kid wasn’t wearing a Marilyn Manson shirt or sporting enough body-piercing to fill Jake’s grandmother’s pincushion. And he could hardly have offended Deirdre. Drew had just introduced himself.
Besides, Emma was sixteen—and a real looker, like her mother. Even if, by some miracle, Emma hadn’t been kissed yet, it was going to happen and soon. Wasn’t this clean-cut, all-American type kid every mother’s dream boyfriend for her daughter?
“Emma is very talented,” Deirdre said firmly. “But I can’t say Juliet is a part I think she’s suited for.”
“Really?” Drew asked, incredulous.
“Emma’s got far too good a head on her shoulders to be sucked into that whole star-crossed-lover bit—she’s going to have to work hard to make it believable. I mean, the whole thing—the poison, the suicide, the whole parents-being-evil bit just isn’t her style.”
Emma grimaced. “That’s why they call it acting, Mom.”
“I knew there had to be a reason.” Deirdre smiled at her daughter. “I’m glad Emma got the part, and I know she’ll be phenomenal, but the role of Juliet seems a better fit for your girlfriend.”
“Huh?” Drew glanced from mother to daughter in genuine puzzlement.
Emma kicked under the table, missing her intended target and slamming square into Stone’s shin instead.
“Yeow!” Stone exclaimed as pain shot up his leg. He felt the press of three pairs of eyes on his face, both McDaniel females and this Drew character looking at him as if he’d gone crazy. “Y’all know, I, uh, really need some coffee,” he improvised, signaling the waitress, a high school girl with bottle-blond hair and inch-thick makeup who seemed to be studiously ignoring them.
Was Stone imagining it, or did the waitress really give Emma a nasty look from above the edge of her order pad? Drew looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Chris,” he called, the girl unable to ignore his summons. “They’d like to order over here.”
“Be right there,” the girl said sourly, turning to fiddle with a tray of water glasses. Stone wondered what the story was.
But Emma was too busy trying to do damage control to notice. “I was telling my mom that everybody assumed Brandi Bates would get the part and that the two of you were going out.”
“People assume a lot of things,” Drew said, his gaze holding Emma’s a little too intently. “That doesn’t mean they’re true.”
Emma blushed. “Listen, about rehearsing—Mom said we could use the gazebo out in the garden at March Winds.”
Deirdre’s eyes flashed. “You know, I’m not so sure that’s such a good idea. The guests love the gazebo and—”
“The guests will understand,” Stone interrupted, figuring he could lend Emma and Romeo a hand. “What mom could resist looking out her kitchen window to watch the whole process of her daughter developing her lead performance? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”
Emma didn’t look pleased about the setup he’d described, but Deirdre seemed to reconsider. “I don’t know,” she mused grudgingly.
“Emma’s dad will be jealous as hell.” Stone told himself he wasn’t fishing for information. He was just trying to make the deal irresistible. From what he’d seen of broken marriages, nothing delighted an ex-spouse more than sticking the knife in and breaking it off. But the flash of something in Deirdre’s all-too-expressive eyes made the back of his neck prickle.
“Emma’s father isn’t—”
“He vanished before I was born and never cared about seeing me again. And that’s fine with me. I never needed a dad, anyway.” Emma gave her mother a pointed glance. “I have Uncle Cade and the Captain.”
Drew looked even more uncomfortable than he’d been moments before. If Deirdre’s obvious disapproval hadn’t chased him off, the tension thickening the air this time seemed to make him look for an exit line.
“Actually, I’d better get going,” he said. “I was heading home to work on learning my lines now.”
“Oh.” Emma wasn’t quite a good enough actress to hide her disappointment. “Yeah, sure.”
Drew hung in there a moment longer in spite of The Mother from Hell. “Some of the language in this play…well, it’s not like normal dialogue, you know? It doesn’t exactly roll real easy off my tongue.”
“It can’t be too difficult,” Deirdre said. “People have been performing it for five hundred years.”
“It’s brilliant,” Drew said, brave enough to risk the evil eye in defense of the Bard. “I love listening to it, reading it, seeing it performed. I just feel a little dorky doing it alone. My kid brother and I share a room, and he’s a real pain in the a—neck when I try to practice lines. You know how brothers are.”
“No, I don’t,” Emma said. Was that wistfulness Stone detected in her voice? “It’s just Mom and me at home.”
Drew almost looked envious. “Wow. That must be awesome when you’re trying to practice.”
Maybe it was great at times like that, Stone mused, the hint of loneliness in Emma’s dark eyes echoing memories of his own childhood. It was the rest of the time that stunk.
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