by Nicole Snow
I don’t even know where my mind is anymore.
Sorting up from down has officially become impossible.
Kissing Quinn makes me feel like we’ve stepped into an alternate universe where the rules are far from clear, and that’s not a place I can be.
Because with him and those rogue lips, we’ve left the stratosphere, and I just know.
I know I could never land on my feet again if I fall.
Thank God the wheel jerks forward again, saving us from an awkward silence.
As soon as the attendant unlocks the door and removes the brace bar, I jump off the seat and stand up in a rush.
“Whoa.” Quinn catches my arm with his big hand. “Peach, slow down.”
“This has been riveting, but I just realized...I need to get home. Check on Granny. I don’t like her being alone for too long.” I clamp my lips together, knowing I’m babbling, but I have to get out of here.
Away from him.
Before we screw up everything.
It hits me how sudden this is, how reckless, how our worlds are completely different.
He might be one notch below Mr. Perfect, but I’m Little Miss Booboo.
“Okay, yeah, Granny’s probably back home by now after having her burrito, all alone, twiddling her thumbs,” he says mockingly.
Fine. I deserve that.
We both know Gran never needed anybody looking after her.
I just...I need to think.
Kissing him still lives in me, electrifying my senses, and as much as the wet heat between my legs screams to go right back to his place and do more...that angry noodle in my head yells back bad, bad idea.
I’m punch drunk on adrenaline, on lust, and I’ve learned by hard knocks that’s no state to make any big decisions in—especially decisions with ginormous butterfly effects.
Like sleeping with my best friend, for one.
“Sorry to flip out. This isn’t like me, and I liked what happened, Quinn, but...” I tug on his hand, shooting him a smile.
The red-hot gaze he throws back almost burns me down on the spot.
“No need to explain. If you gotta go, we’ll head on home. Let’s find the Larkins and Barnets and say goodbye,” Quinn tells me.
I nod eagerly.
Hellishly awkward aftermath of the hottest make-out session of my life aside, it was a fun night.
I loved seeing Bella again and meeting her hubby. Always my favorite person after Quinn on those bygone Dallas summers.
The other two couples are just exiting the ride.
We wait for them and bid our farewells.
The entire ride home, I’m torn between hoping he’ll ignore my crap and kiss me goodnight, and also hoping he won’t.
Seriously.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Well, thanks for everything. I’m glad I could help you get pictures of that creeper,” I say as soon as he pulls up in the driveway. I pop the door open before he stops the truck. “And the rodeo was fun! You were right to pick me up; it was worth sacrificing an eggplant to have a little fun.”
“Tory—” Quinn starts, but he never gets in another word.
“Night!” I dart out and run to the garage door, mashing the buttons, then dash beneath it as soon as it starts rolling up.
Granny meets me at the door into the house with a confused scowl on her face. “Why’d you use this door? I left the front unlocked.”
“Because I...” I glance into the hall, looking for an excuse, my brain and my heart and every sense I own fried.
A hundred questions from her is so not what I need right now.
Seeing the bathroom, I stiffen.
“Gran, I...I think the burrito I ate is about to come up!” I dash past her and race for the toilet.
Honestly, my stomach feels fine.
It’s my heart that wishes it could heave up a hundred conflicting feels, drain the emotional venom from my system.
How can one hot mess of exquisite kisses do this to a girl?
How can a man you’ve known for half your life feel so right when he’s wrongness incarnate?
Sighing, I hug my sides.
On the ten-point scale of Tory Being Ridiculous, I think this might be a solid eleven.
But I also think I was never, ever meant to taste Quinn and trigger this madness.
Leaning over the sink, I splash cool water on my face, eyeing my expression in the mirror. I look equal parts terrified and triumphant.
Ten freaking years, or close enough.
That’s how long I’d wanted a single kiss with that gorgeous beast.
Trouble is, it has a colossal price, and it’s also made me want more.
So much more.
Granny stands in the hall when I open the door, wearing a concerned look, bright-pink tablets in her hand.
“Poor girl. I should’ve told you Kenny’s is a delicacy worth working up to if you’re not used to the spice,” she tells me.
I take the Pepto pills and pop them in my mouth. “I enjoyed it. It was just...too much, too soon. Thanks, Gran. I need to lay down.”
She doesn’t need to know too much, too soon has nothing to do with burrito heaven and everything to do with the man they call Faulk.
I flop down on my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to hash out what’s wrong with me.
Quinn took a big risk—or was it a big step?—by kissing me.
Like, seriously kissing me.
Hardly an innocent exploration between friends, but a full-on conquest by a man who knows what he wants, and who.
Dear Lord.
I should be buzzing and dreaming about more with a smile so wide it hurts my face.
Hell, I shouldn’t even be in my own bed tonight.
What would be wrong with finishing what we’d started, history aside?
I’m not committed to anyone.
Jean-Paul was the only real relationship I’ve had. Knowing he cheated on me with Bitchface Madeline infuriated me, but it hadn’t broken my heart.
