Dancing Barefoot
by
Amber Lea Easton
Copyright ©Amber Lea Easton 2014
Kindle edition
ISBN:9781310109997
Mountain Moxie Publishing
Cover Design by LMK Graphics
Dancing Barefoot
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real life people, names or situations is simply a coincidence. No parts of this novel may be replicated without express permission from the author.
Genre: Contemporary Romance/Romantic Suspense
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Copyright © Amber Lea Easton 2014
Dedicated to Briahna and Ben—Always be true to you, go out into the world, and dare to be extraordinary.
Dancing Barefoot Song Lyrics (Patti Smith)
She is benediction
She is addicted to thee
She is the root connection
She is connecting with he
Here I go and I don't know why
I flow so ceaselessly
Could it be he's taking over me
I'm dancing barefoot
Headin' for a spin
Some strange music draws me in
It makes me come up like some heroine
She is sublimation
She is the essence of thee
She is concentrating on
He who is chosen by she
Here I go when I don't know why
I spin so ceaselessly
Could it be he's taking over me
I'm dancing barefoot
Headin' for a spin
Some strange music drags me in
Makes me come up like some heroine
She is recreation
She intoxicated by thee
She has the slow sensation that
He is levitating with she
Here I go when I don't know why
I spin so ceaselessly
'Til I lose my sense of gravity
I'm dancing barefoot
Heading for a spin
Some strange music draws me in
Makes me come up like some heroine
Oh God I fell for you
Oh God I fell for you
Oh God I fell for you
Songwriters: Kral, Ivan / Smith, Patti
Read this novel's prequel entitled, "In Between, a love story", a permanent blog exclusive free read, here:
http://amberleaeaston.blogspot.com/2014/02/in-between-love-story-chap-1-blog.html
Chapter One
Time didn't heal all wounds; sometimes it simply made them fester. Jessica blinked at the computer screen, pain ripping through her heart as if a scab she'd picked at often had been yanked off with brutal force. He couldn’t be here. She had left him on the opposite side of the Atlantic. This had to be a mirage caused by restless sleep, stress, hunger, or a combination of all of the above.
Jacques Sinclair, her Belgian photographer, stared at her like a vision from a dream.
Correct that: he hadn't been her anything for five years.
She set her coffee on the edge of her desk, scrolled through the online article in Boston Magazine, and leaned so close to the computer screen that her nose nearly touched the glass. The entire percussion section of the Boston symphony drummed beneath her ribcage as she traced his image with her fingertip. Handsome had always been too tame a word to describe the wildness of his appearance. Dark blond hair skimmed his neck, disheveled as if he'd run his hands through it countless times. Emerald eyes stared at her, the one-dimensional photograph unable to diminish the intensity of his gaze. Dimples framed a crooked smile. She imagined him complaining about being on the wrong side of the camera.
He'd created a book and would be showing his photographs at an art gallery next weekend. Here in Boston. Blocks away.
A slide show featuring an Italian summer flashed on the screen of her memory; dancing barefoot in the rain, riding motorcycles through ancient streets, laughing as if the world belonged to them alone, and kissing a man who would never be hers.
She scrolled further down and gasped at the sight of his book. The twenty-seven year old version of herself graced the cover, her naked backside on display for the world to see, crushed rose petals stuck to her skin, long black hair falling over her shoulders, arms uplifted as she'd danced in a room in Rome after saying yes to his proposal. Discovery by Jacques Sinclair, a book of photographs.
"Jessie, they need you in the conference room in fifteen minutes," Alexa, her assistant, poked her head into the cubicle and snapped her from her trance. "Marc just left his pitch session and is looking pretty confident. Are you ready?"
She ripped her gaze from the computer and tried to focus on the present. Snap out of it, Moriarty, or you're going to blow this. She gulped the rest of her coffee and nodded at Alexa. Rumors whispered of a potential partnership. She needed mental clarity not nostalgia.
She twisted the ring on her right hand and looked back at the computer. She zeroed in on the time he would be signing his book, wondered if she dared go, remembered the little detail of how she'd abandoned him, and decided to let the past remain history.
"Jessica...are you feeling okay?" Alexa hovered nearby with a concern shadowing her eyes. "Don't worry about your design."
"I have it handled. I'm good." With a sigh, she closed the web browser and pulled up her design. "Do you have everything set up for us?"
"Yes, the Sincore people wanted a break so I had time to get everything ready for you." Alexa leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones, "I know you must be feeling a lot of pressure—"
"I'm fine, never better." Pressure. The word thumped behind her eyes.
"If you say so..." Alexa didn't look convinced.
"Give me a minute and I'll meet you there." She pushed away from the cubicle and speed-walked down the hallway toward the restroom.
Looking backward served no purpose. None of that mattered anymore. Who cared that he was in Boston, only blocks away from her home, showing a book of photographs—were more of her included?—and celebrating his obvious success? She didn't. There were more important things on her agenda for the day, Jacques wasn't one of them, yet...she stared at the ring he'd given her and indulged in one more moment of what-if.
