“Are you sure you’ve packed enough sweaters? Because you know Chicago gets really cold this time of year.” Gloria was perched on the edge of Stella’s bed, inspecting every item she was throwing in her suitcase. As though she were some invalid who didn’t know how to pack for herself.
“For the tenth time, I’ve got enough cold weather clothing,” Stella answered back with practiced patience. She shot her mom a look as she dug through her underwear drawer. “I did live there, you know.”
Gloria offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Yes, I know.”
All her old ballet paraphernalia, including her toe shoes, toe pads, flats, and a few leotards, was stuffed in a box at the top of her closet. When she’d missed out on her last choreography job and had returned to Blanco Valley—feeling horrendously sorry for herself—Stella had shoved all the stuff away and hadn’t looked at it since.
She grabbed the box and opened it. The familiar smell of rosin still brought back memories of every ballet class she took. That was when she’d known true peace, doing something for herself and letting go of all the ugliness that had followed her childhood around.
Stella picked up one of the toe shoes and ran her fingers over the frayed satin where she’d cut around the boxed end of the toe. Cutting the satin, then burning the material made for better grip on the floor. She’d also ripped the inner leather lining out so the shoes would bend easier with her foot. She lifted the shoe to her nose and inhaled deeply. The nostalgic feeling flooding her system fought with the nagging in the back of her brain. The one she’d had since her encounter with Brandon in her studio.
He’d told her to go because he knew how much this opportunity meant to her. Because he was selfless and would never ask her to compromise herself for his benefit. Her heart had swelled with love for him, turning her resolve into a giant question mark.
Was she making a mistake by leaving? By making Brandon wait for her? And would he really wait?
She knew his trust issues wouldn’t go away overnight, even though he was working on them. What if he decided she was gone too long? Or wasn’t worth waiting for?
For the first time in years, she’d started to second-guess her decision to leave Blanco Valley. Even though it was temporary, Stella had never been totally sure if she’d want to come back.
She wanted to resent Brandon for upsetting her plans. For being so damn sexy and wonderful that now she didn’t want to leave him. But it wasn’t his fault. It was her own fault for thinking she could get attached to him and still be able to walk away. To pretend this choreography job was more important.
She turned her pointe shoe over in her hand one more time before replacing it in the box.
“I still think you’ll regret not going to the game tomorrow,” her mother said from the closet doorway.
Tomorrow night was the Bobcats’ final regular season game. If they won, they clinched their division and earned a place in the playoffs. Last season they’d barely missed out on the playoffs, but the town was hoping for a more victorious outcome this time. Annabelle had tried her hardest to urge Stella to come tonight. But she just couldn’t. She couldn’t sit there next to Brandon, because they always managed to find each other at the games, hear his deep voice, feel his wide shoulders brushing hers. She needed distance if she was going to keep her resolve and follow through with the plans she’d already made.
“I’ll be fine,” she told her mom, even though that wasn’t what her mom had asked.
“Are you sure?” she pushed. “You don’t even need to be there until Monday.”
Stella glanced at her mom and attempted a carefree grin. “I have a lot to do still before I leave.”
“Okay—” Gloria said, then stopped and tilted her head. “I think someone just knocked on your door.”
Stella sighed and left her box of ballet stuff on the closet floor. “It’s probably Annabelle so she can make me feel guilty again.”
She reached the front door and swung the thing open. Her heart double-timed, then fluttered, literally fluttered, when she saw Brandon on her doorstep. He was tall and wide and gorgeous with dark sunglasses shading his eyes and a backward baseball cap covering his thick brown hair. His jeans were faded and worn, with a tear near the pocket. And his Bobcats hooded sweatshirt only emphasized his thick shoulders.
She bet the sweatshirt smelled good. She bet it was soft and warm and smelled like his skin and soap all mixed together into one toe-curling scent.
He grinned at her when she only stood there staring at him. “Stella?”
She blinked herself out of her trance so she could stop fantasizing about slipping her hands under the sweatshirt. “Sorry,” she said, then stood back for him to enter. “Come on in.”
He brushed past her and, yeah, he smelled like something that ought to be labeled “Insta-orgasm.” A gift bag with tissue paper spurting from the top dangled from one of his hands. He yanked his sunglasses off and hooked them in the pocket of his jeans. Her eyes followed the movement, exploring how the soft denim cupped his package like he was about to rock a 501 Blues commercial.
Or maybe an underwear commercial. Something for Joe Boxer, or anything that would keep his impressiveness the center of attention. Because, damn.
“Stella.” His voice was low and rumbly. She’d spent enough time with him to recognize the need lacing the words.
He tipped her chin up with his index finger and lowered his mouth. She didn’t have time to prepare herself for his touch. And maybe he’d done that on purpose so she wouldn’t have the opportunity to push him away. Not that it mattered, because she wouldn’t have pushed him away. He ought to know that by now.
He jumped right into the kiss by encouraging her lips open with his tongue. And she allowed him, because every time he kissed her, she forgot how to think. How to react. The only thing she was capable of doing was standing there, because the man fried her brain. She kissed him back because it was too good not to throw her whole body and soul into it. The gift bag dropped from his fingers, allowing his arm to wrap securely around her back. His large palm splayed across her hip, then moved to cup her rear end. Images assaulted her of the other night in her studio, when he’d so skillfully maneuvered her against the wall, creating a delicious tingle in her midsection.
He groaned and took the kiss up another notch by angling his head and delving his tongue deeper. His other hand, the one holding her chin, slid back into her hair.
They needed to stop. Not only was her mom loitering somewhere in the back of the house, but also things could easily escalate to a place they had no business going.
So she pulled away, forcing back the reluctance threatening to take control.
“You don’t play fair,” she accused.