She’s dressed the same as she was back at the theater. The same oversized sweater and black tights with boots in the same color. Her hair is different. It was in a topknot earlier, now it’s flowing free around her shoulders, and her full lips are glistening with a fresh coat of lip gloss.
Desire, acute and uncontrolled, pools in my groin. My fingers curl and ache with the sheer need to feel the softness of her skin.
It makes sense that she would come here, to this restaurant. It’s popular among the theatre crowd. Still, seeing her fills me with a raw frustration. I don’t need the constant reminder of her presence and proximity. I don’t need the constant reminder that I’m still helplessly under her spell.
Claire stops walking, and as I watch, she spits a few words at Liz, who only smiles in response. Next to Claire, she looks like a goddess, dripping with almost unbelievable beauty and equanimity from her hair to her toes. Claire sweeps past her and out of the doors.
Liz lingers at the entrance for a few moments, then, meeting my gaze, she walks over to my table. The neckline of her sweater slips over one shoulder, exposing smooth, delicate skin and calling attention to the soft swell of her breasts.
I want to stroke my tongue over that exposed skin, and everywhere else.
Fuck me.
“I’m not stalking you,” she says with a soft smile.
I tear my eyes away from her. “I don’t care.”
She expels a small, amused breath. What does she think is there to be amused about?
“I’ve just been told that you’re an asshole and I’m welcome to keep you.”
“The first part is true. I am an asshole. The second part, not so much. I’d rather sip lava than spend more time with you than I absolutely need to.”
“Aidan…” She draws out my name in a soft plea. Then she sighs. “Can I join you?”
I rise from my seat. “I was just leaving, Liz. The table is all yours.”
I can feel her eyes on me as I walk away, and it gives me an immense, though immature sense of satisfaction to feel her frustration as she watches me go.
That night I bury myself in my notes for the play. There’s a note for every performer, for every scene. I make additions and changes, my mind absorbed in my vision for the play.
Until I get to Liz’s part.
Thinking about her, her performance, her lines, her words and gestures, the extra something she brings to every role…and my mind goes from work mode to an unproductive, daydreaming, longing mode.
I want her…so much.
I put the notes aside and massage my temples, as if that would somehow get Liz out of my head. I switch on my rarely used TV and navigate to one of the streaming apps, then to
the list of saved movies in my library.
They all have one thing in common.
Liz.
Watching her movies has been my one indulgence these past years, and I’ve seen them all at least half a million times.
This time, I choose a romantic comedy. It’s one of her early movies, a box-office success that reinforced her reputation as a bankable movie star. The movie starts, and she takes over the screen, and I can’t take my eyes off her long enough to focus on the story which I already know by heart.
Liz.
My Liz.
Beautiful, effortlessly sexy, and incredibly talented.
My phone buzzes, pulling me out of the spell of Liz’s face and voice. Reluctantly, I reach for it and flick my finger across the screen.
Aidan…I’m terribly sorry about the presser and for all the awkwardness. Let’s talk. Liz.