If I Stay

by Tamara Morgan

  It wasn’t just an observation, though. It was the truth. Rather than face reality, she’d hide her professional failings behind magical forests. She’d pretend she didn’t care whether or not Mr. Montgomery was her real dad. She’d tell Ryan it was perfectly fine that he considered their relationship a pit stop on his way back up to the top.

  Reality was a cold, hard place.

  “I am a little disappointed about the dancing stuff, though,” he said, not releasing his grip. If anything, he only tightened his hold on her, bringing her close enough that she could feel the latent strength rising off his body, promising untold delights. “I was really looking forward to seeing you move.”

  She felt a slow, steady smile creep across her face. This she was good at. This she could do. “Oh, I can still dance. I took ballet lessons in some form or another for fifteen years of my life, and there was major twirling every night at the Forest. I’ve got moves you wouldn’t believe.”

  His strength wasn’t so latent now. Pressed against him, their bodies flush, she’d never felt so much at a man’s mercy in her life. “Show me.”

  “Why, Ryan Lucas, you sweet talker, you. I know just the place.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was a good thing stretching provided so much fodder for the imagination.

  If Amy had known she’d be dancing in front of an audience anytime in the near future, she’d have found some time to come down to the studio and brush up on her skills first. Or at least come up with a routine that made it look as if she was still capable of this kind of stuff. It was frustrating—her body remembered every pirouette, every arabesque was sealed into her muscle memory—but the strength wasn’t there anymore. This was what it probably felt like for men when the will was strong but the flesh was weak. They knew how to get it up, they remembered performances that rocked worlds, but the physical capabilities held themselves stubbornly out of reach.

  Poor men. She’d never laugh at one of those cheesy impotence commercials again.

  She’d already spent a good ten minutes squeezing her feet into her old toe shoes, and had lingered over the almost-but-not-quite splits for as long as she could get away with it. Now she was just stalling.

  With a sigh, she gave up on the stretching and headed to the sound system built in to a side panel of the studio. It had been a nice facility when she was a teenager, and it remained one despite having sat untouched for so long. The majority of the room was composed of floor-to-ceiling mirrors without even so much as a fingerprint to mar the shining surface. A long barre broke one of the mirrored walls into twin halves, but not even that impeded the reflections of herself that cast off in every direction, each one mocking more cruelly than the last.

  She used to be so much better at this.

  “Are you sure you want to watch?” She leaned on one leg and pouted. Images of Ryan reflected off in every direction too, though he looked coolly masculine as he leaned against the door frame, arms crossed and an expectant pull on his lips.

  Expectant and something else. Something hot and twisty and probably the direct result of those splits.

  “You’re the one who bragged about all your secret moves,” he said. “I was content to sit there all night watching my awful movies. What are you afraid is going to happen?”

  That I’ll fall flat on my face in the middle of a move I’m way too out of shape to attempt. That I’ll ruin the fantasy you’ve built up in your head of me. That this, like everything else, won’t be enough.

  “I haven’t done any of this stuff in years,” she said, picking the first one and running with it. Of the three, it seemed the safest to put into words. “The last time I went in for an actual ballet audition, I ran into the girl next to me. Like, ran into her, knocked her flat on her ass, had to put myself into the dancer cone of shame afterward. It was awful.”

  “It can’t be any worse than driving a stunt car into a freeway overpass.”

  Well, yes. That was true. “But you were...impaired at the time. I just suck.”

  “That’s not how I see it at all.” He tensed, enough that he wasn’t leaning on the door frame so much as the door frame was leaning on him. “I made stupid choices that forced me out of the game. All you did was decide to play a different one.”

  That was one of the most logical things anyone had ever said to her. And nice. And so much like Ryan it made her want to cry. Because even though they weren’t so very different—they were the everyday workers among the rich and famous, lovers of a good old-fashioned game of laser tag—all he seemed to notice were the gaps between them. He wanted the fast-paced life he’d once had. She wanted the slow pace of home.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe that was too big of a gap. Maybe there was no bridge big enough to hold them together for long.

  She was about to call the whole thing off when Ryan did a pirouette—or what he probably thought was one—and stopped right in front of her, his hands coming to rest naturally on her hips. It was this natural fit of him that gave her pause. She’d learned long ago to trust her body to know what it was doing when the rest of her didn’t. And the way it reacted to his nearness, flaring like a match the second it catches, screamed at her to hold on as tight as she possibly could.

  The feeling only intensified when a playful taunt curved his lips. “This isn’t another one of those pinball situations, is it?”

  “There’s no such thing as a pinball situation.”

  “Oh, yes, there is. It’s what I’m officially calling it when you flaunt your nonexistent skills at me, promising things you can’t deliver. That beach volleyball win was a total fluke, wasn’t it?”

  Damn the man. He knew very well she was powerless against a challenge like that. She pointed at the wall. “Sit down, my friend. You’re about to eat those words. I hope you like swans. And lakes.”

