Love means different things for different people. For me, love is when his happiness is vital to my own. The way he’s staring at me now, eyes shining with soulful joy, I couldn’t be happier or more in love.
That night, we lie entangled in bed, our bodies pressed together so tightly I feel the rhythm of his heart in my veins.
Before I met him, I lost the ability to dream. If I’m dreaming now, I want to stay awake for it. I want to feel every fucking minute of it.
I just want to feel him for as long as I have him, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll be forever.
Chapter Twenty-Three
PRESENT
One month later, I grind my hips in the moving beam of light at Bissara. My bare feet slide effortlessly across the stage as dozens of gamblers and restaurant patrons look on in mesmerized silence. I might not ever be on Beyoncé’s dance team, but this job is a wonderful consolation prize. I’m floating in a dream, caught in the rhythm, smiling, dancing, and hopelessly in love.
Since my shift only started thirty minutes ago, my energy is boundless, fluctuating through my limbs and loosening my waist.
Silver coin-sized sequins shimmy and shake on my hip-hugging panties. More adorn the black bra top and bands on my upper arms.
The belly dance costume would be as revealing as a bikini if it weren’t for the floor-length chiffon panels that drape from my waist on the front and back. The shimmery fabric sways between my legs and exposes the length of my body on both sides. It’s seductive and elegant, and I can’t wait until Trace sees me in it.
I haven’t spotted him in the restaurant yet, but he’ll come. He always does, just to watch me dance.
Bending a leg in front of me, I balance it on a toe and rapidly tilt my pelvis, nailing the ending beats. The crowd erupts in applause as I bow and move into position for the next song in my set list.
Except the instrumentals that echo through the room aren’t what I chose.
I falter, scanning the crowd as Shape of You by Ed Sheeran thrums through my chest.
Then I see him. Standing in the back corner. Tall and regal. Dressed in a black tuxedo.
I cherish this shivery feeling I get whenever I look at him and find he’s already staring. And boy is he staring. It’s the stare he gives right before he crashes in like a tidal wave, smothering, drowning, and sweeping everything away until there’s only him and me and the breath we hold in our lungs.
“Dance,” he mouths.
I don’t have a choreographed belly dance routine to Shape of You. So I ad lib, rolling my pelvis and crossing my arms at the wrists over my head.
As he slowly prowls toward me, I try to focus on dancing, but I can’t take my eyes off him. Why is he wearing a tux? And why did he change my set list to this song? I know he loves the shape of me. He’s told me a thousand times. But there’s a strange expression on his face. What does he have up his tailored sleeve?
He takes his time approaching the stage, that ice-blue gaze never straying from my body as I twirl and stretch and undulate my muscles. By the time the song fades to silence, he’s standing beneath me, hands resting on the edge of the platform.
I take my bow, bending deeply, lower, closer, reaching out a hand to trail my fingers over his strong, clean-shaved jawline. Then I straighten to my full height and wait for the next song.
It doesn’t come.
The restaurant is packed, and most of the diners return to their meals. Others watch with curiosity.
“Loving you is instinctual.” His voice carries through the room, hushing the crowd.
My heart somersaults, landing somewhere near my throat. I’m shaking. Why am I nervous?
“Loving you is the best kind of self-ruination.” He laughs to himself. “God knows, I needed some renovations. I still do, yet you love me anyway. Your acceptance is humbling.” He stares up at me, his gaze naked, vulnerable. “I’m undeserving.”
My chest hitches. “Trace—”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t deserve you, but I won’t let you go. You’re mine, Danni Angelo.”
Holding my eyes, he lowers to one knee.
The dining room falls quiet, but a drumming crescendo rises deep within me. It’s the din of whispered words, laughter and tears, fears and kisses, and ten months of love. With Cole. All of it catches in my throat like a final breath.
But as I exhale slowly, it feels like a rebirth. The inception of something extraordinary. A new beginning. A second chance. With Trace.
