the Dance

by Alison G. Bailey

  Hart was rounding the kitchen island carrying a plate in his lap with what looked to be a grilled cheese sandwich.

  He stopped and stared at me for a brief moment, his gaze causing my body to heat up again. “Feeling better?”

  “Much. Thanks.” I stood and scanned the room for my purse. “Do you know where my purse is?”

  Butter’s nose shot into the air as she followed Hart to the coffee table. “I put it on the sofa.”

  I quickly retrieved my brush and ran it through my damp hair.

  “Sit and eat.” Hart commanded.

  Butter and I both sat.

  My attention turned to the coffee table. Along with the sandwich was a fresh cup of coffee, another bottled water, and Tylenol.

  I fidgeted with the bottom of the long sleeves. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You need to eat. You’ll feel better. I promise.”

  I wasn’t used to this type of care and attention.

  I picked up the sandwich and took a small bite. Then another. And another and another until the entire thing was gone. Seeing that the sandwich had disappeared, Butter slunk back to her bed and curled up.

  “Glad you weren’t hungry.” He teased

  “It was delicious. Thank you.”

  “Sorry it wasn’t gourmet.”

  I gave him a shy smile. “It was just what I needed.”

  “I only know how to cook two things.”

  “What’s the second thing?”

  “If I told you it would take all the mystery out of our relationship.” He teased, repeating my own words back to me.

  “With the events of tonight, I’d say there’s very little mystery left.”

  “Before I forget. Do you like toasted Pop Tarts for breakfast?”

  I picked up my coffee with both hands and scooted farther back on the sofa. “I could teach you how to cook.”

  “Why would I need to learn how to cook when I have a lovely lunch lady visit me every day?”

  My cheeks flushed. There was that word again. “Come on. Man cannot live on grilled cheese and toaster pastries alone.”

  “I’ll let you attempt to teach me on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “That I don’t lose my lunch lady visits.”

  I answered in a low voice. “You won’t.”

  Our gaze locked. Hart and I both knew once Will was released that the daily lunches would come to an end. My life was a mess at the moment and I knew it was unfair to bring Hart into it even as a friend. But I was quickly realizing how much our time together meant to me and I didn’t want to give it up.

  Breaking the moment, I said, “When would you like your first lesson?”

  “I’m wide open.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “I already have plans.” With Amber? “Besides, you probably won’t feel like doing much of anything.”

  “I’m feeling better already.”

  He hesitated for a second. “Okay. Weekends are best for me.”

  “Next weekend?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure it won’t cause trouble?”

  I took a stab at sounding confident. “Why would it cause any trouble? It’s just one friend helping out another friend.”

  He slowly nodded. “True.”

  There was a slight twinge of disappointment in my stomach. I was so confused. One minute I thought Hart felt the same pull as I did. Then he’d say something that had me crashing back down to reality. It was becoming very obvious that my instincts were out of whack. I mean, I thought Will loved me for all these years and I was way off the mark with that one. I suddenly wished I’d taken Sophie’s advice and played the field some when I was younger. Even a little frame of reference would help at the moment.

  “So next weekend it is. That will give me enough time to plan and shop for lesson one.”

  Grinning, Hart tipped his chin up a little. “Oh, there’s going to be multiple lessons?”

  “Eh, if you’re a good student one might do the trick.”

  “Then I’ll make sure to be bad.” His expression went flat, as if he were shocked by the degree of his flirting.

  I took another sip of coffee and hid my blush.

  Clearing his throat, Hart asked, “How about some more coffee?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “I’m gonna get a refill.”

  While he headed toward the kitchen, it gave me a chance to get a better, less blurred view of the main part of the house. A collection of sports magazines and books lined the black bookshelves that were on the opposite wall from the large flat screen TV. Along the wall in the dining room, gallery, shelves held up pictures of varying sizes. Some were art pieces, like sketches and paintings while others were photos. I couldn’t quite make out who all was in the shots, so I headed over there, my curiosity getting the best of me.

  The photos were predominantly of Hart, Colin, Ronnie, and Doug from childhood up to adulthood. My heart sank seeing pictures of a younger Hart standing. It made me feel good knowing he had such great friends by his side when he needed them the most. There were several photos of him playing sports post-wheelchair—basketball, snow skiing, water volleyball. Hart certainly didn’t let his disability slow him down.

  “See anything you like?” The raspy tone hit my ears, letting me know I’d been caught snooping.

  “I was just admiring your photos and artwork. Did you paint these?”

  Shaking his head, he said, “My mom was the artist.”

  “And the paintings in the bathroom?”

  “Hers too. Any artwork you see around here was done by her.”

  “It’s gorgeous work. I’d love to meet her someday.”

  “You’re about eleven years too late. She passed away from ovarian cancer my junior year in high school.”

  Clutching the back of a dining room chair, my gaze dropped. “That’s terrible.” I paused for a few seconds then looked back at him. “I’m so sorry.”

  My heart ached at the thought of Hart losing his mom at such a young age. This must have been the reason he had to move in with his dad and transfer to Garrison.