Sure, it thoroughly pissed me off because I’d done everything—everything—to pour my heart, body, soul into getting the center dancer honor.
And having that ripped away in a heartbeat by the woman who was sleeping with my effing boyfriend sent me to a very dark place.
It filled me with hatred.
For everyone in Chicago and everything, including dancing.
I’m still crawling out of that pit now. I have the self-awareness to know.
And maybe that’s my biggest issue with a full-blown surrender to Quinn and his growly, unbelievable charm.
Being here has helped soothe the heartache over...well, everything.
Granny knew it would, that’s why she insisted I visit.
Mother was mad and never missed a chance to remind me I’m running from my problems.
Maybe I was.
Maybe I still am.
Maybe I’m too full of maybes.
But maybe Granny is right, too.
That an affair with Quinn—as she put it the first time because I’m never, ever calling it a nighttime nibble—is exactly what I need to get my crap together again.
After the way he kissed, I sure wouldn’t mind it.
I swear, if we hadn’t been strapped in on a Ferris wheel, I guarantee things would’ve evolved way beyond kissing. I’d have welcomed it.
Rolling over, I punch down my pillow and huff out an angry breath.
Why is this so complicated?
Because I don’t know the future?
Whether or not I’ll ever be able to dance again?
The exercises my physical therapist gave me included dance steps, but I haven’t tried any of them yet. It freaks me out, knowing if my knee can’t take the twisting and turning, then what?
Then I won’t have anything.
My short-lived career is all I’ve ever had. The sun my life orbited for as long as I can remember, inseparably linked to everything else a girl should care about.
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br /> Family. Money. Men.
My summers here were the only time I got a taste of a different world, and that’s what Dallas still gives me now.
Which is just as scary, honestly. I can’t live here forever being a goat wrangler, shacking up with a man who’s trying to make sense of his own life.
I can’t do that to Quinn.
He’s got enough on his plate between sorting out his grandfather’s house and now this crazy stalker thing with a dangerous convict.
Plus, Uncle Dean will give up this goat scheme soon. He’s already hinting at it, he couldn’t shut up about watching beekeeping YouTubes yesterday.
He only has a few more jobs lined up, committed, and that’s only because I insisted he follow up on the leads from Ridge.
I don’t have endless patience to take on the goats alone forever, and I certainly can’t keep them all here at Granny’s.
She might be a crazy old lady, but she’s not a crazy goat lady.
It doesn’t make sense why my life is so screwed up, so dependent on others.
Yet, I’m convinced it always will be.
I’m not sure when I finally drifted off last night, but as I shower this morning, I know nothing got resolved.
Not in my life. Not in my job. And not one bit in the desires Quinn stroked into my body last night using that Casanova tongue.
After getting dressed and drying my hair, I plod down the hall, but something in Granny’s voice causes me to pause near the door.
She’s on the phone.
“I see. Instead of a refund, can’t I just switch the dates?” she asks, then pauses for several seconds. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me?” Another pause. “No, no, no. Just leave it as is for now and—”
My phone picks the perfect time to go off. Loudly.
Flustered, I rip it out of my pocket and try to hit the silence button, but accidentally swipe the answer icon instead.
A garbled voice comes out of the speaker. I don’t even look at the screen to see who it is before I answer.
“Hello?” I clip, flying down the hall to the living room.
“Good morning, my gazelle, I didn’t wake you, did I? It’s been too long.”
Every last part of me ices over.
I recognized the voice before Jean-Paul even called me his gazelle.
Woof. In hindsight, it’s not that flattering, but once upon a time, I was smitten just to hear it.
He’s used that lame pet name for years. And now I think it annoys me almost as much as him.
“What do you want?” I force out, wondering why I bother.
“I did wake you,” he says softly with just a hint of smarmy sarcasm. “Of course you’re taking advantage of your vacation and sleeping in.”
“I’m not on vacation,” I snap. “I’m on medical leave, and you know it.” The ballet doesn’t technically have medical leave, or vacation time, but that phrase makes me feel connected.
It’s a fine thread to normalcy, but it’s there, and I’ve needed it.
“How are you doing? How’s your knee healing?”
“Fine,” I lie, loving how he asks about my knee first and not the carnage he left in my heart.
“You aren’t still miffed at me, are you?” he asks.
Miffed?
Flipping miffed?
Is he serious?
That’s hardly the right word for this. Not even a polite euphemism. I wish I could magically reach through the phone and slap the smart-ass smirk I’m sure he’s wearing right off his face.
But I wait too long before his voice floods me again.
“I trust you read my letter—you never replied. I understand. You needed some time in the country, away from the urban pulse, to think about things. As I explained then...I had to be nice to Madeline, you see. She was the only person who could take over your position after your injury.”
Bull. Shit.
He’d been ‘nice’ to her without any clothes on long before my injury, I’m sure.
“What do you want, Jean-Paul?” I snarl out. “Get to the point or I’m hanging up.”
