Act Like You Love Me (An Accidentally in Love Novel) (Entangled: Bliss) Read online

  Aunt Wendy slapped a playbook into Sawyer’s hand.

  “Why can’t you direct again?” he asked.

  “Because I do costumes and makeup. I can help you now, while you’re getting the hang of things, but these next few weeks, I’ll be far too busy.” The two people onstage started up with their lines, their words echoing across the stage and through the empty auditorium. While the guy’s voice was on the nasally side, the girl had a nice voice, though she needed to put some volume into it. She kept glancing at him and then whipping her head back to her acting partner.

  “Miss Prism says that all good looks are a snare.” She glanced at him again.

  Is she aiming that line at me?

  “They are a snare that every sensible man would like to be caught in,” her acting partner replied. There was a time Sawyer would’ve agreed with that sentiment. But not anymore.

  When she didn’t say anything back, the guy nudged her. “Crap,” she muttered.

  “That’s not even close to your line,” the guy said with a laugh.

  The girl looked at him again, those big doll eyes even wider. Then she turned back to the guy and said, “Crap,” even louder. “What’s my line?”

  “I’ve barely got mine down,” he said, then they both turned to Sawyer.

  Aunt Wendy nudged him. “This is where you’d feed her the line.”

  Sure…if he’d been paying attention. He lifted the playbook, but it was upside down. Before he could get it turned upright and find where in the hell they were, she was off and talking again, but he could hear the frustration in her words. “…don’t think I would care to catch a sensible man. I shouldn’t know what to talk to him about.”

  Other people came onto the stage, delivering their lines—a Miss Prism and Dr. Chasuble—making large arm gestures.

  Sawyer twisted in his squeaky seat to face his aunt. “So of course my mom says she’s fine, but how’s she really doing? You think she’s actually ready to let go of the house? It was supposed to be her and Dad’s dream home.”

  Wendy raised her eyebrows and looked down her nose at him. “It’s not doing her any good just sitting there, getting more rundown.” Aunt Wendy was Dad’s older sister, and while words couldn’t express how much he appreciated the way she’d helped Mom in the six years since Dad passed away, he still worried. Surely with all the groups Mom belonged to, like book club, bridge—he was pretty sure there was a knitting one in there somewhere—she wouldn’t get too lonely. But of course her life would never be the same. Activities couldn’t replace someone you loved.

  Sawyer blinked and swallowed past the lump rising in his throat. Even after all these years, it still got to him.

  “Did you want us to start the next scene?” Distantly Sawyer realized whoever was asking the question was addressing him. “Or should we run through that one again?”

  “You.” He pointed at the dark-haired actress who’d asked the question. “What’s your name?”

  The girl crossed her arms. “Brynn?”

  She was staring at him like that should mean something, and she’d made her name sound more like a question. Was she some actress from New York or LA? Maybe she was famous around here. “Okay, well, why don’t you and…”

  “My name’s Leo, but I’m playing the role of Algernon,” the dude announced. “So please refer to me as that as long as the production is running. I like to stay in character.”

  Sawyer wasn’t even touching that. “Okay, why don’t you guys take it from the top? I couldn’t even hear your lines, Brynn. If you mumble, the audience will never know what you’re saying.”

  Brynn shook her head, and he was pretty sure she said, “Seriously?” in that condescending way people did when it really meant, You’re a moron.

  So much for thinking he’d have to be careful about being attracted to her—he wouldn’t cross that line for personal and professional reasons, but she obviously didn’t consider him important enough to treat with respect, despite his new director position.

  He glanced at Aunt Wendy, who hopped up and headed backstage, as if she knew he was fighting the desire to quit. He just had to get through…however long rehearsals lasted. Sawyer looked past the Brynn girl and the other actor to the props. They could use some serious work. Earlier today, he’d dug out Dad’s old tools and bought everything else he’d need to get started on the lake house. He supposed he might as well bring in his tools and fix up this place, too. At least then he’d feel like he was contributing something toward making the production better.

  And maybe in time, the cute girl standing onstage, throwing her arms around as she delivered her lines—though she was still too quiet—wouldn’t look at him like she hated him.

  Chapter Two

  “Ugh, I just hate him,” Brynn said as she entered the safety of the 1970s two-bedroom house she rented. She tried to slam the door to punctuate her statement, but it banged against the frame and bounced back at her, the knob slamming into her side. Stupid thing didn’t line up right. She lifted the doorknob, pushed the heavy wood into place with the help of a solid hip bump, and finally managed to get the deadbolt to engage. Once the house was secure, she was ready to get back to the business of mentally tearing apart Sawyer Raines, the way she’d done the entire drive home.

  Normally she reserved hate for things like olives and mushrooms and any other food with textures that weren’t quite right. But Sawyer was one of the few people who deserved it. He’d sat there in the front, looking annoyingly hot and acting all superior—obviously he thought he was above directing their little play. When he’d said her name she’d waited for the recognition, but it never came. He didn’t even know who she was. Part of her was glad, and part of her felt as invisible as she had back in high school.

  Why’d he have to come and ruin her one escape from long boring days of talking to fake fish and the men who were obsessed with catching real ones?

