The amused gleam returned to Aleksei’s eyes.
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “And now, twelve years later, he’s getting me dirty looks for cursing in the theater when he never should have made us read that terrible book in the first place. There’s plenty of hate and misunderstanding floating around in the world?—
especially in high school. Shouldn’t kids be reading books with happy endings? Or at least ones where good things come from pain and suffering? There’s way too much tragedy in real life. Kids don’t need it in books.”
* * *
This was personal for Rosemary. Deeply personal. He saw it in the sorrow in her eyes and heard it in her ever-rising tone. Well, rising until the senior citizen in front of them had given them the evil eye. Aleksei was grateful to her for it. It had brought a bit of levity to Rosemary’s dark mood.
He hated seeing her so agitated, but hell, she was beautiful. She looked like an avenging angel. Even damp, her white-gold hair sparkled in the chandelier light. Bright pink circles stained her pale cheeks, and her bright blue eyes flashed with an intoxicating blend of heartache and passion. Even her basic, navy-blue jacket contributed to the image, providing the perfect blank backdrop for her luminescence.
It was a good thing Mr. Hoffstetler wasn’t here, or Aleksei would tell him just what he thought of him. Yeah, school districts set curricula, not individual teachers, and the guy was just doing his job. But that job had left Rosemary with trauma that lasted a decade. She was chewing her lip and twisting her hands, and the play hadn’t even started. Staying here was only going to make her miserable.
The lights began to rise and fall. The show was imminent.
“Let’s make a run for it.”
The audience had quieted, so his voice was louder than he intended, earning them another glare from the woman in front of them.
Rosemary’s hand flew to her mouth, covering a giggle. Illogical joy filled him at the transformation of her pinched lips to a full-on grin, but then the theater grew dark. The deep voice of the narrator boomed through the theater, setting the scene. He didn’t know her well, but from what he’d gleaned during their short acquaintance, Rosemary wouldn’t be comfortabledisrupting the play. If they were going to leave, he had to push her to do it now.
“Stand up, say excuse me, and dash up the aisle. I’ll meet you on the sidewalk out front.”
“We can’t,” she protested.
He put the no-nonsense edge in his voice that he used when teaching new recruits how to go through a door. The tone he used when hesitation could get someone killed.
“Do it now,” he ordered.
And she did.
He left the theater a few minutes later at the sensible, concerned pace one would use when checking on an ill friend. He found her outside, hunched over, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders slightly shaking.
Panic squeezed his chest. Was she crying?
He stepped toward her, slid a hand under her already damp chin, and lifted her face. Her eyes were watering, and a lone tear slipped down her cheek.
She gulped in a breath and squeezed his elbow. “Did you see the look on that usher’s face when I ran by him?” Full-body laughter shook her, and she wiped another tear from her eye. “He was horrified! He couldn’t even get a word out. He just sputtered and waved his flashlight at me.”
Her delight was infectious, and amusement welled up from his gut. For a few seconds, they were both shaking and gripping their sides, roaring with laughter.
“We have to stop,” she said. “People are staring, and we’re getting soaked.”
She was right. The windbreaker he’d worn for the trip wasn’t waterproof, and cold rain was seeping through, dampening his arms. Plus, his hair was so closely cut that raindrops were sliding down his head and into the neckline of his shirt.
He reached out, pulled the umbrella from her wrist, popped it open, and slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her soft curves against his side. Her shoulder slid perfectly under his arm as if they were pieces of the jigsaw puzzles his father had liked so much.
“Let’s go get a drink,” he suggested.
He guided her through the damp streets, chatting and dodging puddles, his body moving without thought, like driving to work. You did it so frequently that some days you left the house and then parked and didn’t remember the drive. That same feeling struck him when he realized they were at McGillin’s.
Shit.
He hadn’t meant to bring her here.
“You okay?” she asked, rubbing his biceps.
He was not okay. They were at fucking McGillin’s.