So the Heart Can Dance (A Hidden Beauty Novel Book 2)

by Mary Crawford

“You know, I’m finding this conversation to be very enlightening. I always wondered if we would find common ground if we ended up in the same room together. It seems like we might have done just that. If we choose our wagers wisely, this could be some good clean fun—unless of course you don’t want it to be,” Ty quips as he gives an exaggerated wink. Although his offer is made in a teasing tone, something tells me, given the right circumstances, he might just be dead serious.

  “Consider me forewarned, Cowboy. Although, I’ll be sure to choose my reward carefully because I wouldn’t want you to get too—”

  I pause for a second before adding ‘cocky.’

  “‘Cocky’? Me? Never! As I recall, you’re the one who promised me the best meal I’ve ever eaten. If anyone is cocky in this situation, I would think the word cocky applies to you.”

  I brush my fingertips across the front of my bowling shirt as if I’m buffing my nails. “Nah, it’s only cockiness if I can’t deliver. I’m not bragging, I’m merely stating facts. You’ll see.”

  Ty just grins like a Cheshire cat. “I think I should probably tell you that unless I was ordered to eat it by my drill sergeant, I haven’t had any form of pasta since I was about seven. There’s a great deal of ingrained stubbornness involved. This is not a faddish vegan diet choice we’re talking about here. At this point, you can pretty much consider it a part of my personality.”

  “Oh, I see. You think I can’t rise to the challenge.” I respond as I poke him in his well-defined chest. “Well, prepare yourself to be shocked. I might even find a sophisticated palate under all those baloney sandwiches, microwaved hot wings, and pork rinds. What would you do if I did?”

  Ty chuckles as he shakes his head, “Can’t be done with pasta Darlin’, I’d faint first.”

  “Well then, you should probably brush up on your first aid skills,” I tease. “Because your diet is about to undergo a major overhaul. You might even find that you—gasp—like real food. Wouldn’t that be a novel concept?”

  Tyler winks and announces, “Well, I’m going to put this conversation in the win column for me. It shows you pay uber-close attention to what I eat, so at least I’m on your radar.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself too much, Cowboy. It’s an occupational hazard. Food is my job.”

  “Not to disparage the food truck or anything, but I have had your food before and—believe it or not—my little aversion to pasta aside, I did enjoy most of it. I don’t think you’re going to convert me to hummus anytime soon. I just have a texture thing with garbanzo beans. You are far too talented to slave away in a space that’s only 4 x 6 feet. I have to wonder why you do it.”

  “How long do you have?” I grimace.

  “Take as long as you need. I just came off my third twelve-hour shift in a row. I’ve had my pizza and caffeine. I’m all yours for the foreseeable future,” Ty assures me as he grabs his large glass of Coke and moves over to a well-worn leather couch in the quietest corner of the restaurant. He motions for me to sit beside him.

  Suddenly, all I want to do is curl up beside him and tell him the whole sordid story, but that’s not the way I operate now, thanks to lessons learned the hard way. There was a time in my life when I would have freely shared every last detail, but not lately.

  “I’m pretty sure you could find a thousand more interesting things to do with your time than listen to my sad, pathetic tale of woe,” I warn as I shrug defensively, curling into myself.

  “I wouldn’t have offered if I weren’t interested,” Tyler insists. “Come on. Take a load off those feet and tell me what’s going on.”

  It may be the compassion in his eyes, my overall fatigue level, or simply a chance to share my story with someone who seems to care, but I can’t turn down his invitation.

  The relief must be clear on my face because Tyler’s body language changes as he watches me cross the room. He immediately stands and, without a word, he opens his arms and gathers me in a warm, comforting hug. It’s all I can do to fight back my tears. Tears I didn’t even know I needed to shed. Abruptly, I remember why it feels so nostalgic. It’s been a full decade and a half since I had a hug quite like that. In a strange twist of fate, the man who I thought I could have nothing in common with wears the same cologne as my favorite Nonnino and even tucks me under his chin the same way. I shouldn’t make assumptions about people without knowing them. Ty may be less like my dad and his cronies and more like my grandfather.

