39 Robin Meets a Culinary Legend

August 9th

"Where am I supposed to be right now?" I asked Maggie, fully committing myself to the role of clueless celebrity talent. We were doing last-minute promo shoots for the play, and the pre-show buzz was now an event that lasted days.

I was filled with a wonderful, horrible tension that thrummed like rubber bands and was successfully distracting me from the dread of opening night. I was Peter Pan, lighter than air, and I'd barely even considered a certain Skyler Evans in a certain capacity for almost a week. Well, a couple of days.

An hour.

Except that was a total lie.

I kept thinking back to the conversation we'd had about Delia and how to remain friends with someone you wanted to kiss the ever-loving shit out of. That wasn't the exact wording, but it had been heavily implied. What was I supposed to do about the fact that he was too wonderful and it was physically impossible for me not to be in love with him and that I was also Robin Finch, prima donna.

Maggie finally looked up from her clipboard and acknowledged me by rolling her eyes. "We're done with the ensemble shots, so yeah"—she waved me back toward the stage—"it's time for your favorite part of the day."

I forced a grin. "Glamour shots?"

Sure enough, the moment the words left my mouth, I was pounced on by Kita and Lawrence, who insisted on redoing my makeup and hair before the shoot. I was trying to get lost in the pre-show euphoria again, I really was, but I'd fully jinxed myself by letting my brain whisper his name.

This had become my new normal—I'd be doing something else, anything else, and out of nowhere the thought of Skyler would drift closer in the back of my mind like a megalodon rising silently from the depths.

Once Lawrence had made my face one giant cheekbone and Kita had gotten my hair fluffy beyond comprehension, I headed out onto the stage. The set remained hung from the last dress rehearsal; it was the matte painting of Neverland, but with elements of barista-ing hidden in the details, and of course the prop coffee counter stood off stage right. There were a few people milling about in the orchestra pit, mostly crew and some cast members who were sticking around to watch how the lead (that would be me) was fawned over by the media (the one guy hired by the theater department). There was a blond leaning against the stage, a fancy-looking camera hanging around his neck.

When he saw me, he hopped lightly onto the stage, extending a well-manicured hand.

"Hey, I'm Lucas Barclay, I'll be your photographer today." He had a goofy smile, and it didn't matter how messed up I was feeling, I couldn't help but like Lucas Barclay.

I grasped his hand and pumped it twice, grinning up at him. "I'm Robin Peregrine Finch. Pleased to meet you, Lucas Barclay!"

Lucas Barclay...

"This looks like it's going to be amazing," he was saying, but it sounded like it was coming from a long way off. "Amazing and weird. Like, why is there an espresso machine in Neverland, right?"

"Why indeed," I managed, frowning up at him. Why did that name sound so familiar? Lucas Barclay, Lucas Barclay, who the hell was Lucas Barclay? Why did I know that name? Lucas Bar—

"Oh my god, you're Martha Stewart!" I shrieked. "You're Lucas Barclay!"

"Y-yes ...?" He coughed, clearly startled, but still keeping that sweet smile. "Um ... have we met?"

I shook my head, ruining whatever effect Kita had been going for. "I work for Armand! Your roommate? The guy you never see?"

Lucas's eyes widened and his jaw dropped a little, but before he could say anything, I grabbed his upper arms and pushed him back.

"Oh wow, let me look at you!" I took a few steps back, then scanned him up and down.

He was tall, though not as tall as Armand, and built like a fitness model, with the kind of face that put you in mind of the boy next door. The handsome boy next door. The handsome and stylish boy next door.

I grinned at him. "You are so much hotter than I expected." Ooh, was Armand in for a happy, sexy surprise!

Lucas, who had moved elegantly from shock to friendly amusement, waved the compliment away and put his hands on his hips. "Wow, so you know Armand, huh?" he shook his head in disbelief. "This is ridiculous. Everyone's met this man but me."

"You guys still texting?" I'd left my prima-donna persona behind because intrigue always took precedence—especially with Armand and his soul/roommate crap.

Lucas's tan cheeks flushed, but he seemed amused. "He told you that? What do you do for him, exactly?"

I shrugged, laughing. "Everything? You've seen how he lives. My job is to make sure he gets places and does things, you know? All of the things."

Lucas nodded, gently biting his lower lip in a smile that made it clear he knew exactly what I meant. How could he not? He had a front row seat. "He does seem kind of ... eccentric? But nice," he quickly amended. "With the muffins and everything." Lucas glanced down and fidgeted with his camera.

"Muffins?" I blinked at him.

"The ones he baked for me." Were Lucas's cheeks going a little pink, there?

Oh my god, they were going to be so cute together!

Then I processed what he'd said and had to keep from outright punching him. "He baked you muffins!" I gasped. The idea was absolutely mind-boggling.

Lucas nodded, smiling through his blush. "It was sweet ..." Then he gave me a conspiratorial eyebrow pop. "What can you tell me about him?"

I rubbed my hands together like a cheap movie villain and chuckled. "Ooh, anything you want to know! I can tell you straight out that he wouldn't bake muffins for just anyone." I had to stifle a snort at the image. "And he's a bit of a grumpy bear."

"I have noticed he's a man of few words, even over text."

I nodded. "True, but those words he does say are spoken in a sexy-as-all-hell English accent, so it's kinda worth it."

Lucas's smile pulled off to the side. "Yeah, I know he's British."

"Sexy British," I clarified. "Like, he has this sort of early nineties Marc Jacobs British grunge thing going on, like if Dev Patel did a Kurt Cobain biopic ... but I don't think it's intentional. And I can also tell you he's got to be one of the most socially awkward people I've ever met. Ever."

"I kinda picked up on that." He grinned. And there was so much affection in it my heart nearly died inside my chest. "It's been hard to miss."

Was anyone ever going to smile about me that way? Bake me any damn muffins?

No, no, they were not.

And just like that I was thinking about Skyler again.

I shook myself slightly. "How the hell have you guys not met yet? Be honest, you've been hiding from each other." It immediately became clear that I'd said something wrong, because Lucas paled and his mouth twisted into a pained grimace.

"It's been a rough couple of weeks," he said, avoiding my eyes.

I was overwhelmed with remorse. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply anything, I'm sure you'll run into each other eventually. Even though there's only, like, a week left? Before he leaves?"

He gave a sad smile. "I hope so." He cleared his throat, holding up his camera. "Shall we get down to business, then?"

I nodded and adjusted my costume. "Where do you want me?"

Once we wrapped up the photoshoot, and exchanged numbers because the Armand back-channeling had to keep going for the good of humanity, I made it home and into bed and did some very belated googling. I found Lucas's photography portfolio and—

Pictures of Skyler. With horses.

I immediately pasted one of them into mine and Skyler's chat with an accompanying: this you?

Skyler: oh no you discovered my secret

Skyler: I've told you that I work with horses at least five times :D

He had. And every single time I'd spent the next ten minutes imagining him in a billowy white shirt.

I was about to respond with something snarky and not at all defensive, when another notification popped up on my screen. Not a text from Skyler, a random DM to my FotoBom account.

It wasn't from anyone I knew, and the profile was blank. But the message was a picture of the Shadow of Never poster. Holy frigging crap, did I have my first fan? I clicked on the picture and—

My heart clenched.

It was the poster. Opening night's date was circled. And someone had added an L to my last name.

Flinch.