My attention zooms in on his mouth, on the ever-present scowl that isn’t moving, isn’t asking the question that follows a bent knee.
Movement ripples through the restaurant, drawing my gaze. At least a half dozen servers stand at attention, spaced throughout the room, dressed in black suits, and holding empty trays.
One by one, they hold those trays over their heads, each with a letter painted in white on the bottom.
Seven letters.
Two words.
M-A-R-R-Y-M-E
My heart beats in overdrive, and tears swim in my eyes as I lower them to the man at my feet.
A ring is pinched tightly in his extended hand. His expression creases with uncertainty, but I’m already nodding my head.
“Yes.” I drop to my knees and wrap my arms around his neck. “Yes, Trace. I’ll marry you.”
His relief is palpable, trembling through his shoulders.
The dining room explodes in cheers, but his gorgeous smile is all I see.
Until he kisses me, and suddenly we’re not in the casino, not surrounded by a room full of people. It’s just him and me, reaching toward each other, stretching and blooming as one through the cracks in a once-hostile landscape.
His mouth pulls back but not away, and his hand finds mine, raising it between us. He holds up the silver ring, and at first glance, it appears to be a simple band, bent to create a slight wave. But as he changes the angle, the twisted curves create the illusion of an infinity symbol.
I blink, smiling, and lift my damp eyes to his. “Infinity is a long time.”
“It’s not the length of time.” He slides the ring on my finger. “But the depth.”
My chest heaves with a nourishing breath, and I tug at the black bow tie around his neck. “You didn’t have to wear a tux to propose to me.”
A mischievous smirk slides across his lips. “Follow me.”
He leads me toward the entrance of the dining room, passing happy shouts of congratulations on our way out. Through the gaming area and past the lobby, he doesn’t slow until we reach the doors of the hotel ballroom.
“What is this?” I’m barefoot and half-dressed, completely unprepared for a formal function.
“Our engagement party.” He ushers me inside and raises his voice to the waiting crowd of tuxedos and gowns. “She said yes!”
My breath quickens as I scan all the smiling familiar faces. Bree and David. Father Rick and Nikolai. Virginia and many of my other elderly neighbors. Friends I danced with in college. Students I used to teach. Even some of the staff from Bissara.
I squeeze Trace’s hand, shocked and overjoyed. “What if I said no?”
“Ah, but you didn’t.” He kisses the top of my head. “Bree has your dress.”
My dress?
She hurries toward me in a flurry of floor-length satin, simpering like a little girl.
“Lucky bitch.” She grabs my arm and drags me into a connecting room off the corner of the ballroom.
Ten minutes later, I stand before her in a silver mermaid gown made from heavy silk. The fitted V-neckline gives me some sexy cleavage. The bodice bares my shoulder blades in a trendy racer-back style with a huge cutout just above my ass crack. The form-fitting mermaid skirt ruffles out in the back, cascading curls of silk into a gorgeous train.
I feel like I just inherited the keys to a magical kingdom. This life can’t be real.
“You’re breathtaking.” Bree flattens a hand over her chest.
“He picked this
out?” I slide my feet into sparkling silver stilettos.
“Yes, Danni. He arranged all of this.”
“When?”
“A month ago.”
The hot air balloon ride was a month ago. The first time I told him I loved him. The man doesn’t waste any time.
“I didn’t call Mom and Dad.” She circles around me, tucking and straightening the drape of my skirt. “I thought you’d want to tell them yourself.” She bounces up and down, squealing. “You’re getting married!”
I stare down at the ring on my finger. I’m getting married.
Cole’s face flashes through my mind, and my heart gives a heavy thump. That achy feeling will never go away, because I will always love him, always miss how happy I was with him, even if I found someone I love just as much.
Don’t leave me, Trace.
“Ready?” Bree grips my shoulders.
At my nod, she laces her fingers through mine and leads me to the door.
I cross the ballroom, winding around tables and food and lively chatter. I squeeze Virginia’s hand as I pass and wave at Nikolai across the room. But when I spot the gorgeous man in the black tux, everything around me fades to black.