Oh, my God, oh, my God…the words echoed in her head and a silent scream lodged in her throat.
Inside she splashed water on her face, took several deep breaths, and glanced in the mirror. "I need to get a grip. I'm a thirty-two year old woman, not some wild twenty-something. I can do this. Partnership on the line. I can do this." As an afterthought, she bent to check for feet in the stalls. None. “Now I’m talking to myself. Fabulous."
With one last glance at her reflection, she smoothed fingers over the hair she had straightened this morning. Her hands dropped to her neck as she remembered the wild curls that had once fallen past her shoulders, the ones blatantly displayed over her naked back on the front of Jacques' book. She toyed with the straightened ends that skimmed her neck.
Lifting her chin, she took one last deep breath and exited the bathroom. Details of her pitch came to her mind with laser-like focus. She had sacrificed everything for this opportunity to be the youngest associate partner in the architecture firm's history and she didn't intend to lose.
“Good morning, gorgeous.” Marc Jenkins leaned against the wall next to the conference room as if the world would come to him in only a matter of time. He had tall, dark and handsome down to a science. "They loved me
, Mori, you have your work cut out for you."
“I can handle it.” She smiled, unable to ignore his charm. They had been friends since college, lovers when it suited them, and co-workers every day. "Overconfidence is your downfall, Marc. Don't count me out.”
Arms crossed, he leaned his back against the glass walls and let his gaze roam over her. “Loser buys drinks tonight at McDougal's and, maybe if you're lucky, I'll let you take me home afterward."
His cockiness both infuriated and amused her. She'd known him too long to let him get under her skin. "I hope you have a lot of room on your credit card because I intend to celebrate my win in style."
He winked before squeezing her shoulder. "Good luck, Mori."
Her gaze slid to the view over his shoulder. From this vantage point, she could see the windows overlooking the Charles River to Cambridge. Boats dotted the river, sailing to the Atlantic. Despite her best efforts not to, she wondered if Jacques knew she still lived in Boston, wondered if she would go the book signing, wondered if she could be brave.
Marc leaned toward her, his voice low and seductive, “We'll take my boat out this weekend if you want...you should see yourself right now. You look like you want to be anywhere but here. I think my win is a slam dunk.”
“I'm just thinking that it's a gorgeous day, perfect for my celebration later. Go away, Marc.” How he managed to pull of the incorrigible boy look while dressed in Armani, she had no idea.
“You don’t want to be partner.” His smile widened. "We both know that, but it's cute of you to give it a shot. The competition is a turn-on. I'll see you later."
She watched him walk away. For two people with a long history between them, she often wondered if she knew him as well as she thought.
Ripping her gaze from his broad back, she met Alexa's gaze, took a deep breath, forced a smile, and pushed open the door to the conference room. The Sincore group stood and shook her hand.
Lights, camera, action, she thought as she schmoozed her way through the presentation with all of the gusto she'd rehearsed in her apartment. Each word rolled off her tongue with ease. Answers to questions were at the forefront of her brain. She knew when she exited the room that she'd nailed it, whether or not they decided on her design was now out of her control.
Back at her desk, her hands shook as she checked the time on her phone. Her mother had already left several texts about her being late for their standing monthly lunch around the corner.
"Excellent presentation, Jessica." Charlie, her boss, stood behind her in the narrow cubicle space. "They loved it and said they will be making their decision by the end of the day."
"That's good news." She gulped down the panic and resented the hell out of Jacques Sinclair for showing up in her town on her big day and ruining her joy of the moment. If she hadn't read that article, she wouldn't be feeling conflicted. "I'm excited to hear what they decide."
She absently twisted the ring on her finger. J'aime la façon dont tu m'aimes. I love the way you love me, spoken in French so long ago between two people caught up in an Italian love affair. The memory brought tears to her eyes.
She brushed them away when Charlie frowned. "I don't mean to get emotional. I'm sorry. I'm simply excited for the opportunity."
"Your passion is what makes you an innovative architect, Jessica. No need to apologize. It's refreshing to see. Enjoy your lunch, take your time. We'll talk later." Charlie nodded before leaving her alone.
I need to get control. She rubbed her fingers against her forehead and shut her eyes. It's just nerves over the presentation, nothing more. Forget that he's in town and that he most likely hates you. Let it go.
Like a zombie, she rode down in the elevator and walked outside the building. The mid-day sun nearly blinded her. Heat sunk into her skin as she dodged tourists along the sidewalk.
She rounded the corner to their usual meeting place and saw her mother sitting at a table near the window. Julie Moriarty-Angolo Smith-Baker hadn't aged well thanks to too many drugs, too much booze, and too many divorces. Black hair laced with gray had been cropped into a pixie cut that emphasized sharp cheekbones and large blue eyes lined with wrinkles. She didn't smile as she watched Jessica approach.