  As I blink back my tears, I realize Tyler is whispering something under his breath. I struggle against the blanket of the past so I can concentrate on what he’s saying. “Hush Darlin’, there can’t be anything so bad, it won’t be better if you spread the load.”

  The sweet sentiment under his rough voice is enough to make me come close to losing it again. I take a deep breath and swallow hard.

  “Well, this isn’t easy for me. I’m guessing that you probably already think I’m a pretty big bimbo, and this is only going to confirm your suspicions. Well, yours and everyone else’s,” I confess.

  Ty puts his hand up to stop me. “Gidget, you have me all wrong. I never said I thought you were a bimbo. In fact, it’s pretty much the opposite. I admire people who can be artists. I think some of the smartest people on the planet are artists.”

  “Anyway,” I continue before I lose my nerve. “I’m never really sure where to start this story. I’m not sure where it all begins. It might’ve started when I was a really little girl trying to compete with my athletic superstar big brother and model-perfect little sister. I never fit in with my stereotypical upper crust suburban Italian family. No one knew what to do with me—except my grandparents. My dad was grooming me to be his next administrative assistant because girls could not be truly responsible CPAs—in his opinion. He wanted my brother and me to run his business for him eventually. However, my Nonna could see I had the heart of an artist and the palate of a cook from an early age. She allowed me to bake at her knee almost from the time I could walk. I owe my career to her. Anything I know in the kitchen today had its start in what I learned from her. My grandpa, or Nonnino, was my biggest cheerleader. He was brave enough to try every dish I ever made. Let me tell you, some of those early dishes were very, very scary. Yet, he never seemed fazed.”

  “That sounds great, it sounds like your family supported your dreams.”

  “Sadly, that’s where it gets dicey. Part of my family supported my dreams; I always seem to be a disappointment to the rest of my family. I felt stuck in the middle. It never seemed to matter what I chose to do; I was always disappointing somebody. I guess that’s how I became really good at trying to please everybody. I don’t want people to be upset with me. I pretend to be happy when I’m not. I pretend not to be hurt when I am. I’m often nicer to people than I should be because I’m afraid they might be disappointed in me. The craziest thing of all is that I expect more of myself than others ever think of asking of me.”

  Tyler puts his arm around my shoulder and gives me a gentle squeeze as he murmurs, “Ah, Gidget, don’t be so hard on yourself. Being a nice person is a good thing. It’s what sets us apart from the barbarians and the bitches of the world. At some point, all the good you put out in the world is going to come back to you.”

  “I wish it were that easy. Unfortunately, not everybody lives by that code. I had somebody totally take advantage of my generosity and essentially rob me blind. In the process, he destroyed my trust in people—specifically in men—and seriously damaged my relationship with my father. My dad doesn’t believe I can be trusted to make smart decisions about anything anymore. It doesn’t seem to matter to him that before I decided to change my major to culinary arts, I was a business major with a solid grounding in accounting. One serious mistake made all of it count for nothing. I feel like such a fool.”

  “Well, I haven’t known you for years, but I have known you for several months, and I do know that you are bright, intuitive, and you’re nobody’s fool. Everybody makes mistakes. Your pa
rents have probably made more than a few of themselves. So, it’s not fair for them to be judging you so harshly,” Tyler says sternly.

  I’m dumbfounded by his quick defense of me. If I were to guess based on our previous interactions, I would’ve told you Tyler Colton could barely stand the sight of me and thought I was one of the biggest flakes on the planet. So, this apparent about-face is a stunning development.

  “Wow, at the risk of sounding like Sally Fields, I think you like me. You really, really like me,” I stammer.

  “I think I’ve mentioned it a couple times today, at least,” Ty replies. “For the life of me, I can’t figure out why it’s so hard for you to take a compliment.”

  “Maybe it’s because I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve one,” I answer with more honesty than I intend.

  “Whoever told you that you have to earn compliments?” Ty asks, an incredulous expression on his face. “I was always taught compliments are like gifts with no expectation of anything in return. It’s like finding an extra dollar in your pocket you didn’t expect. A complement is something that you give someone to brighten their day. They don’t have to do anything special to earn it or deserve it—it’s just there.”