  “It was a long time ago and life goes on. Right?”

  His tone was flat but I could tell in his eyes he was as affected by this mother’s death today as when it happened.

  Not wanting to upset him I redirected. “You and the three stooges have been friends for a long time?”

  We both eyed a picture of the four friends at what looked to be a ski resort.

  “Colin and I grew up together. We met Ronnie and Doug in middle school and couldn’t get rid of them.”

  “Old friends are special. I have Sophie. Not sure if you remember her.”

  “She’s the one who took you away from me.”

  Comments like that made my body hum and my head swirl. “So, no pictures of the rest of your family?”

  “Not much of a family.”

  “And no pictures of your girl?”

  I knew I was a glutton for punishment by wading in Amber waters.

  “I don’t have a girl.” He turned abruptly and headed toward the living room.

  I hesitated for a moment and then followed.

  “I’m sorry. I just assumed that you and Amber . . .”

  “You assumed wrong.” He interrupted.

  I lowered myself back onto the sofa. Grabbing the Tylenol, I popped two in my mouth and chased them with a swig of water.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Hart said, “Bryson, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like an ass.”

  “Perfectly okay. I shouldn’t have pried into your personal life.”

  He looked directly at me. “I don’t have anything to hide. Amber and I have a business arrangement. Period.”

  I pushed back on the sofa as an awkward silence settled in the air. This was the first of its kind between me and Hart. Our friendship or whatever this was developing into was foreign territory for me. Besides Sophie, I didn’
t have a lot of my own friends, especially male ones. The couples Will and I hung out with were made up of his friends and their wives.

  My encounters with Hart had been light and breezy for the most part. A tug of war was taking place in my head. Part of me wanted some details about Amber but the other part wanted to stay ignorant. I decided the best thing would be to get us back to light and breezy, so I joked my way out of the awkwardness.

  Waggling my eyebrows, I teased. “Exactly what kind of business of yours is she arranging?”

  “You really want to know?”

  Shit, he’s actually going to answer my question?

  “Dying.” The word fell out of my mouth before I realized it.

  His expression was serious as his blue-gray eyes held me in place. “I pay her to have sex with me.”

  Everything dropped—my mouth, my heart, my stomach. I stared wide-eyed at him. From what I’d witnessed at the rehab, Hart didn’t want for female attention. I didn’t understand why he paid for something that any number of women would gladly give him free of charge.

  He didn’t look away or say another word. He was waiting for me to make the next move. Hart’s honesty opened a floodgate of questions. But did I want to go further down this rabbit hole?

  “Why?”

  Damn my curiosity!

  “Uncomplicated, unattached, and unemotional.”

  “Wow, that’s a sad way to have a relationship.”

  “It’s not a relationship.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was just spouting the information like he would to anyone else or he wanted to make sure I was clear about the arrangement.

  “Semantics,” I said.

  “I don’t do relationships.”

  I didn’t try to hide my eye roll. “What does that even mean? You don’t do relationships. You just haven’t found anyone you wanted to do it with.”

  Cocking an eyebrow Hart said, “Oh, I’ve found a lot of anyones to do it with.”

  The direction of this conversation had blindsided me.

  I huffed. “Not allowing yourself to fall in love with another person is a very empty existence.”

  “Bullshit. My existence is quite full, thank you. Besides, no woman wants damaged goods.”

  I shifted in my seat. “I didn’t mean . . . you’re the strongest and most confident person I know. It’s obvious you don’t let anything hold you back. And as far as women are concerned . . . don’t you see the blushing cheeks and the smiles they give you?” My tone turned more teasing. “And the giggles at your flirty comments that are sophomoric at best.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m a master flirts-man.” His expression remained serious but I detected a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You fell in love and look where it got you . . . divorced before the age of thirty.” His words were biting but his tone wasn’t harsh.

  Squaring my shoulders, I sat up straight. “It doesn’t mean I stopped believing in true love.”

  His expression softened a bit. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you marry him? Why didn’t you go to culinary school? Why aren’t you a chef or running your own catering business?”

  “Why are you being such a dick?”

  “I’m not trying to be a dick.”

  “So it’s a natural talent?”

  His entire face lit up with enjoyment. “You obviously have a passion for creating edible art. Yet you’ve spent the last ten years not following it. That to me is an empty existence.”

  Touché.

  I loved how our conversations flowed seamlessly from fun to serious and back without missing a beat. If I’d had a similar conversation with Will it would have ended in an argument. Will’s tone was always condescending and dismissive. He never really cared what I had to say on any subject. Always talking at me instead of with me. Not only did Hart talk with me, he listened and paid attention. He was honest, forthright, and interested in my opinion.

  Taking a cue from my silence, Hart leaned forward, gathering up the grilled cheese aftermath. “It’s getting late. I need to get you in bed.”

  With wide eyes, my head jerked in his direction. “What?”

  He headed into the kitchen and loaded the dishes into the dishwasher. “You need to go sleep off the rest of your whiskey haze.”

