He must’ve come in through the back before his driver knocked on the front door? I don’t even care. He’s in my house. He came for me.
My pulse goes wild, throbbing in my throat. He’s so insanely good-looking I can’t focus. It’s not just the sexy suit, the alluring eyes, and strong jawline. It’s the proud way he holds himself, the confidence he carries through every action. He radiates tenacity and strength without opening his mouth.
I clear my voice. “Was I supposed to get in the sedan?”
“You tell me.”
“I think…” I scrunch my face, contemplating. “It doesn’t matter. The point was you wanted me thinking about the night we met.”
Stern and indifferent, he crooks a finger, commanding me closer.
I’m captivated by his eyes. They’re things of beauty and power, made of magical ingredients that fuse with my eyes to create an unbreakable spell. I have to physically shake myself to look away and put one foot in front of the other.
Stepping into the kitchen, I pause just out of arm’s reach. “How did you know I moved back into this house?”
“I had you followed when you left the casino.”
“You didn’t know I was in town?”
“No.” He casts a clinical glance around the kitchen. “How did you get the house back?”
“Apparently, Cole bought it a month after I sold it. You haven’t talked to him?”
He shakes his head, expression tensing. “Why isn’t he here with you? He stopped answering his phone when—”
“I left. Or rather…he left. But it’s not what you think.”
I need a drink, and wine isn’t going to cut it. Crouching, I dig through the bottom cabinet until I find the bottle of scotch I bought a couple weeks ago. Then I pour two glasses and slide one to him.
“When did you start drinking scotch?” He lifts the tumbler to his perfect lips and sips.
“Tonight. Can we…?” I point toward the sitting room. “Sit down?”
At his nod, I lead the way.
We settle on opposite ends of the couch, cradling our drinks. I take a second to steel my backbone. I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to fuck this up. I’m just going to lay it all out, honestly and maturely.
“I never got over you.” I gulp down a swallow of scotch and launch into a fit of coughing.
Fuck that shit. I set the glass aside, wait for the burn in my throat to subside, and turn to Trace.
He watches me with disinterest, but I don’t miss the twitch in his fingers. He wants to reach for me, and I desperately want to be worthy of his touch.
“I tried to make it work with Cole.” I brush the hair from my face. “We had the connection, the commitment, it’s just…it wasn’t the same.” I stare into his eyes, let him see the raw wounds in mine. Wounds that bleed for Cole. “When he came back from the grave, I wasn’t the same person. I loved another man, and I still do.”
“But you picked him.” His hand balls against his thigh. “He’s your first choice.”
“He was a choice. Don’t you get it? You were never a decision.” I breathe in, recalling the words he said to me. “You’re the realization clawing at my insides without coercion or doubt or the pressure of time. My heart beats for you and only you, not because you command it, but because we’re meant to be.”
He sets the glass on the coffee table and rises from the couch, staring at the front door.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, heart aching. “For everything, but mostly for making you so unhappy.”
“I’m a grown man, Danni.” His voice is harsh, snapping through the room. “I don’t need your apologies or your coddling.”
Sucking in a breath, I jump to my feet. “I’m not coddling, dammit. I’m fighting.” I dart around the coffee table and stand before him, tilting my head back to see his face. “The day we went on the balloon ride, you told me I made you ridiculously happy, like you discovered a magical cure. You said you wanted to lock me away and protect me. Remember that?”
His jaw stiffens as he glares at me. Yeah, he remembers.
“I want to make you feel that way again. Lock me away, Trace. Do whatever you want with me. Just let me in.”
His unnatural stillness makes my scalp tingle. I search the shadows darkening his face, looking for hints that he’s considering my words. I only see pain.
He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, removes a folded document, and offers it to me. I don’t have to open it to know it’s an employment contract. It’s not a tearful reunion, but it’s a lifeline, nonetheless. I grab on with both hands.
“Same terms we agreed on last time?” I unfold the pages.
“Read it.”
His detached tone makes my skin crawl. Be patient with him, Danni.
From the drawer in the coffee table, I remove a pen. Then I quickly scan the document and make a few changes. Instead of working five days a week, I’ll work seven. Instead of the obscene salary I proposed last time, I want a reasonable wage for a dancer.
“There.” I hand it back to him. “Those are the new terms.”
He glances at the modifications without emotion and returns the papers to his pocket. “You’ll start tomorrow.”
No argument. No reaction. I hate the distance between us. “Tell me about your dinner date.”
Pinning his lips, he heads toward the exit.
Dammit, I said the wrong thing. “Don’t go. We can—”
“Goodnight, Danni.”
He opens the door and steps onto the porch.
When I came back to St. Louis, I didn’t expect him to welcome me with open arms. But this…this is worse than a cold shoulder. It’s a kick in the teeth. He’s going out of his way to reject me without actually saying the words. If he didn’t feel anything for me, he’d tell me to leave him the hell alone.
It’s like he’s trying to prove he can’t and won’t be effected by me, as if having feelings for me is a flaw.
“Trace?” I stand on the porch, hugging my waist and shivering against the chill.
He slows his strides along the sidewalk and stops, tilting his head without looking back.
I raise my voice. “If you still love me, even after I broke your heart, that’s not a weakness. It’s bravery.”
His chest rises and falls. Then he climbs into the back of the sedan and leaves.
With a fluttery stomach and adrenaline-charged blood, I show up at the casino the next afternoon. An hour before my shift. I’m so excited to dance on that stage I can’t sit still, can’t breathe, can’t think straight. More than that, I’m twisted inside out at the prospect of seeing Trace.
The dressing room is exactly how I left it. Other than the cleaning crew’s routine vacuuming and dusting, it hasn’t been disturbed in over a year. Costumes, makeup, glitter, hair products—everything is exactly where I left it.
Dressed to dance and buzzing with jitters, I walk into Bissara an hour later. The restaurant staff isn’t surprised to see me. They must’ve been notified of my employment. Familiar faces. New faces. Everyone is eager to have a dancer on the stage again.