I glance over his shoulder and spot a tall man turned away from us, his broad shoulders and back straining a wool blazer, a hoodie pulled up to cover his head and face in the cold. His hands burrow into the pockets of his blazer and he’s nodding like he’s talking to himself.
“He’s on the phone,” Wright explains. “But lemme see if he wants to roll.”
He steps away toward the man and Takira immediately squeezes my hand and squeals.
“Shit, Neeve.” Her eyes are wide and bright. Mouth dropped open. “That’s Wright Bellamy.”
“I know. He’s cool as a fan.”
“You know him? How—”
“We’re in,” Wright says, stepping back up beside us. “He’s finishing a call, but we’re ready. Lead the way.”
It’s just a few blocks, and the three of us chat about the show and what Wright’s been doing in New York. All the while his friend’s deep voice rumbles a few paces behind. I don’t want to be rude or nosy and look back, but the rich timbre, his towering height, his face obscured by the hoodie—I’m intrigued. He hangs back on the sidewalk, still on his call, when we enter the restaurant.
Our friends already have a table and a shout goes up, congratulating me on popping my White Way cherry. My three understudy buddies came. John’s here, too, and one other principal. A few from the stage crew. Our little troupe has become a family and, as if eight shows a week isn’t enough time together, we gather and eat every chance we get.
“You’re not paying tonight,” John says, holding out the seat beside him. “And drinks are on me.”
“Awwww.” I plop into the chair and drop my bag to the floor. “You’re so sweet. You don’t have to do that.”
“You were fantastic,” John says, baby blue eyes sincere and smiling. “Let’s do it again tomorrow.”
Takira is already sitting beside me, so Wright takes the seat next to her.
“Hey,” he says to Janie across the table. “Could you hold that seat beside you for my friend? He’s wrapping up a call, but’ll be in soon.”
“Sure.” Janie blushes. “I love your work, by the way. The score of Silent Midnight . . . gah.”
“Thank you. That was a special project. Lots of fun,” Wright replies with a smile. “Now tell me about the show.”
Wright’s a genius, but he’s so unassuming and modest. A man as famous as he is could easily make this conversation about him, let everyone at this table give his ego a real nice hand job, but he doesn’t. He talks about our show, compliments the performance, asks John about his process. I liked him when we did that last-minute gig, and we’ve interacted some on social media since. My impression of him holds up. He’s a good guy.
Not to state the obvious, but also fine. Like fine fine.
He has this Boris Kodjoe vibe. Real smooth. Kind of golden–brown. Clean-cut, close-cut. I can objectively recognize his appeal, even though he’s not my type.
Not that I have a type lately. I’m so deep in this dick drought I’m past the point of thirst.
At first I thought it was merely the grind. Auditioning constantly, taking craft classes, doing commercials and voiceover work to not just keep bills paid, but to save. This business is feast or famine. I’m eating now, but I’ve been hungry before. Not again. I’m thirty. Too old to still be living gig to gig and buying into that starving artist thing. I need health insurance and regularly scheduled meals, thank you very much. So yeah, the grind could account for my semi-disinterested libido, but I suspect it’s more.
Maybe I’m disinterested.
I’ve always been guarded with men. It only takes your fiancé sleeping with your sister once for you to be wary. It’s beyond my cynicism, though. I need a man who doesn’t think that because he has a dick and I don’t that I should defer to him—shrink my dreams down to a more manageable size. I almost did that with Brandon. I dreamt of something else; something that brought me to New York, to that stage tonight, to this moment. And I almost reneged on my dreams for a man who cheated on me and got my sister pregnant.
So, yeah. I’m cautious not only about who I share my heart and body with, but I’m also protective of my dreams; of my ambition. I won’t endanger my future for a man who can fuck. Though . . . a man who can fuck? I wouldn’t turn it down, but it will take more than that to pique my interest.
“What are you getting?” Takira asks, leaning over to read my menu instead of hers. “Anything here meet your high standards?”
I roll my eyes. My standards aren’t that high. I’ve just cut out red meat and stopped drinking as much alcohol. My health demands it. “You’re the one who said my scalp would thank me if I changed my diet,” I remind her.
“Yeah, but you took it to that next level.” She elbows me and flashes a grin. “Always being extra.”
“I’m thinking about the salmon, but I—”
A chair scraping across the floor catches my attention. Wright’s friend has finally come inside to join us. The table shrinks immediately when he settles his imposing frame into the seat beside Janie. He peels the hood away from his head and I bite off a gasp.
It’s Canon Holt.
Like the Canon Holt.
The director I, and probably every actress at this table and in this dining room, would sacrifice a pinky toe to work with. Canon Holt is at my table sitting across from me.
Takira’s expression doesn’t register this massive earthquake of a revelation, but she kicks me under the table and hisses from the corner of her mouth. “Did you know?”
I pretend I need to reach for something on the floor so I can whisper back, “Do you think I would have kept my shit together this long if I knew?”
“True. True.” Takira casually glances up from her menu and smiles in Canon’s general direction, but he’s not looking at her. He’s studying his screen. He’s apparently in an exclusive relationship with his phone, and no one at this table tempts him to stray.
Which means I can look at him.
Good. God.
He’s not that handsome, but that’s irrelevant. Some might even call his features, examined on their own, unremarkable.
They’d be wrong.
It’s a Maker’s sleight of hand. Now God knew this man did not need lashes that long and thick, a paradox against the hard, high slant of his cheekbones. Canon hasn’t looked twice at anyone here as far as I can tell, but I’ve stolen enough glances to know there’s a fathomlessness to his dark eyes that is arresting. His unsmiling mouth is wide, the lips full in the blunt elegance of his face. A five o’clock shadow licks the ridge of his jawline. There is a geometry to him—angles, lines, edges—that disregards the individual parts and illuminates the compelling sum.
Our food comes out on steaming platters just as he lays his phone on the table.
“Excuse my reach,” the server says to him, distributing plates and drinks to the rest of the table. “Is there anything I can get for you, Mr. Holt?”
He doesn’t even blink when she calls him by his name.
“Macallan?” he asks. “I don’t see it on the menu, but—”
“We’ll figure it out,” she assures him with a smile.