Page 6 of Set to Love

“They’re in the ensemble,” he confirms.

Last night makes a heck of a lot more sense now. Dance captains are basically the onstage babysitters who make sure no one forgets their steps, misses their cue, or accidentally burns down the barricade.

“We were going out to celebrate the end of the tour’s run. I thought a quiet Italian place might keep the lads civilized before a heavy week of shows.” He lets out a dry laugh. “Clearly, I was dead wrong.”

“Well, points for effort,” I say, grinning at him. “But I think you underestimated the power of a group of theatre kids.”

“I did. It’s my job to keep them in line onstage, but I haven’t quite figured out how to switch that off once the curtain falls.”

“Maybe next time it’ll be easier,” I offer.

Although based on the “cast party” last night, in truth, I think that’s a big stretch.

Max chuckles again. “There won’t be a next time with this lot. We’ll all go our separate ways after the final show.”

“Is that back to New York for you?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not like I’m flirting with him. Though at this point, I totally am. I fully admit it. However, in my defense, he’s doing it back too. At least, I think he is.

“London,” he corrects. “New York was home base for a while, but I’m ready for the West End again. New York has its charms, but London is home.”

Sigh. London. The city currently occupying the number-one spot on my bucket list. The accents, the West End, the double-decker buses—it’s got it all. “I can’t argue with that. Though I’m starting to think London has an unfair advantage.”

“And what’s that?”

“They get to have you.”

Before he can reply, the ding of the oven timer pulls me back to reality.

Ugh. I knew I was on a time limit, but I was hoping for at least a few more minutes with Max. “That’s my cue,” I say, nodding toward the kitchen. “I’d better get to that bread before it turns into charcoal.”

“Right. Can’t have you getting into any more trouble on my account,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll see myself out.”

I start to back away, the envelope clutched in my hand, but I realize there is one very important person I’m forgetting.

“Max, wait,” I call out.

He pauses, hand already on the brass handle of the door, and looks back over his shoulder.

“Is it . . . would it be too much trouble to get a third ticket? I have a friend who will disown me if I go to Les Mis without her. And a boss who will never let me hear the end of it if I don’t take her.”

His lips twitch, like that’s exactly the answer he was hoping for. Cue those lightning bugs suddenly waking up again and choosing to flutter around inside my tummy.

“Sure,” he says, pushing off the door and stepping back toward me. “I’ll have one waiting for you at Will Call. What name should I leave it under?”

“Katie Keller,” I say. “My last name is Keller.”

“All right, Katie Keller,” he says, testing my name out as he pushes the door open. “I’ll see you later.”

The bell chimes and the door clicks shut. I stand there for a beat too long, watching through the glass as his retreating form disappears into the bright Orlando morning sun, wondering what roles he plays in Les Mis.

My romantic daydream is instantly shattered by a heavy charred scent cutting through the air. “Crap! The ciabattas!” I gasp.

I sprint back to the kitchen and yank open the oven door. A wispy plume of gray smoke drifts out, stinging my eyes. I fan it away frantically with my hands as I pull out the three sheets of bread.

Unfortunately, it’s a lost cause. Instead of a rich, airy golden brown, they’re a uniform charcoal black—crispy, hard, and beyond saving. Sighing, I dump the ruined loaves into the compost bin. Great. That’s two more hours of proofing and baking.

Technically, this is all Max’s fault. I should be stressed—everything I’ve done this morning is ruined. But honestly? Max is a walking, talking compilation of my absolute biggest weaknesses. And if wasting my entire morning was the price to pay? Worth it.

I look down at the flour-dusted envelope still sitting on the counter. It’s not every day an actor from Les Mis walks into your workplace and hands you orchestra-level, nearly front-row seats to the show.