Page 104 of How To Plot a Payback

“Two. Very thoughtful,” he replies, picking up my plate from the ground and passing it to the man beside him, who passes it down until one of the ladies drops a piece of pizza and it begins its return. “It’s settled then.”

He grins, then drops his arm on the armrest, skin to skin at my side.

And for the rest of the show, up to the final laugh, Finn and I stay in this position. Him keeping his hand resting on mine as if it’s been stapled there. Me keeping mine there because, of course, the cat needs me not to move. At all. And as we sit side by side, eyes on the screen, I take it all in.

The glint of the pool water.

The sitcom laughter.

The pats on the backs—his and mine—and the scent of shared lemonade cookies and the purr of the long-haired tabby on my legs. And him. And me.

Daring me, it seems, to breathe.

This is really happening, isn’t it?

And it feels right. Really right.

“That was tremendous,” says a woman with friendly blue eyes and a cloud of short white curls around her head. She grabs my hand in hers and gives it a warm squeeze, a dozen gold rings pressing into my hand. “Look at you.” She leans in conspiratorially, and I’m swallowed up in her perfume. “Just between us two, what happens next?”

I laugh.

It’s the question I get more than anything else in life, and yet with this group, part of me really does want to answer.

“Don’t be trying that, Ms. Gregory,” Finn says, interjecting himself into the conversation. “You know she’s under an NDA.”

And then a thought forms.

An idea. I feel a swell as I nod. “True, but there is something to be said for just . . . practicing. Getting some work done, making sure those lines feel right”—I wave my hand around the courtyard—“in the privacy of your own home.” I give a significant pause. “We can’t help it if people happen to see.”

It’s amazing. For all the men and women who claimed to be hard of hearing and made Finn turn up the volume to a blaring 65, the absolute halt of movement and turn of heads is intense. They are children who’ve just been told an ice cream truck is waiting outside.

“A show! What a splendid idea!” one cries, and the next calls out after, “Quick, William, move the front chairs out of the way.”

“No. Now, everyone—”

Finn goes on for a minute, trying to stop the mad shuffle that’s begun, but it’s no use. Eventually he gives up and lifts a brow at me. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve got them all worked up.”

“And we mustn’t let them down,” I say, grinning. “Think of Bill’s new pacer.”

“We haven’t finished up the script—”

“Doesn’t matter. Consider this a true work date. We’re working.” I nod my head to Mrs. Teaberry, who is shoving chairs out of the way faster than a Boy Scout. “All we need now is a script.”

“And some actors,” he says. “You expect to go up there and play all the roles yourself?”

“Of course not. Why, Finn,” I reply, and know my eyes must be dancing as I reach for his hand, “let’s not forget—you’re an actor too.”

Chapter 20

Finn

She’s done it again.

Foiled every one of my plans. Shattered them into a million pieces.

Like the imaginary plate she’s just thrown down between us.

Her eyes dance as she stomps her feet, mimicking, it seems, the sound of the plate that would be crashing.