“Oh?” Huxley says with another soft chuckle. He turns and leans his back against the stage looking onto the empty auditorium.
“Yeah.” I chuckle a little awkwardly. “I spent a semester in Paris — been a croissant snob ever since.”
“Paris, huh?” Hux pauses, letting out another short whistle. “Must be nice.”
I expect his response to have more bite to it, but instead hiswords are laced with subtle melancholy. He hands me the thermos again, and I take it.
“Itwasnice …” I trail off while studying his side profile, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
I notice small freckles peppered across his ear and it makes my stomach twist.
Given his past, I assume he’s never been out of the country before so I venture with a question. “Would you like to travel?”
He nods pensively before looking over at me and flashing me a side grin. I take a sip of the black coffee just for something to do.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Brazil,” he says, “I don’t know why, it just speaks to me.” His expression turns a little morose before adding, “Never left Marsford Bay, except for prison.”
My heart sinks at the thought of how lucky my life has been compared to his, and I try my hardest to smooth the feeling away from my facial expression. I might not know Huxley as personally as I’d like to believe, but Idoknow he wouldn’t take kindly to pity.
I’m about to respond when the doors of the auditorium open and a group of four file in.
I ignore the pinch of disappointment at having our conversation interrupted when Huxley was finally warming up to me and push myself off the stage so I can stand next to him.
Huxley’s eyebrows furrow. “Whit?”
His attention is on the man leading the team; backward cap, flannel shirt, and a tool belt bouncing around his waist with every step he takes.
“Huxley? Well, I’ll be damned,” he says with a booming voice, brown eyes shimmering. “What a coincidence!”
Whit’s attention turns to me, offering his hand. “You must be Connie,” he says with a smile. “I’m Whit with Garafola and Sons. We spoke on the phone.”
I shake his hand, adding a distracted, “Pleased to meet you.”But I’m far more interested in how Huxley knows the handyman. I decide to add more context myself. “Huxley is the extra set of hands I mentioned on our call.” I take a breath. “How do you know each other?”
Whit’s face lights up, looking at Huxley and then back to me. “That isgreatnews,” he exclaims with so much sincerity. “Huxley’s in my woodworking class.” He claps Huxley’s shoulder with warmth. “He’s my best student.”
Woodworking class?
Huxley’scheekspinken, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment. He stays silent, his gaze cast down to the floor before finally looking back up.
Whit turns to the three others. “This is Penelope, Maverick, and Bruno,” he says, pointing at his team one by one.
They all wave, muttering a smallHiin response.
Silence settles between us while Whit smiles, watching Huxley and me just standing there.
He clears his throat. “Should we start with a tour of the theatre? See what we’re dealing with?”
His request snaps me out of it, reminding me that all five sets of eyes are waiting for me to give clear instructions.
“Yes, of course,” I say, straightening my shoulders. I plaster a smile over my nerves. “Sounds like a plan.”
I lead them out of the auditorium to start with the building’s facade, and we slowly make our way around the Remington, assessing what needs to be done.
It’slate afternoon when I get a text that makes my heart fly into my throat.
“Shit,” I say under my breath. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Scrambling out of my office, I rush through the backstage corridors, heading for the foyer.
