Page 14 of Ghosted Cowboy
She was incredible. She'd always been incredible.
And I'd thrown it all away because I'd been too afraid to tell her the truth.
When Vivian finally called it for the night, most of the cast dispersed quickly—escaping into the October evening while they could. But Rainey stayed, sitting alone in the front row with her script, lips moving silently as she memorized lines.
I made my way down the aisle, my boots echoing on old wood. "Need a partner?"
She glanced up, startled. "What?"
"For rehearsing." I gestured to her script. "I know I don't have much dialogue, but I can help with your memorization. Run through blocking, give you cues when you need them."
She studied me for a long moment, wariness and something else flickering across her face. Want, maybe. Or fear. Probably both.
"I don't need—"
"Please," I said quietly. "Let me help."
Her defenses wavered. I watched the moment she gave in. "Fine. Just for a few minutes."
We moved onto the stage, and I took her script while she positioned herself in the chair we'd been using. The one where Silas's ghost appears behind Evangeline, touches her hair, hovers close while she delivers her monologue about lost love and impossible choices.
The overhead lights cast pools of shadow across the stage. Somewhere in the rafters, a board creaked. The whole building seemed to settle around us, like it was watching.
"From the top of the speech," I said.
She closed her eyes, centering herself. When she opened them again, she was Evangeline. "They tell me I should move on. Forget you. Accept that you're gone forever. But how can I forget the only man I've ever loved? How can I move forward when my heart is still trapped in that moment before you left?"
I moved behind her as the blocking required, my fingers hovering near her hair. This close, I could smell her hair—some kind of flowery shampoo—and underneath that, just her. The scent I'd been dreaming about for five years. The theater's mustiness mixed with rain coming through old window frames—that peculiar scent of autumn storms in old buildings. Made me lightheaded and heavy-limbed all at once
All I wanted was to touch her. Really touch her. Run my hands through that glistening hair, feel the silk of it against my palms. Skim my fingers down her body, remember every curve, every response. Hear her say my name in that breathless way she used to.
Too damn long.
"Your presence haunts me," she continued, rising from the chair like the script directed. "I feel you everywhere. In the shadows. In my dreams. In every beat of my broken heart."
She turned to face me, and we were supposed to move into the next section of blocking.
But she stopped. Forgot her line.
I forgot to look at the script.
We just stood there, staring at each other in the empty theater. The overhead lights made her green eyes luminous, made her skin glow. Those eyes that had always seen past every wall I'd ever put up, straight down into my soul.
God, I wanted her. In my life. In my bed. In my future.
There'd been other women over the years—rodeo groupies, one-night stands, meaningless encounters in forgettable motel rooms. None of them had been her. None of them had even come close. They'd just made the emptiness worse, made me more aware of what I'd lost.
There would only be one woman for me, and she was standing close enough to touch.
Did she feel it too? This heat building between us, dangerous and unstoppable? This pull that made it hard to breathe, hard to think about anything except closing the distance between us?
Her lips parted. I leaned in—
Thunder cracked so loud the building shook.
We both jumped. Rain hit the roof like buckshot—sudden, violent, that particular East Texas storm that went from clear to chaos in heartbeats. Our phones started blaring simultaneously, that distinctive tornado warning alert cutting through the theater.
The lights flickered. Died.
