Damon Atwood was Hollywood’s golden boy. Having won an Oscar at the tender age of thirteen, he had the life many could only dream about. But his success came at a price, and after a short but fruitful film career, he chose to live a life of obscurity on a remote Scottish island. Almost a decade later he’s finally ready to make his return, starting with a lead role in a musical on London’s West End.

As a choreographer’s assistant, Rose Taylor has always faded into the background. She watches shows come to life from the side lines, but has never craved the attention of stardom. When rumours begin circulating of Damon’s involvement in her latest gig, she doesn’t predict how she will be thrust into the limelight, nor how the mysterious and strangely introverted man will need her to teach him how to be a star again.

Rose knows that show crushes don’t last. Actors fall for each other during the intensity of a production, often losing themselves in their roles. These kinds of affairs burn bright and then they fade. The question is, should Rose let herself shine with Damon, or guard her heart from being broken after the final curtain call?

After a moment I leaned in, my shoulder brushing hers as I spoke low, “And what book would you have me narrate?”

She paused to consider her answer, tapping her lower lip with her middle finger. “Hmm, if only Elizabeth Gaskell had written North and South from the male point of view. You’d make a fantastic Mr Thornton.”

I effected a brooding frown. “That’s how you see me? All moody and tortured?”

She eyed me, seeming surprised that I knew who Mr Thornton was. “Maybe add shy to that list. You’ve barely spoken a word to me all week.”

I rubbed at my jaw and looked across the studio to where Iggy stood with Jacob, both men talking, their eyes on us. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

Seeming to notice my self-consciousness, she nudged me with her elbow. “Did you know you sound like Sean Bean? I could listen to him recite the phone book,” she said on a sigh. Did that mean she could listen to me recite the phone book, too? For a second her blue eyes widened, like she just realised what she’d said. I didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable, so I changed the subject.

“Do you remember earlier when I was singing my part of the song for the first time?”

Rose nodded and took another gulp of water. My attention wandered to the delicate curve of her throat as she swallowed and then back up to her bright eyes. My brow furrowed. It was becoming disconcerting how closely I watched her sometimes.

“Everybody got weird for a second, just…staring at me. What was that about?”

She turned her body to look me dead in the eye. “You have no idea, have you?

“No idea of what?”

“Of how good you are. When you sing, I swear, even the straight guys in the cast get stiffys.”

I sputtered a laugh, surprised by her unexpected bluntness. “You’re lying.”

“And you’re oblivious, Damon. You’re a fantastic actor and an amazing singer. It’s hard for people not to go all googly-eyed when you perform. I guess that’s why you’re a star.” She shrugged like it was simple.

“I haven’t been a star for a very long time, and even then it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be,” I said. What I really wanted to say was, do you get a stiffy when I sing? Or, uh, the female equivalent.

Do you get wet when I sing, Rose?

The question filled my head with images. In my mind she was spread wide and naked on my bed, begging, pleading… My gaze wandered from her curious expression to her exposed shoulder. Her oversized T-shirt was hanging off again, revealing a tight tank top beneath. The rise and fall of her breathing led my attention to her breasts, which were round and full, but frustratingly hidden beneath the bagginess of the top.

L.H. Cosway has a BA in English Literature and Greek and Roman Civilisation, and an MA in Postcolonial Literature. She lives in Dublin city. Her inspiration to write comes from music. Her favourite things in life include writing stories, vintage clothing, dark cabaret music, food, musical comedy, and of course, books.

She thinks that imperfect people are the most interesting kind. They tell the best stories.

Website • Twitter • Facebook • Goodreads • Amazon Page