The True Love Quilting Club Read Online Free Page B

suddenly she felt like a fox in a trap. Mentally, she shoved aside the sensation and chanted the mantra she repeated in front of the mirror every single morning after she brushed her teeth.
    You are a Broadway star, I am a Broadway star, Emma Parks is a Broadway star.
    “Which way is his office?” she asked.
    “Through the back corridor, past the black curtain, last door at the end of the hall.”
    “Thanks.” Emma smiled, but it was for no one. The girl wasn’t even looking at her. She shouldered her handbag and moved forward, gliding past the stage entrance. How many times had she come to see plays in this very theater, sat in the back-row, nosebleed-cheap seats, and imagined herself up on that stage? Dozens for sure, maybe even fifty or more.
    This is it. This is it. This is it. All your dreams are about to come true.
    She eased down the corridor, following the assistant’s directions, and pushed back the dusty black velvet curtain. To Emma, the building smelled like years of stardom. Meryl Streep had performed here. She could almost feel Meryl walking with her toward the door at the end of the hall.
    Not to put any pressure on you or anything, but don’t blow this.
    Damn that naysaying voice. Purposefully channeling Meryl, Emma strode forward, knocked boldly.
    “Come in,” rumbled a deep masculine voice.
    Resisting the unexpected urge to run, Emma turned the knob and stepped inside.
    The office was ordinary—desk, chairs, framed pictures on the wall. The man sitting on the burgundy leather couch was not. He was the most famed producer on Broadway, and he looked every inch the part.
    Scott Miller styled his thick mane of gray hair combed back off his broad forehead and curling to his collar. It lent him a leonine mien. He wore a white button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone, revealing a mass of wiry gray hair, and he had the sleeves rolled up, showing off his muscular forearms. Even well into his sixties, he was in great physical shape. His wedding band was a wide chunk of gold interlaced with a sprinkling of small diamonds. He wore a Rolex at his left wrist and oozed an aura of pure money in spite of the faded black jeans with a tattered hole in one knee. He had on black loafers with no socks and a look of supreme ennui on his face. She resisted the urge to curtsy even as mental alarm bells went off.
    His eyes lit on her. Miller sat up straighter and gave her a predatory smile. “Ah,” he said. “The Munchkin. Come on in, shut the door and lock it so we won’t be disturbed.”
    Emma’s pulse pounded and her mouth went dry. Something inside her told her to run, but maybe it was simply because she was in the presence of greatness and she didn’t know how to handle it. She felt humbled and thrilled beyond measure. She closed the door, locked it, and turned back around to see that he’d gotten to his feet. He was tall, at least six feet. Standing beside him, Emma felt like a redheaded toadstool.
    “You’re gorgeous,” he said, moving quickly across the floor to close the gap between them.
    Okay, she’d taken extra care with her makeup and clothing, but gorgeous was not the initial response she usually got from men. Perky, yes. Cute, uh-huh. Adorable, yep. Gorgeous, not so much.
    “I knew the minute I saw you that you were perfect for Addie, except you’re going to have to ditch the spiral perm.” He reached out to finger her Nicole Kidman curls.
    “It’s not a perm. That’s the way my hair grows.”
    “Then you’ll have to have it professionally straightened.”
    “Okay,” she said, even though she had no idea how she’d pay for that. It was perilously close to sounding like he was seriously considering her for the part. Did she dare hope?
    He stood so close she could feel his hot breath on the nape of her neck, and it was no secret he’d had garlic for lunch. Cloves of it, apparently. Dude, ever heard of Tic Tacs? Unnerved and a tad nauseous, she stepped away from him to study the