  “But—” I start to argue.

  Tyler softly presses the tip of his finger against my bottom lip to silence me as he continues, “But, if you want to look at it from your frame of mind, I can think of many things you do to deserve compliments. You are friendly to everyone from the person who delivers your newspaper to the meter maid who gives you a ticket. In my opinion, being nice to someone who just slapped you with the fine is going above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “It’s a hard job and nobody likes them,” I argue. “They aren’t like teachers or nurses.”

  Ty chuckles as he responds, “See? You’re good to the core. Definitely compliment worthy. You cook with a passion for every meal. Even something as simple as grilled cheese sandwiches or peanut butter and jelly are special gourmet treats when you make them. I confess I come over at mealtime just so I can see what you make from the leftovers and Jeff and Kiera’s fridge. I know you stop and talk to Harry, the homeless veteran who lives behind the carwash. Not only do you stop and talk to him on a regular basis, you often bring him food. Not just a little food either, but enough to feed several of his friends. Many people in your situation with a restaurant would look at that as an opportunity for free publicity, but you don’t,” he continues.

  “Tyler, every decent human being would do the same. It’s nothing special. It doesn’t even deserve a compliment. I would feel guilty if I didn’t do that stuff,” I reply as I shrug my shoulders defensively. This is the kind of argument I get in with my dad all the time. My dad thinks charitable agencies should do this type of stuff and that I should just mind my own business, which is why I never tell anybody what, I do. I am shocked that Tyler, who barely knows me, has taken the time to notice what I do in my spare time.

  “You’d be surprised, there are some pretty cold hearted people out there. Unfortunately, I seem to specialize in dating most of them,” Ty jests. I am familiar with the strategy of hiding a little bit of truth in your jokes so that the truth doesn’t sting quite so much.

  “I’m sensing you have your own ‘not so happily ever after story’ to share. The offer is reciprocal you know, I have pretty big shoulders too,” I offer.

  Tyler runs his hand through his short-cropped hair as if it’s a sensory memory.

  He shrugs his shoulders and loosens the muscles in his neck. “To be honest, I would just as soon forget about that time in my life, but if it would help you understand me better or build our friendship, I’ll trot out the grisly details for you. Put simply, I trusted someone to be there for me. She wasn’t even though she promised she would be. Period. End of sentence,” he explains curtly. Though now that he’s started, the story continues to burst from his lips like water through a burst levy.

  “She had a lot of flimsy excuses as to why her behavior was okay—but it sucked. My best friend’s behavior sucked too. But, then he went and got leukemia so, I couldn’t even be mad at him anymore. I just had to be mad at God and my ex-girlfriend. Well, them and terrorists, insurgents and other random bad people that I got to shoot at until they blew up my people and tried to blow up me. Then, my life got craptastic. But, that’s a topic for a whole ‘nother day or maybe even a whole other year, but we don’t need to talk about it today,” he sighs as his monolog trails off.

  “See, I knew my problems were petty and stupid compared to real problems,” I lament.

  Ty puts his hands on my shoulders as he says, “May I remind you that you were shot at today. I believe it gives you a little bit of leeway. In fact, I think that qualifies as a very real problem.”

  “Speaking of things I’d rather not remember,” I remark as I roll my eyes. “Really, Cowboy did you have to go there? I was doing a pretty good job of forgetting why we were stuffing our faces with pizza,” I chastise as I sigh heavily. “By the way, I’m not giving you a free pass on telling me the rest of your story. You don’t need to tell me everything, but I think you left out some key details that it would be helpful for me to understand. Fortunately for you, I’m on a deadline today, and I wasted far too much time telling you my sob story. I need to get back to work on my cake order. I got a text from Kiera, and she said I could use their kitchen. They’re going to board the shoe thief with their friend the veterinarian so I can work on the flowers,” I explain.

  “I guess that means I get a rain check?” asks Ty with a mysterious grin on his face.

  “Yes, it would stand to reason,” I reply uncertain about the strange direction of the conversation.