  And why would he return here after all these years? He obviously thought he was a famous screenwriter now, so why didn’t he just stay in New York, where she wouldn’t have to see his stupid face? Did he want to come be a big fish in a little pond instead of a guppy in a shark tank? She wanted to know, while simultaneously telling herself she didn’t care.

  Her two parakeets chirped at her as she neared them. “Hey, Lance. Gwen. How’s Camelot these days? Probably more cagey than you thought it’d be, huh?” She fed them, watching as Lancelot went right for the food and Guinevere hopped on the swing as if she wanted to show off. It was harder to convince herself she wasn’t still an awkward nerd when she was talking to her birds. Birds named for one of her favorite couples—hey, if they couldn’t be together in the stories, at least they could be together in her living room in feathered form, right?

  So, she wasn’t your typical girl. But she wasn’t the girl she used to be, either.

  The bookshelf in the corner seemed to be calling to her. At one point she’d seriously considered burning all photographic evidence of high school, but there were her photo albums and her yearbook, hidden between her classic literature and romance novels. Some compulsion drew her toward them, like the spindle on the wheel of death in Sleeping Beauty. She knew she shouldn’t reach for it, but here she was, doing it anyway.

  She told herself she could face it, because she was now confident and coordinated and all the things she hadn’t been until after high school.

  Of course she tripped on the rug covering the mystery stain on the way over and had to brace herself on the bookshelf. So maybe she was still working on the coordination thing. She had to shift around her collection of ceramic kissing figurines to get out the albums. Then she carried them over to the couch, took a deep breath, and opened one.

  It was even worse than she remembered. Wow, she’d made some bad choices, looks-wise. Like, hey, you know what would make my boring mousy-brown hair better? A perm. This pic was also from that disastrous year when she decided she should wear period clothing, like she was preparing f
or a Renaissance festival every day. Definitely not a wise decision if you’re looking to fit in.

  In her mind, she could still see the mocking faces, hear the whispers that included words like nerd and weirdo, and feel the residual heart-sinking sensation of how it felt to walk into a room and have all conversation stop. She remembered so many days walking down the halls of high school by herself, wishing she could be someone else.

  Then there was the incident that shan’t be named, the one she liked to pretend had only been a bad dream.

  All the old wounds she’d thought had healed reopened, leaving her chest achy and raw.

  Despite the pain, she opened her high school yearbook, junior year. She flipped to the page she’d obsessed over way too many times. Sawyer Raines stood by the sidelines in his football uniform, hair messy from the helmet he held in his hand, a red marker heart drawn around his face. Brynn had sat through every game, despite the stares and snide comments she’d gotten, all for the chance to see him.

  She ripped out the page, crumpled it, and tossed it to the floor.

  Her heart was beating way too fast, like a panic attack was coming on horseback to find her. Once again, she told herself that she was a different person now—that she didn’t even look the same.

  Her second year of college, Brynn roomed with a cosmetology student who always wanted to try out new hair treatments and styles. Or maybe it’d been her nice way of saying you really need a makeover. Laura had dyed Brynn’s hair black, took scissors to it, and gave her a side-swept bang and fringe around the face. That day Brynn had looked into the mirror, noticed the contrast of her pale skin and the dark hair, the way it complemented what some people had called fish eyes, and thought, This fits me. She started leaning toward a mix of current and vintage styles with her clothing and accessories, finding a way to be herself yet fit into the modern world.

  It had taken almost four years to undo the damage high school had done. And in one afternoon, she’d let the cocky jerk who had ruined her plans for one perfect, fairy-tale night all those years ago, unravel her confidence.

  “I’m not going to let him do this to me,” she muttered. She knew she was too sensitive about high school and always would be. But she was an actress, dammit! She could act like it didn’t get to her, and hopefully, in time, it wouldn’t. Tomorrow she would be confident yet mysterious. Strong and unimpressed by his looks or his accomplishments. In fact, she’d just ignore him.

  And with any luck, he’d never recognize her.

  …

  Sawyer opened the screen door and dropped his laptop bag just inside. He’d spent several hours in the Daily Grind Coffeehouse writing and had lost track of how many cups of coffee he’d had. His footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor as he wandered into the living room.

  This place had been rundown and in foreclosure when Dad bought it. The plan was to fix it up and make it the family’s dream home—his parents had talked about the lake house as though everything would magically be perfect in their lives once they could move in. Sawyer had worked with Dad as he sketched out plans and made a list of all the cool things they could do with the space. Dad had even started a couple of projects, but his paying jobs always took precedence. Then he got sick. A few tests and the diagnosis was grim—ALS. So his muscles would only atrophy more.

  He got weaker and weaker, until he couldn’t work, and then eventually stopped being able to walk from room to room without help. Meanwhile, this house just got more covered with dust, its pretty view of the lake going to waste on the rats that’d built homes inside.

  Not anymore, though.

