No wonder Eloise looked as if she’d rather be anywhere but there.
He moved towards her, reaching out a hand to pull her into his arms.
‘I apologise in advance for treading on your feet,’ she said, and he smiled.
‘You’ll be fine. I’m hardly a professional dancer either, you realise? I’m best known for smashing through walls and beating people up.’
‘That’s true.’ She looked rather pleased about that fact, strangely.
‘So you do know my films.’ He grinned, more pleased by the fact that she was looking a little more relaxed at last than by the acknowledgement of his fame.
Eloise rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, fine. Everybody knows Noah Cross. You’re on, like, every billboard and every bus.’
‘Not all of them.’
‘Most, then. All those big budget blockbusters you’re always starring in.’ She frowned. ‘But you didn’t always do those, did you? Didn’t I read somewhere that you used to be on the stage?’
This time, Noah was surprised. ‘Yes, actually. Not many people remember my touring actor days now, though. I did a three-year stint as a stage actor, touring in a company that took Shakespeare all over the States.’
‘Huh.’ She tilted her head to look at him. ‘I suppose I could buy you as Hamlet.’
‘Not Romeo?’ He waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner, and Eloise laughed as the music started up again.
Melissa’s voice rang out around the room. ‘And dance!’
Of course, he hadn’t had time to actually talk Eloise through the steps, since they’d been busy discussing him, but she seemed to have picked up the basics from watching Melissa anyway. ‘You’re a quick study,’ he said as they spun.
‘My mum made me take dance lessons when I was younger,’ Eloise admitted, still looking down at her feet. ‘I did ballet, tap, modern, lyrical and even a couple of terms of ballroom. Apparently I haven’t quite forgotten everything.’
‘Then why were you nervous?’ Noah asked. She’d been terrified at the prospect of dancing; he’d seen it in her face. But why, if she already knew she could do it?
‘It’s not the dancing,’ Eloise admitted. But, before she could tell him exactly what the problem was, Melissa was striding across the floor towards them.
‘You’re doing it wrong,’ the bride said, grabbing Eloise’s arm and yanking her away from Noah.
‘I thought she had it, actually,’ Noah objected, but Melissa had already taken up her ballroom position.
‘No. I’ll show you again,’ she said to Eloise with exaggerated patience.
Noah raised his arms and met Eloise’s gaze over Melissa’s shoulder. She raised her eyes to the heavens, and he smiled.
Maybe he’d tread on Melissa’s toes while they danced. That might persuade her to give up on the lessons.
Or at least put Eloise back in his arms, which couldn’t be a bad thing.
MELISSA DRILLED THEM in their dance for far longer than Eloise thought was strictly necessary—she wasn’t that bad, she was sure. Eventually, though, Melissa had to let Eloise go, once she pointed out that if she didn’t there would be no one to check that everything was ready for the Frost Fair.
Noah took the opportunity to escape too, which Eloise was grateful for. It had felt too good, dancing in his arms. And the connection between them—even if it was born entirely out of mocking Melissa—seemed a little too easy. She wasn’t an idiot; she knew Noah was just playing with her. What she didn’t understand was why he was still bothering. She’d made her position on the subject of having flings with actors painfully clear the night before.
Maybe that was it—the challenge. She could see Noah as the kind of guy who grew tired of always getting everything he wanted handed to him on a plate. Some people were happy to carry on that way, enjoying the ease that sort of life gave them. But Noah... She got the impression he liked to work for things a little more. Hadn’t he said something last night about a new role in a film, something more challenging? Yes, that had to be it. She was a different sort of challenge; that was all. The moment she gave in, all the fun would be gone for him.
She had to remember that.
Dressed again in her navy work dress and chocolate leather boots, Eloise hurried down to the riverbank, her coat wrapped warmly around her. The preparations for the afternoon’s Frost Fair were well underway—which was just as well, as Laurel would be bringing the guests down from the hotel within the hour.
Wooden stalls were laid out all along the riverbank, a temporary street of tempting offerings to eat, drink or enjoy. The river that ran beside the hotel rarely froze and, even if it had, it would have been a health and safety impossibility to hold the fair actually on the ice, like people would have done at the Frost Fairs of old. But, with the rustic stalls, the lute music drifting through the icy air as the musicians warmed up and the smell of the hog roast cooking, it almost felt authentic.
Authentic enough for Hollywood, anyway, Eloise figured.
Pulling out her clipboard, she did the rounds, checking in with every stallholder, every caterer, every entertainer, from jugglers to ice carvers. Everything was looking good until she reached the small stage set up at the far end of the fair, ready for the acting troupe Laurel had hired to entertain the masses with excerpts from Shakespeare’s plays.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked a dour-looking man unloading period costumes and props onto a rack.
Hang on. No, he wasn’t unloading. He was taking the costumes off the rack and putting them back into the suitcase.
‘Not great,’ he said, reaching for another doublet. ‘The troupe minibus gave up the ghost halfway down the M4. The guy they sent out to fix it said it’s dead as a doornail. I’d come on ahead with the costumes and props, but I’m only the stage manager-slash-accompanist. You want period sound effects or music? I’m your man.’ He shook his head. ‘Not a lot of use without the actors, though. Figured I might as well pack up again.’
‘Wait. Don’t... Stop packing up. Please. Just stop it.’ The man held up his hands and stepped back as Eloise reached for her phone.
‘Your call, love, but I don’t see what good they’ll do you.’
‘I just need to make a phone call...’ Turning away, Eloise stabbed at her phone until it rang Laurel, holding it tight to her ear and praying that the wedding planner would have an idea.
Click. ‘You have reached the voicemail of Laurel Sommers, wedding planner.’
Of course, to be any help at all she’d have to actually pick up the phone. Eloise hung up and tried again.
After she got put through to voicemail for the fifth time, Eloise gave up.
‘Okay, look, we’ll sort this out,’ she said, turning back to the man with the props. Except now he wasn’t alone.
‘Alas, poor Yorick!’ Noah held a skull at arm’s length as he quoted the line from Hamlet, looking utterly in his element.
Hadn’t he said he’d been a Shakespearean actor once? Maybe he could be again...
Spotting her, Noah put down the skull and walked towards her. Eloise pasted on her brightest, most winning smile and hoped he still wanted to keep playing their little game. Because she needed a big favour.
*