He stands alone at the center of a dance floor, hands behind him, shoulders back. His lips might be curved down, but his eyes glow with happiness.
The skirt of my dress swishes over the floor and settles around my feet as I pause a foot away. “Are we going to dance?”
He nods to a man behind a portable DJ booth, and a heartbeat later, an electronic disco beat thumps through the room.
I burst out laughing, instantly recognizing the song. “I expected some slow romantic number, anything but Get Lucky by Daft Punk.” I shake my head, smiling. “You’re full of surprises, Trace Savoy.”
“I intend to spend the next seventy years keeping you on your toes.” He extends a hand. “Cha Cha?”
I toss my head playfully and sink into a hip roll. Then I strut past his waiting hand.
He grabs my wrist, spins me back in a handshake position, and just like that, we’re dancing.
Cha Cha is a fast tempo dance, with sharp, staccato steps on the balls of the feet. Most of the hip action comes from the legs, flowing the entire body with the music.
I follow his lead, keeping my torso upright and my gaze on his.
His footwork is remarkably on point, fitting five steps into a measure and never missing a beat.
Watching him move ignites a low flame in my core. The sparkle in his eyes burns me hotter. My God, he’s sexy as hell.
“You’re good.” I step forward, twisting side to side and back.
“I know.” He swivels me around, pulls me back in, and holds my hands between us.
I laugh. “I can smell your arrogance from here.”
He yanks me into a closed position, chest to chest, our hips rolling together.
“My favorite scent is your skin.” Lifting my arm, he trails his nose across my wrist.
I love being pressed against his body. I want him soldered to me from lips to feet. “My favorite place is your arms.”
His eyes flare as he rocks forward. I rock back on the diagonal.
“My favorite song is your laughter.” He twirls me across the dance floor, his steps as steady as his eye contact.
I slide up against his chest and aggressively grip the back of his neck. “My favorite emotion is your scowl.”
Chuckling, he struggles to hold onto that scowl.
For the rest of the song, we Cha Cha our hearts out. My cheeks ache from smiling, and my ribs feel too small to contain all the joy. Swinging, bouncing, bending backward, and blowing him a kiss, I follow him across every square inch of the dance floor.
I’ll follow him anywhere.
Chapter Twenty-Four
PRESENT
They say when someone appears in your dreams, it’s because they miss you.
Well, they don’t know shit.
The dream I just woke from starred a man who can’t miss me. It isn’t physically possible. Not anymore.
I don’t remember much of the dream, but I recall his dark brown eyes and deep dimples so clearly it’s as if he were in my bed, smiling down at me.
I lie on my back and press a hand against the ache in my chest, blinking away the fog of sleep.
Trace proposed two weeks ago, and since that night, Cole’s been less and less in my thoughts. But he’s never far from my heart. If there’s an afterlife, I hope he’s not missing me. I only ever wanted him to be happy.
As happy as I am now.
I roll toward the man responsible for my newfound peace and rest my smile against the curve of his bicep.
Face down in my bed and hugging a pillow beneath his cheek, Trace wears a gentle scowl, even in sleep. His blond hair falls rebelliously over his brow. Thick dark lashes fan toward sharp cheekbones and the scruff of day-old whiskers.
He’s deliciously nude, the line of his spine cutting a groove between toned shoulders and a trim waist. I feather my fingers down that valley and follow the curved rise of his muscled ass.
Sweet lord in heaven, he has a great ass. Hard and round, it sits high and clenches tight, forming deep cleavage I love to play with. I consider slipping a finger into that shadowed dip, but he needs his rest. It’s only six in the morning, and we didn’t fall asleep until a couple of hours ago, thanks to my late shift at Bissara and his insatiable appetite afterward.
His breathing stumbles out of rhythm, and he cracks open an eye.
“You’re awake?” His timbre rasps with groggy surprise.
