Page 60 of Less

Ready for rehearsal.

I gather my tea and towel.

Only for Less to take both from my hands automatically.

“No script?” he asks.

“Oh!”

I blink.

“You're right. I should bring it for notes.”

He smirks.

“You already memorized it, didn't you, Rusty?”

The pride in his voice warms something inside me.

Because he remembers.

He remembers that I always memorize early.

It’s like he remembers everything.

I smile.

“Guilty.”

“Show off.”

“Says the man who can probably dismantle a weapon blindfolded.”

“Hmm. If you really want to see some of my better skills, I can show you later, Rusty. When we’re home,” he murmurs the last bit into my ear, and it’s like tiny little electric bolts zip down my body.

Whether from the warmth of his breath or the heat in his words is a toss-up.

I shiver, and Less makes a low humming noise and places one hand on the small of my back.

Together we walk toward the stage.

And my nerves immediately return.

Because today is my first official rehearsal for Haunting the Met.

Oliver Pax is here.

And I’m like seconds from fangirling.

Legendary composer.

Brilliant.

Demanding.

Terrifying.

And supposedly impossible to please.