"You look lovely, mom."
"You look too skinny and too pale. Do you ever eat?" Julie asked. "Do you ever get out in the sun?"
This should be fun. She took her time looking at the menu even though she always ordered the same thing.
Julie slid several unopened envelopes across the table. "I need you to take care of these bills this month. My trip to Atlantic City with the girls didn't go so well last weekend."
"I think my firm is going to get the Sincore project I told you about last month. Marc and I are competing for the project, but if they go with my design, I'll be lead architect." She met her mother's gaze, wished they had the kind of relationship where she could confide her feelings about Jacques being in town, but they didn't. She'd spent her childhood moving from one place to another, being forced to call strangers 'dad' every other year, and had always been the one to pick up the pieces when men broke Julie's heart.
"Marc is so talented. You're lucky to work with him. I have no idea why you don't work harder to get that man to marry you. You're far too independent, it's not attractive." Julie rolled her eyes before sipping her martini.
So many retorts came to mind, but Jessica bit them back as usual. She closed the menu, slipped the envelopes into her purse, and leaned back in her chair. "Tell me about your weekend in Atlantic City with the girls."
Julie spoke, always animated when it came to her girlfriends and their misadventures up and down the Atlantic Coast.
The customary smile wouldn't come today, though, not with the knowledge of Jacques being in town reminding her of the sacrifices she had made for her mother. And for what? Why? Loyalty? None of it made sense anymore, not her reasons for leaving Jacques and not her routine of picking up the pieces of her mother's lifestyle.
By the time she left the restaurant, all of her energy had evaporated. Jessica tilted her face toward the breeze and thought briefly about heading down to the bookstore. He would be there now, probably setting up. But what would she say?
Hey, Jacques, congratulations on your book. Nice cover.
Hey, Jacques, I'm so sorry. Let me explain.
Hey, Jacques, please don't hate me.
Jacques, I miss you.
None of those options sounded doable so she walked back to her office building.
The rest of the day played in fast forward. Before she knew it, the wall clock’s hands pointed to six-thirty. Several text messages told her that friends waited at their favorite bar for the usual Friday night gathering. Even as she held the phone, it vibrated in her hand. Another text, another friend requesting a response. Dropping it, she stared at the clock on the office wall, watched the minute hand click forward a notch.
Six-thirty-one.
She pulled her gaze away and leaned back in her chair. Twilight hinted in the sky above the steel and glass skyline. Traffic congested the streets below. Jacques signed his book a dozen blocks away. Five until seven.
She studied the ring on her right hand, platinum with two gold bands moving freely at its center. He'd given it to her on an Italian hillside when he'd asked her to marry him. He might as well have asked her to believe in unicorns and fairy princes.
“You look far away, Jessica.” Charlie Dougherty, senior partner of Dougherty and Lawson Architecture, stood beside her desk. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I was thinking about this afternoon’s meeting,” she lied.
“I'm glad I caught you then. Sincore loved your design. Are you ready for your first project as lead architect?”
“Ready?” Dread settled over her like a cool mist. "I've been waiting for this opportunity. It's exciting."
“We finalized the deal this afternoon.” He extended his hand. “Congratulations, Jessica. It's well-deserved.”
; “Thank you, Mr. Dougherty.” She shook his hand and forced a smile. Lead architect, her own project in Back Bay. The term 'big deal' failed to summarize the moment, yet she felt like someone had just died.
“Be in my office first thing Monday morning. We have your future to discuss.”
She cleared her throat. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to this.”
“So am I. May I walk you out?” He motioned toward the exit with his right arm.
"Yes." Quakes of apprehension rattled through her body. Each step felt awkward. She'd never thought of herself as someone afraid of success—hell, this is exactly what she'd worked for all of this time—so why didn't she want to leap with joy?
She nodded goodbye to Charlie when they parted on the sidewalk to go their separate ways. Fourteen blocks to McDougal’s. One look at the blue sky sealed her decision to walk the distance. Summer had been a long time coming and she wanted to savor the sunshine.
Irritated by the incessant ringing of her cell phone, she answered. Marc waited at McDougal’s with friends.
“You’re never late, what’s going on?” he asked.
“Taking a walk,” she said.
“Since when do you walk home?”
“Since tonight.”
“You’re walking all the way from the office?” His tone changed. “Is everything okay, Mori? You haven't looked like your normal self all day.”
“Everything is great, I swear. I’ll be there soon, don’t worry.” She ended the call, not giving a damn about meeting anyone in the bar. She had bigger concerns.
She stood on the threshold of the bookstore dodging patrons and pedestrians. Ten past seven. Regret sagged her knees. For the second time in her life, she labeled herself the Queen of Self-Sabotage. As if leaning against a fierce wind of remorse, she pushed the door open, and forced one foot in front of the other.
“I’m looking for Jacques Sinclair.” She forced the words from a too-dry throat.
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