Page 22 of Ardently Yours

She clears her throat, her eyes wet. “It does. From the beginning, these people had my back.”

Her revelation changes everything.

She goes on. “I know you think we’re not very cultured here. We aren’t. But mydadplayed Mercutio in 1972. There are people here who are interested in this sort of thing. We’re farmers and schoolteachers and loggers. And we builtthis. I do set designs and costumes. There’s a place for everyone who wants one.”

I cover her cold hand where it rests on my forearm. The touch is minimal, less contact than a handshake.It’s nothing.

So why is my subconscious saying “It’severything”?

I arrange my expression into neutrality and pretend to be interested in the grassy area surrounded by terraced stone walls that act as a type of small-scale stadium seating.

“Inside, we do all sorts of shows.” She’s charmingly enthusiastic, her tone almost reverent.

This building is a disaster. I could give her something bigger and better where she and her friends could come together. “I could build another theater closer to town. It would be a win-win. RealFreedom would utilize this property to its best advantage, and a new theater could better serve the needs of the community.”

Her brows furrow. “You’d do that?”

I nod and make eye contact with her. “I would.”

“That’s . . . really generous of you.” Her lips turn up at the corners, but her eyes don’t smile.

The wind sneaks around the buffer of the sign and blows her long honey-blonde hair in front of her eyes.

I tuck the silky strands behind her ear, my fingertips grazing the cold, soft skin of her cheek. She doesn’t flinch.

“This is another of your wistful yearnings. It isn’t what you want,” I say.

“Why do you always ask me what I want?” she blurts.

“Because it matters.”

“If I thought that, I’d spend my life doomed to disappointment.”

I dip my head to make eye contact. “You can’t really believe that, or you wouldn’t have applied for the scholarship you have now. You wouldn’t be so passionate about this place.

“I applied for the scholarship believing I’d never get it. This meeting is about figuring out how to keep me and my friends out of trouble. I need to save The Rosalind. It’s not the same thing as walking around with my head in the clouds,” she says.

“Hopes and dreams are what keep us moving forward.”

“You never struck me as a dreamer,” she says.

I frown. “I suppose I forgot how for a while.” Even Reese has noticed a shift in my attitude. In recent months, I’ve felt oddly optimistic. “And then I remembered.”

Her expression gentles. “I’m glad for you. I can’t see myself being that person again.”

“If you cage your dreams out of fear, sooner or later, they’ll tear you apart from the inside.”

She rubs her forehead. “This isn’t about fear.”

Jaw set in a stubborn line, I scowl at the blank marquee. “You need to avoid lying or get better at it. You have too many tells.”

She freezes. Then she rallies. “Are you ever wrong?”

I shoot her a dry sidelong glance. “Not that I plan to admit to.”

She huffs with humor. “Me, neither.”

She takes a deep breath and indicates the building. “I need this place to stay right where it is. If you want to call it my dream, then go ahead. Steve’s real memorial service with our friends was here. And my parents shared their first kiss backstage. I’m attached to this building.”

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