A Midsummer Night's Fling (Much Ado about Love #1) (27 page)

Now the really awful question
. Max cleared his throat, uneasy. “I don’t think Lachlan came home last night. Did he text you at all? I think Isabelle will blame me if he doesn’t show to this thing.”

As Nicola sort of shrank from him, he regretted saying anything.

“Lach said his ride’s taken care of.”

“Good.” Max kissed her quick, then went into the bathroom to finish getting ready, and to give himself a quiet space to be infuriated. What was he going to do about the obnoxious Brit?

The bathroom was still steamy from his shower, and Max used a washcloth to wipe a portion of the mirror so he could see to clean up the edges of his beard with his razor.

Maybe Lachlan was being a friend when he warned Nicola about Judith. Max tapped his razor against the side of the sink, knocking off shaving foam. Max, though, had a strong suspicion Lachlan had been making a play for Nicola. Which was
not
cool. Max gritted his teeth and tried to start shaving on his neck. But his hand was shaking with anger.

Every time Max thought about Lachlan, the blood pounded in his ears, like a war drum signaling battle. He tossed his razor into the sink, bracing his hands on the counter, trying to shake off the awful tension in his muscles.

He had to do a scene with Lachlan today—a
fight
scene, for fuck’s sake, which always required extra concentration and care. In other words, Max had to be in control today, be a professional. Feeling the way he did, Max wasn’t sure he could do that.

But if he screwed up in front of Isabelle, beat Lachlan to a pulp the way he wanted to, Max could kiss his career at the RSF good-bye. He had already lost Henry V because of Judith. Was he willing to lose so much more only for the satisfaction of giving Lachlan a well-deserved beating?

Max smoothed his palm over the cool glass of the mirror, wiping the steam away again. His reflection stared back with cold eyes, burning with a steady rage.

“Damn,” Nicola said in the bedroom.

“What?”

“I need socks. Can I borrow some of yours?”

Just like that, Max’s heart was hammering. “Yeah. I’ll get some for you.”

“I can find them.”

He heard drawers slam: one, two,
three
… Max threw open the bathroom door. Nicola was still at his bureau, pulling his drawers out in a methodical line.

“Stop! I’ll get the socks!”

Nicola jumped, probably because he was yelling, and shot him a bewildered glance. Then she smirked. “Is the sock drawer where you hide your porn, Maxim? Scared I’ll find it?”

He wet his lips and started toward her, cool water and runny shaving cream dripping down his bare chest. His skin was goose bumps all over as he jumped over the bed to beat her to the last drawer. “Yup. Porn. Really nasty stuff. You’ll never look at me the same way if you see it.” He slapped his hand against the sock drawer, holding it closed when she tried to pull it open.

“It can’t be worse than that anime thing all you guys passed around in high school with the vagina that shot porcupine quills.”

“
That
was funny. We weren’t actually, you know,
enjoying
it. Like that.” His face was flaming hot.

“Uh-huh.” Nicola had not yet relinquished her hold on the drawer pull. “You do know if you stop me now, I’m just going to look again as soon as you turn your back?”

He rolled away and flopped on the edge of the bed, bracing himself. “Shit.”

She frowned, looking really worried now.

He snorted. “It’s not porn.”

“All right…” She pulled the drawer out and peered inside. Nothing but socks on the top layer, he knew. Mostly white. A few black. One blue pair with gold dreidels on them that his mother had given him for Hanukkah.

He hoped Nicola would leave her examination at the top layer. Small hope of that, though, after the fuss he’d made.

She frowned into the drawer, and he knew the second she saw what he’d been trying to hide. Her shoulders drew back and she expelled a quick hiss of breath. “
Oh
.”

Max twitched his shoulders and pulled the hand towel off his shoulder, smearing the remaining foam off his face and chest before it dried there. He opened his mouth, but no words came. What could he say?

She reached into the drawer, pushing past the socks, and pulled out a small, red velvet box. She held it in the hollow of her hand for one minute, and Max felt like his heart was there instead. But nope, his heart was right in his chest, hammering like a battering ram against his ribs.

The top of the box made a small
creak-pop
noise as she opened it and revealed the ring inside. She set the ring box on top of the dresser. Her gaze never strayed from the small ring inside it. “You kept my engagement ring.” Her voice was soft.

“Yeah.”

“I never thought… I guess I assumed you’d sell it.”

“Why would I sell it?”

“You spent so much money on it. All of your paycheck from
The Last Quarter
.”

He gritted his teeth.
She had to forget her socks.
“At first I didn’t want to sell it. Then I mostly forgot it was in there.”

“Oh.” She snapped the box closed and tilted her head to the side, shooting him a quizzical glance. “How long has that engagement ring been in your sock drawer?”

“Five years.”

“I’m not the first girl to sleep over here, am I?”

Uncomfortable, he rubbed his neck and shrugged. “There were others. Here and there. Not many.”

“Right.” She raised her eyebrows. “Did any of
them
ever go through your sock drawer?”

Max started to reply, then his brain caught up. He gaped at her. “Oh, man, you think they found—”

She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes brimming with amusement. “Oh, Maxim.”

“Oops.” He crossed to her and cradled her elbows, leaning down to kiss her. “That does explain some things about why the girls I dated after you always got
really
weird right after they spent the night.”