I’m as shocked as he is. I never wake before him.
“Shh.” I trail kisses over his shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”
His lips bounce between a smile and a frown, and he creeps a hand toward my face, sliding his fingers across my cheek. A moment later, his eyes close and his touch falls slack.
I watch him sleep for a while, intent on drifting off with him. But that doesn’t happen. I’m wide awake and restless with the urge to drink coffee with the sunrise.
Slipping quietly out of bed, I pull on yoga pants, fuzzy slippers, and an oversized hoodie. After a pit stop at the bathroom, I make coffee and carry a steaming mug to the sitting area in the backyard.
St. Louis weather in October is unpredictable. The ground is warm from yesterday’s heat wave. But this morning, the air is cold and cloudy, creating a ghost-gray fog low to the ground. So much for watching the sunrise.
I settle on the outdoor loveseat, relishing the ambiance of the mist crawling in around me. I feel like I’m enrobed in a cloud of mystery, in some faraway land, waiting for my Viking to lumber out and steal a kiss. And spank me.
A chuckle rises up, and I shake my head. Oh man, I have it bad.
I spin the engagement band on my finger. If he had it his way, we would’ve married immediately, but he respects my desire for a big wedding.
No, not a big wedding.
An over-the-top first dance.
Now that I’ve seen his hotter-than-Johnny-Castle dance moves, I can’t not choreograph a routine that will put us in the history books of best-ever wedding receptions. But choreography takes time. So does all the practice I’ll be putting him through. I’m thinking a Spring wedding.
Until then, we need to figure out living arrangements. He wants me to move into the penthouse, and I refuse to sell my house.
I still officially run a dance company, even if I’m not teaching anymore. Who knows? I might go back to that someday.
He says he’ll buy me a new studio anywhere I want, and therein lies my hesitation. I have a studio, built with the bare hands of a man who loved me with his dying breath. I can’t let it go.
Trace isn’t thrilled with the idea of moving into my tiny bungalow with its green claustrophobic tub. But he’s here every night without a single complaint. Maybe I’ll just let my house sit empty and move into the penthouse. That’s what I should do.
With a decided breath
, I finish off the coffee and wade through the murky mist toward the back door. As I reach the driveway, the hum of an idling car engine slows my steps. It sounds close. Really close. Weird.
I turn my feet in the direction of the street—a street I can’t see because visibility is shit in this fog.
Walking toward the side of the house, I pass the Midget. Trace’s driver dropped us off after work early this morning, so there shouldn’t be any other cars in the driveway. Except I’m certain I see a yellow one parked at the end. A taxi cab?
My head tips, and the muscles in my neck strain as I squint through the haze. Why is a taxi in my driveway?
The car door slams shut, and a dark figure emerges from the mist with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The silhouette walks like a man, the outline of shoulders and biceps unquestionably masculine. And familiar.
My heart pounds in my ears, and my palms grow damp.
He looks like Cole. Thinner. Slightly longer hair. His gait a little more cautious.
It’s a mirage. The density of the fog is playing tricks on me.
But his eyes… Dark, warm, unforgettable Cole eyes.
The tremble begins in my chin and ripples inward, railroading me. I’m seeing things. It’s the only explanation for the sudden need to empty my stomach.
Ten feet away, he drops his bag and stares at me out of a gaunt Cole face. “Danni.”
The mug falls from my hand and shatters on the driveway. I’m shaking, swaying, panting sandpaper breaths from a chest too tight to heave. I can’t rationalize this. It isn’t real. It can’t be real.
I reach for him, and my legs don’t work right, lurching me forward and throwing me off balance as a low keening sound claws from my throat.
His arms come around me. Strong arms. Intimate arms. I know the shape, the golden skin tone, the dusting of dark hair.
Except there are no tattoos.
I drag my gaze to his neck, to the pristine skin above the collar of the t-shirt. No snake. No ink anywhere.
“You’re not him.” I push against his chest, my heart rate careening out of control.
Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire Page 23