  I scooted to the edge of the sofa. “I’m feeling okay. I think it’s pretty much out of my system.”

  He moved toward me. “Come on, I’ll show you my bedroom.”

  “I’m fine on the sofa.”

  “Bryson. My bedroom. Now.” He made a sharp turn.

  A warm buzz spread to all my key areas. There was definitely something different when Hart spouted out an order. I felt secure and cared for, like he was putting me at the top of his priority list.

  “Hart . . .”

  He hovered at the end of the hallway. “Haven’t you learned by now? There’s no need to argue. I always win. Now get your sweet little ass up and follow me.”

  Swallowing hard, I stood on shaky legs, grabbed my purse, and followed him down the hall.

  Hart’s room was more elegant than I imagined it would be. Not that I had been fantasizing about his bedroom. The walls were a darker gray than the rest of the house. His king-size bed sat front and center on the long wall covered in a light gray comforter with a silver striped design. All the furniture was sleek and black. He rolled over to the dresser and grabbed his pajamas before snatching a pillow from the bed.

  “Hart, I wish you’d let me sleep on the sofa.”

  “It’d be a little crowded with the two of us out there. If you need me, I’ll be right outside the door.”

  He was right, there was no need to argue.

  “Thank you, again, for everything,” I said.

  He moved toward the door and turned to face me. “Goodnight, Bryson.”

  “Goodnight, Hart.”

  As I stood in the middle of the room a strange sense of peace and contentment washed over me, knowing I’d start the next day seeing him.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Despite the great care I received last night, the loud pounding was incessant. Ignoring my throbbing temples, I pulled the comforter over my head, attempting to sink back into oblivious sleep.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  “Bryson, are you awake?”

  I shot straight up, the covers tumbling and pooling at my hips. Even with the vice around my head tightening, the smooth deep rasp of Hart’s voice first thing in the morning gave me chills.

  Tossing off the comforter, I swung my legs across the bed and let my feet drop. My hands landed on either side of my hips, gripping the mattress as I let my feet get used to the floor beneath. Once I felt confident in my leg’s ability to hold me up, I pushed off from the bed and stood. Other than my aching head it appeared the rest of me was no worse for wear.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  I headed toward the door and cracked it open. A familiar flutter in my stomach took over when I lay eyes on Hart’s sexy half face.

  “Come in at your own risk,” I grumbled, pushing the door wide open.

  Hart had already showered and dressed. He was in a pair of black sweat pants, a white and blue basketball jersey with Steelers stretched across his chest, and Nikes. His hair was still damp and slicked back off his face. Apparently, his scuff was a constant presence in his life. He had it even when we were in school. I remembered being mesmerized by the contrast of his baby face being covered with the manly beard. For a second I wondered what a clean-shaven Hart would look like but quickly realized he wouldn’t look like himself without his trademark.

  “I come bearing gifts.” He moved farther into the room holding a mug of coffee in his right hand.

  His muscles rippled beneath his skin with each push of the wheel. As he rolled past me, I got a good look at the tattoos on his left arm. I was curious to know what relevance they had in
his life.

  Turning toward me, he stared for a couple of seconds before clearing his throat and speaking. “How ya feeling this morning?”

  “Jury’s still out.” I took the coffee and climbed back in bed.

  I sipped and caught Hart staring, his Adam’s apple slowly making its way down his neck.

  He was checking out my ass.

  I took another sip, enjoying the hypnotic effect my ass had on him for . . .

  One Mississippi.

  Two Mississippi.

  Three Mississippi.

  Four Mississippi.

  “So what else you got for me?”

  Hart snapped out of his daze at the sound of my voice. “Excuse me?”

  “You said gifts with an s.”

  He tilted his chin up in recognition and held up a blueberry Pop Tart.

  “Once you get a couple of cooking lessons under your belt you’re gonna make an actual tart your bitch.”

  He moved in closer, handing me the cellophane-covered chemically enhanced pastry. “I thought I was doing that already.”

  I was in no mood to start the day with an Amber reference. Narrowing my eyes, I snatched my breakfast out of his hand, tore into the paper, and bit off a chunk. I ran my tongue across my bottom lip, licking off the crumbs. When lazy tingles spread over my body, I knew Hart’s eyes were on me.

  I inhaled a deep breath. “So what’s with the get up?”

  He swallowed hard as his gaze met mine. “I have a game in an hour.”

  Staying put, I took another bite of Pop Tart.

  More staring accompanied by comfortable silence.

  Like a bolt of lightning zapping me in the head, I suddenly clued in that he was trying to usher me along in the nicest way possible. I held the half-eaten pastry between my lips, kicked off the covers, and jumped out of bed.

  Handing off my mug to Hart, I dashed around the room, grabbing my sweater and purse.

  “I’m an idiot. You told me last night you had plans,” I mumbled out the corner of my mouth.

  Whipping my head back and forth, I scanned the room for my jeans and boots as I swallowed what was left of my breakfast. “Any idea where my jeans ended up?”

  When I got no response, I glanced over at Hart staring at me again.