  Sawyer had called in an exterminator, and now he was going to turn this place into the home Dad had always dreamed it’d be—he only wished he’d done it sooner. Back in high school he’d been worried about sports and girls and trying to hide the fact that his dad could hardly move, like that was something he should be ashamed of. He’d put on a good enough act—everyone thought he’d had it all. He had lots of friends, a pretty girlfriend, and was the halfback on the championship-winning football team. Now he regretted not spending more time at home. He couldn’t change the past, though, no matter how badly he wished he could.

  He set down his bottle of water and picked up the sledgehammer. He’d planned on waiting until tomorrow morning, but he remembered the neighbors on both sides were all but deaf, and he needed something to do.

  He decided to start in the living room. He was going to open it up and turn it into more of an entertainment area with easier access to the kitchen, the way he and Dad had talked about all those years ago. As he worked, bits of plaster sprayed his arms. Thinking of Mom, he dug out the goggles she’d gotten him because she was worried he’d hurt himself remodeling. The longer he thought about the new layout, the more excited he got over how it’d turn out. It might actually be hard to go back to his cramped Brooklyn studio after all this open space. And then there was still the possibility of moving to LA—from what he’d heard, it was about as pricey as New York, with more driving and less foot traffic, which he wasn’t sure he’d like. Either way, though, it didn’t take a whole lot of room to type, and right now he was starting to think he’d live alone forever, because it was just easier that way.

  He was really getting into the rhythm, his muscles burning from exertion, when he heard a knock at the door. He lowered the hammer and wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm.

  “Don’t you think it’s kind of a bad time to be doing…whatever it is you’re doing?” a female voice asked through the screen. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

  He stepped into view of the door and stared at the dark-haired woman from the play. Brynn, he suddenly remembered.

  Her jaw dropped. “You.”

  He smiled. “You.”

  “Great, just great.” She started down the porch steps, heading away from the house.

  “Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your beauty sleep.”

  She spun around. Her dark hair was mussed and she had one of those eye-things that blocked out light while you slept on the top of her head like a headband.

  “I didn’t expect to see you around here,” he said. “I thought you were some spoiled city chick.”

  “Yep, that’s me. And now that I’m living here in the boonies, where people apparently remodel their houses during the middle of the night, I want to go back.”

  “Let me guess? LA?”

  Brynn scowled at him.

  Yep, he’d guessed right. The self-entitled air the LA type gave off was one of the reasons he was still dragging his feet about moving there, even though his agent insisted it’d be better for his career.

  But then he noticed her pajama pants had monkeys on them, and he thought maybe she was different. She was here in North Carolina after all, and he figured people who took themselves too seriously didn’t usually go around in monkey sleepwear. “So you live in this neighborhood, too?”

  Her head dropped back, a gesture that seemed to say she couldn’t believe she still had to talk to him. It should make him turn right back around and go inside, but he couldn’t help himself. There was something about her that made him want to know more.

  “I live right”—she swung her arm to the right, toward the little yellow house that an older lady named Ruth used to live in—“there. And yes, I can hear hammering at night. I didn’t think anyone lived here. It’s turned into one of those houses, like in movies, that kids dare each other to go inside.”

  Sawyer leaned against the doorframe. “Come on, it’s not that bad. And I’m trying to make it better, but apparently I’m doing it too loudly.” He shouldn’t provoke her—they were going to be forced together most every day thanks to the play, and they’d need at least a semblance of a working relationship.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s almost eleven.”

  He walked down the porch steps and she backed away from him as if he were going to attack her. He held up his hands. “I’m sorry,
okay? I’ll be working on it over the next few weeks, but I’ll keep it to more polite hours.”

  “Good,” she said, then bobbed her head, her hair flopping in her face. She spun around on her heel and charged into the little house next door that looked like it could use plenty of renovations itself.

  Sawyer felt himself smiling, the kind of wide smile he hadn’t used in a while. He wasn’t sure why it amused him that she hated him so much, but suddenly he found himself looking forward to tomorrow’s rehearsal.

  Chapter Three

  Brynn’s plan to ignore Sawyer had hit a snag that first night—how was she supposed to know he was the one banging around in the house next door? She wasn’t sure what had possessed her to go yell about it instead of calling the police. Probably the fact that she’d been half asleep.

  But other than that, she’d hardly spoken to him for the rest of the week. She even managed to focus and deliver her lines like she usually did—all out, not worrying about the too-cool-for-school guy in the front. He’d been on his computer most of the time, anyway. Not that she’d been paying attention. The guy wasn’t taking hints very well, though—for some reason he kept trying to talk to her after rehearsal. Every time he tried, she darted away, afraid if she had a real conversation with him, he’d recognize her. Then she’d have to relive awful memories as he laughed at her, the nerdy girl who’d dared to go after someone like him.

  Maybe he’d already figured it out. Surely he would’ve said something, though, right? Brynn’s heart kicked up a few notches. Maybe that was why he wanted to talk to her.

  In that case, she’d avoid him forever.

  She peeked around the empty theater, satisfied everyone had left, and then got out the paints so she could work on the sets. Paul and his band were playing at the Tavern later tonight, so she had a few hours to kill before she headed over there. Since she used to work on sets when she was in drama club, she’d told Nora, the old director, that she’d spruce them up—and man did they need it.