Ten minutes before dress rehearsal, AJ Graves sat alone in the auditorium of the Hayes Theater, watching the stage lights rise. Her head was full of ticking. Ten minutes. One more run-through, just them. Then the doors would open, and—

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

What was she going to do?

With a mechanized clink, the stage turned gold, and ­Noah Drew strode on carrying a prop chair. AJ stirred as his muscular, six foot three frame crossed center; he had such command, even when he wasn’t trying. He halted over a taped spike mark, his tousled black hair etched in light.

He tried the chair this way then that, his expression so familiar it made AJ’s chest ache.

Hers. He was hers until the show closed. That’s what they’d agreed.

Noah’s gaze lifted as he sensed her presence. He gestured to the chair. “Thoughts?” His low voice projected effortlessly over the scalloped red rows of the theater.

“What’s the difference?” asked AJ. Half their show was improvised—the chair’s role changed each night. But tomorrow was Noah’s directorial debut: even the chair must be considered.

He turned his broad back on her. “This way acknowledges the fourth wall. This way does not.”

AJ smiled as she stood. “Whatever you want. You’re the bride.”

Noah muttered something that sounded distinctly like My grave is like to be my wedding bed and returned to the prop. As AJ watched him fuss, she felt a tug near her sternum and knew: this was about them. Each tiny adjustment delayed the show from opening. From closing.

Slowly, AJ walked down the aisle. ­Noah faced her, severe. “Speak again, bright angel,” she teased.

His lip twitched as he tried to hold on to his irritation. Then he smiled, his gaze appraising. AJ’s cheeks warmed. “Come here,” he said.