Nicola laughed and kissed him.

But when they eased apart, her gaze kept straying to the jewelry box.

Max slid away to finish shaving, but his hands were still shaking too badly—if for an entirely different reason now.

* * *

A
s she and
Max pulled into the parking lot behind their old school, Nicola experienced the most profound sense of déjà vu. The students streaming by, the sight of the squat brown brick buildings, even the smell of the place—concrete and fresh-cut grass and hot metal—all of it stirred up old memories with the force of an F5 tornado. In IMAX 3-D color and sound. What had started with the engagement ring in his sock drawer had expanded outward as if to include the whole world.

She and Max had to pass through the administration building to get visitor stickers, and as she strolled through the front office dressed in her conservative business casual, with her prim blue cardigan buttoned up, the whole thing felt like some kind of acting exercise. Hidden camera.
How long can I fool these people that I’m a responsible adult before someone catches on or I break character?

Yes, and wasn’t that the icing of surreal on the cake of her day? She’d been prepared for some disturbance in her equilibrium on returning to La Voie Arts Academy for the first time. She hadn’t been prepared for the flashbacks of her and High School Max.

There, by the lockers, in the corner under the door, that was where we had our first fight. Because I thought he ignored me at a party
.

She stepped into the quad, her hand in Max’s as he dragged her along the concrete path, the two of them crossing through a sea of students at lunch that were laughing, joking, fighting, kissing. The students doing everything with the wild abandon of teenagers who live every moment of their lives cranked to eleven. Nicola could suddenly, vividly, remember what that had felt like.

There, on the roof, we used to sneak up there so he could smoke in secret during rehearsals.

There, by the drinking fountain, the first time we broke up. Because he got drunk at a party over winter break and punched Peter
.

There, under that tree, he kissed me for the first time. On our lunch break, three weeks into rehearsals for
Romeo & Juliet.

She started down the two flights of stairs with him that led from the quad to the back of the auditorium. Nicola had to stop, though, and grip the grimy, gum-encrusted metal banister.

There, on the bottom step. The first time she knew she loved him.

Romeo & Juliet
had ended, but they stayed together. He’d been walking her to her Stage Arts class. Second—no, third period. She and Max were laughing about odds and ends, talking about the newest episode of
Everwood
on the WB, making plans to see
Lord of the Rings
at midnight in a few weeks. She wasn’t in love with him at the top of the staircase. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, standing outside the auditorium, kissing good-bye like Max was going to war instead of Algebra II, she knew she loved him. Her heart had swelled, hurting as it stretched, reaching for him, knowing she would never feel this way about anyone else in her life. She hadn’t been in love with him at the top of the stairs, but she was by the time they reached the bottom.

“You okay?” Max stared at her from the bottom of the staircase, more than a decade older, calmer, centered, but still with the shadow of that boy she’d loved gleaming in his eyes. Silly and sweet Max, fun, dedicated, witty, smart, affectionate, beautiful, wonderful. Just…Max.

She put a hand to her chest, pressing at the knot of emotion under her sternum, and tripped down the last few steps toward him.

They reached the auditorium, and Max, out of old habit, led her to the back door and pulled it open. The door stuck, as always, and the muscles in his arms bulged as he forced it open.

Nicola blinked tears away as she hurried past him.
I wasn’t in love with him at the top of the stairs
.

* * *

N
icola had been
quiet walking through the school grounds, and her lip had done a dangerous sort of quiver when he’d opened the theater door for her. The school’s auditorium was large, a classic proscenium frame with row upon row of seating and even a second tier dangling above. The seats were new, but otherwise, the theater hadn’t changed much. Same heavy blue velvet curtains, same bare concrete walls, same chipped black floors. Same smell of new wood and fresh paint, sawdust and makeup powder.

As he and Nic walked across the empty stage to reach the dressing rooms, he nudged her with his elbow. “What’s up?”

“Memories.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

The first time he’d returned to La Voie High for a school program, he’d nearly fallen off the wagon, and he’d had to call Peter to talk him through right after. Every nook and cranny of this place had seemed filled with Nicola then, the perfume of her hair woven into the very air. For instance, this stage. He glanced to far right where he’d played the balcony scene with her—
how many years ago?
He could still sketch the awkward wooden balcony in his mind with its amateurish stone-wall paintjob.

Opening night of
R&J
, he’d looked up at her in the Juliet costume—this filmy white nightgown thing—her hair tumbling in dark waves, her eyes smoky with stage makeup, her soft lips bright, bright red. He’d looked up at her, beautiful, radiant, talented, and he’d realized she was
his
. He got to kiss her, hold her, have her even after the curtain fell.
His
. He’d had a difficult time continuing the scene after that, remembering his lines, his cues, his
name
.

Somehow, with her hand so firmly clasped in his, he found visiting the school much easier this time. “Do you remember what the first thing you ever said to me was?” he asked.

“Um… Hello?”

“Nope.” He stopped dead center stage and held both her hands in his, swinging their arms back and forth. “The first thing you ever said to me was, and I quote verbatim, ‘Do you know where the bathroom is?’”

“Not true!” Her mouth fell open, and she poked him in the gut.