  Suddenly, Ty flashes a huge grin as he announces loud enough for everyone else in the restaurant to hear, “Why yes Ms. LaBianca, I would be more than happy to go on a date with you. I very much enjoyed this date, a follow-up date would be lovely. Thank you for asking.”

  Abruptly, all the noisy background clatter and conversation in the quaint little Italian bistro seems to vanish. Everyone is waiting to see what I’m going to say. It isn’t often that someone can throw me off my game, but Tyler seems to have uncanny aim. I guess it was time to put on my game face. I summon my inner Lauren Bacall and look up at him through my eyelashes. After one long blink, I sassily retort, “Well, someone had to step up to the plate and do the asking because I’ve been waiting for months for an invitation and nothing happened. So, I figured I’d show some initiative.” I turn to the people watching with rapt attention and slip them a small wink when Tyler isn’t looking.

  Tyler chokes back a chortle of laughter as he says, “Well played ma’am. I should’ve known better than to go up against the master of verbal play.”

  As I stand and give a mock curtsy, It’s one of the things that makes things so interesting with Tyler. He isn’t afraid to challenge me or listen to my ideas. We always have a great spirited conversation, no matter what the topic—even if it’s about scheduling our next date. It’s a refreshing change when I’m used to my opinion not counting for much.

  “Dad, it’s not a big deal. I wasn’t even in the food truck when it happened. No, we don’t know who did it. It’s probably just some neighborhood kids playing around. Tyler’s got it all under control. I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”

  I have to pull the phone away from my ear to be able to deal with my dad’s response. Although, I don’t know his exact words, the gist is very clear. “Oh for Pete’s sake, Dad! I’m not sleeping with the man. I went out for pizza with him. He’s the friend of a friend and happens to be the officer that responded to the break-in. I think I can control myself long enough not to ravish him in the middle of a restaurant,” I reply with an eye roll, even though my dad can’t see it through the phone.

  I listen as my dad berates me some more, and I try again to defend myself as we have the same conversation we’ve had every year for the past four years. “No, dad you’re right. I have terrible
taste in men, and I’ve been known to make stupid mistakes. However, the break-in was not my fault. I parked the truck in a well-lit area, and it was secure when I left it.”

  As the tongue-lashing continues, I wonder why I even bother to engage in these conversations. I sigh as I continue to try to defend myself, “Yes, the security system was set. No, I’m not going to come home and marry your partner’s nephew just because it’s the sensible thing to do. I’m sure he’s a nice guy, but I’m not interested in being married to a golf pro. Listen, dad, I need to go, I have a wedding cake to make.”

  I hang up the phone feeling exhausted. I cringe whenever I hear the ring tone associated with my dad. I wish I didn’t feel that way, but sadly I do.

  I tuck my phone into my jacket pocket and try to put the conversation behind me as I unpack the supplies and put them on Kiera’s kitchen counter.

  Mindy comes bounding up to me— because like me—she never approaches anything slowly. “Whoa, Mindy! Remember what I told you about running in the kitchen? It’s never a safe practice for any chef,” I caution.

  Mindy’s face scrunches up with confusion, “I thought that was only if I was carrying knives,” she replies.

  “Nope, it’s pretty much true always. If I had had a pan of hot sugar, you could’ve been in real danger,” I explain.

  “Okay, if I’m careful, can I help you?” asks Mindy hopefully.

  “I brought you some cake scraps so you can make cake balls and if you want to, you can play with the gum paste scraps because I am making flowers,” I suggest.

  “That’s rad!” exclaims Mindy excitedly, bouncing from one foot to the other.

  “First, you have to go wash your hands. It’s always the first rule of safety. Are your mom and dad here?”

  “Sure, Dad’s down in the basement with Tyler,” Mindy answers as she runs toward the bathroom.

  “Tyler’s here?” I practically shriek.

  “Well, Duh! He came over to watch the NASCAR race with Papa,” Mindy clarifies as if she’s talking to a simpleton. “What’s wrong Miss Heather? Mr. Tyler is so nice. He gives me piggyback rides, and he’s going to teach me how to ride his horse.”