, even the interns. Refused to take the last bagel from the craft services table. Reacted to everything from a broken pipe to a dirty joke with a sense of humor and a quick laugh.

With a nod, Wes hurried out of the room, probably petrified “Mr. Justice,” as Malcolm insisted the crew call him, would chew his head off if he didn’t come back in under sixty seconds with a case of his precious Evian.

Self-centered, egotistical asshole.

But Nick didn’t have time to dwell on Malcolm Justice and his parade of character flaws. He had ten minutes—well, more like nine now—to get to Holly before she disappeared on him again. If he was lucky, maybe he could get her to bestow one of those dazzling smiles on him.

He stuck his pencil in his script and stashed it under his chair, ready to make his move, when he felt a soft tap on his shoulder.

“Excuse me, Mr. Damone?” Marisa Rodriguez stood next to him, nervously biting her lip. With him and Malcolm on board, the producers had taken a chance on the young, relatively inexperienced actress for the pivotal role of the abused wife. From what he’d seen so far, their risk was going to pay off. She had a wonderful, natural quality that couldn’t be taught in any acting class. “Can I ask you something?”

Nick snuck a glance at Holly and frowned. Ethan, her self-appointed bodyguard, had once again glued himself to her side. They sat together, shoulders touching, heads bowed over a copy of the script.

Jesus. The guy was like her freaking shadow. Nick wouldn’t be surprised to find out they went to the damn bathroom together. At first he thought maybe they were a couple, with their constant chatter, light touches and little laughs. That illusion had been blessedly blown to bits when Ethan’s boyfriend had shown up to meet him after rehearsal.

Still, Ethan needed to get accidentally locked in the prop room for a good half a day.

Overnight would be even better.

Nick turned back to his impressionable costar and flashed her a grin that he hoped was reassuring. “Of course.” He patted the chair next to him, and Marisa sat down. “But I keep telling you, call me Nick. After all, we are married, in a manner of speaking.”

She blushed and ducked her head, her mane of long dark curls covering her face. “Okay, Mr.... I mean, Nick.”

“Now that we’ve got that settled, what can I do for you?”

“I’m just curious.” She peered at him through her bangs. “You’ve done stage productions before, right?”

“It’s been a while, but yeah.”

“Are you nervous?”