Page 2 of The Cul-de-Sac War

And by golly she’d be there to give it.

It was going to take ages to throw open the back door, dash down the metal stairway, and fly around parked cars and pedestrians to reach the front of the theatre while hanging on to her dragging dress and slumping top. But she could kiss her job good-bye if she took either door leading into the shadowy aisles of the theatre’s auditorium.

She would just have to run.

She picked up speed as she moved down the empty hall in her leather slippers. As fluorescent lights shone overhead, beads fell like breadcrumbs behind her. The Exit sign loomed and she shoved the doors open with her fern.

As she pushed her way through, her fairy wings knocked against the doorframe, fighting against her as if crying out, “This is the exit door! Get back onstage, woman!” But with a final wrench of her drooping costume and an explosion of beads, the wings gave way and she took two stumbling steps onto the metal platform in the bright midday air.

Bree grabbed for the railing with her right hand but felt the impact of something against her knee before she could reach it.

Her foot slammed into the unidentified object. Before she could stop herself, she found herself flying forward.

“Whooooa—”

The world was suddenly upside down.

Pavement and steps now above her, racing toward her head.

But just as the tip of her braid whacked the steps, she felt something grab her by the waist.

Her body tilted like a carnival ride. Only the ride was a man who had reached around her waist and was pulling her backward. A man who had been sitting on the top step of the metal stairway leading to the back parking lot. A man who, after her knee had knocked him in the back of the head, had stood, grabbed her flying body out of thin air, heaved her backward by the force of his might, and landed her back on the metal platform.

Where she now stood. Frozen.

Clinging to her potted fern.

She blinked. Looked down at the fern. Then up at him.

“I’m . . . sorry. Thanks.”

“Sorry—thanks,” the man repeated, stooping down for his phone, which had toppled three steps down. “Well, I’m sort of the reason you tripped, but I’ll take it.”

A smile ghosted his lips, his sharp jawline softened by a five-o’clock shadow. His brown eyes—crinkly at the temples, as though he dispensed of smiles easily—were just a few inches below hers. Which was incredible, given he was now standing two steps below her.

And she was six feet even.

The fabric at her chest started to droop, and she adjusted her grip. Only then, it seemed, did he look down. “Oh. I see you’ve still got that problem there.”

Bree felt her green face flush. “Ah. So you saw.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Saw you inch your way offstage like some sort of plant-loving alien backup in a music video who wasn’t supposed to be there?”

Bree’s eyes narrowed.

He coughed. “Because that is definitely not what I saw. That is definitely not what made me start taking a video and get kicked out by a ninety-year-old usher for violating Barter rules.” He paused, grinned. “I’m Chip. And believe me, you were the highlight of my evening.”

He put out a hand.

“Bree.” Bree’s smile twitched as she looked to his outstretched hand, her own hands still occupied by her dress and plant. “And now you’re taunting me.”

His smile was as good as a wink. “Just a little.”

Her eyes lingered on his before a shout came from onstage.

Her mission. Right.

She edged around him, hiked up her dress a few inches, and took a couple of steps down the stairs.