Page 75 of When I Had You

I lift to see mischievous eyes staring into mine. “Oh yeah?”

My plans involved a bed, the kitchen island, and a shower.

Hers involved cramming into a crowded theater, paying for overpriced cheap wine for her, then hiding in the corner praying the lights go down before we’re spotted.

I’ll never say no to her, so my plans are back-burnered until later while we watch a play in the standing-room-only section since all the seats were sold out. Marina insisted this was the best way to see a play. I’m not convinced until after intermission, and I see tears hovering in her eyes as she watches the people on stage.

I’ve missed the complete story because I was captivated by the way every emotion she feels deep inside plays across her face. The magic isn’t on stage. The magic is wrapped up inside Marina Westcott.

Not once has she shown this depth of emotion in her films. I need to get her back to Broadway. Selfishly, it brings her closer to me as well.

We slip out before the ovations, which is smart, so hopefully, we’re not recognized. When we hop in a car to head back to my place, I ask, “What would it take to get you on that stage again?”

“Being cast for the role.” She looks down at her fingers as they fidget with the seat belt. “I’ve missed a lot of auditions because I simply can’t make them or don’t have time to film them to send in.”

“You’re a star.”

“In your universe, Romeo.” Definitely in mine. She says, “Maybe even in Hollywood. But on Broadway, I haven’t established a great track record.”

“Will Hollywood get you there?”

“Yes. If this movie does well.”

Reaching over, I take her hand in mine and bring it to my lips to kiss. “It will. I know it.”

“How was your first Broadway show?”

Let’s hope she doesn’t want to discuss the plot because all that matters is sitting next to me now. “Magnificent.”

We didn’t make it to the bedroom, but the kitchen got a solid workout. Yeah, my plans were better, though I won’t tell her that. I’ll happily accompany her to any play or show her heart desires if I get the pleasure of her company.

Lying under the stars on a warm June night, she takes a sip of wine and asks, “Why did you choose to use Ryatt over Warren?”

I’m not ashamed of anything in my past other than the nuclear bomb that was my relationship with Terpidy and the aftermath. Before her, though, it was my father. Cullen is the bright spot that numbs the angrier part of me these days. “I was offered my first major contract at seventeen. I was a punk-ass kid with a huge fucking chip on my shoulder. I’d been calling myself Crash Ryatt—”

“Crash? Probably not good in your sport.”

“Nope,” I reply, chuckling. “I was a big gamer in my teens and won every race I entered. It was fun to be someone on that track, to make a name that was all my own.”

She sits right up. “Please tell me Cash is your real name.”

“Don’t worry. It’s my real name. Crash was a play on it. Ryatt, as bad as it is, is a play off the word riot. I signed that contract as Cash Ryatt because back then, I didn’t want to be a Warren. That gave my father too much credit. And trust me, that deadbeat doesn’t deserve an ounce of recognition of my life or my mom’s.”

She reaches for my knee and rubs gently. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m not as bitter as I used to be. I mean, the fucker will never be a part of my life or my kid’s, but now I just think of him as a necessary evil. And I’m the product of him.”

“You’re nothing like him.”

“No, I’m not. I may have some resemblance, but I’ll never be like him. Cullen won’t know anything other than I’m the proudest fucking father on this planet.” I drink some water and sit up from the lounge chair. “And Ryatt’s a really fucking cool name, like a superhero.”

Her mouth falls open. “You gave your son a superhero’s name. That’s going to be hard to top for your future kids.”

Eyeing her, I take her hand and grin. “Future kids, huh?”

She wobbles her head, her cheeks turning pink in the moonlight. “If you have more kids, that is,” she says, flustered. “I’m not assuming or trying to trap—”

“I know. It’s good to talk about these things. We should.” Holding her hand a little tighter, I push right into the uncomfortable topic of conversation. Might as well lay it all out there. “For me, I want more kids, but I want a stable relationship to bring them into. What about you? Do you want kids?”

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