“I hope you’ll be happy to hear our opening night of the Summer Royale was a massive hit,” he ventures, this weird caution I don’t like in his voice. “Truly, it was a dream, better than anything we could’ve imagined. The crowd gave the longest standing ovation I’ve ever seen at the end.”
Ugh. I’d forgotten that the biggest show of the summer was last night.
“Also...we’re it, Tory!” he whips out excitedly. “We won the international spot to host our peers, including the prestigious Strelkov Ballet group from Moscow. Everything we’ve been working for the last four years.”
A flash of excitement cuts through me.
I can’t help it. Hosting other countries ranks right up there with the Olympics when it comes to dance. It was always on my radar, part of why I’d worked so hard, so one day I’d have the privilege of working with teams where classic ballet has been an art for centuries.
“Congratulations,” I say dryly, trying my hardest not to let any excitement slip.
“Thank you, my gazelle, and I mean that with all my heart. You were a tremendous piece of this victory. The training you gave the other girls, the endless support and encouragement...you made them work even harder after you were gone. Harder than ever to win this for you.”
I close my eyes because he’s hitting a nerve. A hateful hot, wet sensation floods down my cheek.
The other dancers are the only thing I’ve missed during my time away.
I’ve danced with some of them for years, and they’re as close to me as sisters. A hint of guilt strikes at how I’ve practically ignored them since the double whammy to my knee and my heart.
Besides one-word replies to their text messages, I haven’t had the courage to speak to them. It makes me sick every time I wonder what they think of me, for just letting Jean-Paul and Madeline trash my reputation.
A few of them know very well what happened.
Call it selfish, the no contact decision, but it hurt too bad in the beginning.
I was too embarrassed. A couple girls still in the dark even saw me turn a blind eye to Jean-Paul and Madeline and tried to gently call me out on it over Facebook messenger.
Swiping my hand across a searing tear, I dig the phone into my ear.
“So is that all you called for, or what?” I bite off.
“No. I have a proposition I’d like to discuss with you, Tory. A rather serious one. When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know. What is it?” I ask. “Just tell me.”
“For this, I would greatly prefer to speak in person.”
“Tell me, Jean-Paul, or this call is over.”
I’ve had it up to here with his shit. I’m not going to let him drown me in toxic games any longer.
“Well, without going into specific details...I’d like you to take over the role of Creative Dance Director. I’ll have my hands full with our new arrivals from overseas and their directors, and you did a better job with the new girls than I could’ve managed the past few years, being so busy with the intricacies of business.”
Oh, God.
What? His job?
Oh. My. God.
“It’s physically light work,” he continues. “I know you can help the other girls through their routines without even dancing yourself, and as for morale...if you can work the same magic with our Russian friends, you’ll send us to the stars. Why should the past be any obstacle? Together, we can go places, Tory. Straight to Elysium.”
Damn, damn, damn him.
Dance Director would be too perfect, and something I barely dreamed of landing one day.
I’d be doing everything I loved most about dancing without the grueling exertion.
“I want you, Tory. I want you to be a part of all this, and frankly, if possible...I want us to have a chance to mend.”
Aaand just like that I go from stunned out of my skin to pissed. I can’t believe I�
��m hearing these words, but I’m too furious to stop him.
“We were good together, and now, we’ll only be better with this extraordinary opportunity. Together, we could put our ballet group on top of the list, worldwide.” He takes a harsh, loud breath. “People will pay millions for performances at that level, gazelle. Do you want to be a royal?”
I don’t want to admit anything.
How much I want to be a part of the success, but not him.
Not the us he mentioned.
That’s long dead, but the ballet...
I feel like he’s stabbing me with choices. Making our group effectively number one globally didn’t even seem possible, but now...how could I turn my back?
How could I walk away?
How could I live with myself?
“Tory? What do you say?” he whispers, his words a fast hell my mind can’t keep up with.
I shake my head, not knowing what to think, what to say, what to do.
“I think...” Taking a deep breath, I say, “I need time to think about this, Jean-Paul.”
“About what?” He goes quiet.
Hell if I know.
“I have several commitments here in North Dakota,” I whisper, grasping at straws.
“What commitments? Watching goats?” he asks sourly.
The revulsion in his tone raises my ire.
“Your mother told me that’s what you’re doing,” he says. “That’s not a commitment of any kind. It’s crude, demeaning work for a smart, capable woman like yourself. Entirely beneath you, working for a drunk.”
Oh, here we go.
“Excuse you? My uncle is not a drunk, and the goats are none of your damn business,” I whip out. “There’s more to it than just watching them. It’s a viable business and—and you know what?—I don’t have to justify jack shit to you, Jean-Paul.”
For a second, we’re both suspended in this stunned silence. I never once talked back to him with so much anger.
“Tory, I don’t want to argue over your small-town pursuits. I just want you home.”
Home.
That word draws a blank.
Do I even have one? Is there a place where I still fit in? Is Chicago completely alien now?
“I can book a flight for you today,” Jean-Paul says, trying to strong-arm me into getting his way.
As usual.
“No.”