  She wasn’t sure what music was in the sound system, but she doubted Ryan cared whether it was Tchaikovsky that pounded through the recessed speakers or the Ace of Base CD she used to play to warm up before her sessions. When she hit the play button, the music landed somewhere in the middle—an upbeat classical remix—so she decided to go with it. There was no way she remembered all the choreography for Swan Lake anyway. This was going to be a dance done entirely on a wing and a prayer and the unerring belief that Ryan wouldn’t know what he was watching anyway.

  She lifted her arm—wing up. She blew out a long breath—prayer said.

  And she danced.

  * * *

  Ryan wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he goaded Amy into dancing. He’d never been much of a one for appreciating the true art of ballet—he had far too much love of a well-timed explosion for that—and he also wasn’t one of those guys who pretended to love the highbrow aspect but really just went to gawk at women in leotards. He’d known his fair share of guys like that, and he didn’t care for the duplicity of it. If you wanted to go watch a woman dance on a pole, go watch a woman dance on a pole. No need to cloak it in classical music and operatic tendencies.

  In defiance of everything he knew about dance and women and poles, Amy captured his interest and swallowed it whole. Dressed as she was in tiny jean shorts and a loose-fitting tank top, she was girlish and casual—two adjectives she defined and that defined her right back. The strength of her thighs was visible in each twitch of muscle, the tight, lean curves of her ass cupped and released against the fabric. And as she lifted a leg and spun, and spun again, and kept spinning, he felt a sense of awe and appreciation that had nothing—and everything—to do with sex.

  The graceful movements of her arms and legs were breathtaking. So simple, so elegant, that he could only wonder at the strength required to make it look so effortless. At the same time, there was no mistaking that the movements of her body filled him with an irrepressible longing—and not an entirely erotic one. Eroticism wa
s in there, of course—he doubted there would ever be a time when he could look at Amy and not feel the stirrings of desire—but there was more to it than that.

  It was sadness. And joy. And a feeling of isolation at odds with the fact that between the two of them, hundreds of their images filled the room.

  Fuck. He wanted to fall into the dance with her, stand in the middle of the room and let her whirl around him, binding him with her mesmerizing movements. And when she got so tired she couldn’t take another step, he wanted to be there to prop her up until the dance was through.

  The realization should have made him elated.

  Instead, he just felt crushed. Amy was everything he’d ever wanted, nothing he deserved, and she was tied to this place with so many complicated layers of strings she’d never be fully free of it.

  The music came to a crashing halt, and she stopped, breathing heavily, her face red from exertion. “There. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “That you would take my breath away?” Nothing she could have said would have prepared him for that. “I take all my doubts back. Every one. That was incredible.”

  “Really? You thought so?” She wasn’t doubtful or falsely modest, wasn’t fishing for praise or bringing herself down in that way women sometimes did when given a compliment. She seemed genuinely interested in his opinion.

  He strode toward her, feeling the strain on his lower half where the blood had shifted and rendered all movements—except lunging ones—awkward. Taking her outstretched hand, he gave her a twirl. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen anything that beautiful,” he said truthfully. And before he could think better of it, driven by his urge to make sense of where and why and how they got into this predicament, he kept going. “You’re really talented. It’s a goddamn shame you ended up at this place.”

  Where dreams died. And lived again, but only at the expense of people you cared about.

  She frowned, her playful twirl stopping as suddenly as it had started. “I didn’t end up here. This is my home.”

  He refused to unclasp her hand from his, fearful that their physical separation would equal an emotional one. “You’re an amazing dancer, Amy, and an even more amazing human being. You could do anything you put your mind to.”

  She struggled to pull her hand free, but he didn’t let go. “I am doing what I put my mind to. I know the Manor is the last place in the world you want to be, but I’m here because it’s where I belong.”

  “Right. You belong. You belong so much you won’t even ask about your parentage for fear they’ll kick you out.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to push me,” she said, her expression growing hurt. “I thought you were going to let me figure this out in my own time.”

  He was trying. He really was. But she had no idea how difficult it was for him to look at her—free and untainted by the past—and watch her choose stagnation. Choose to stay grounded when it was so clear she could fly. It was maddening.

  “How can you love this place so much when it’s obvious you’re scared to death of the truth?” The question was harsh and rhetorical, meant to put space between them. But Amy, damn her, only drew closer, became softer, tore at his resolve until it felt as tattered and ragged as the rest of him.

  “It’s easy,” she said. “Can’t you feel the ghosts in this room?”

  He followed the path of her gaze as it swept over the room, taking in the bright lights above, the warm golden hue of the glistening floorboards below. Even though he’d caught only a glimpse of the outdated sound system, it looked pretty high-end for its time. And it was, of course, nestled in a mansion in one of the most beautiful places on God’s green earth.

  “No,” he said. “All I see in here is hope. I’ll never be Mr. Montgomery’s most vocal fan, but if he built you this to help boost your career—” to help get her out of here, “—then I think it might be my favorite room in this whole house.”

  “But he didn’t build it for me.” Amy took another step toward Ryan, taking comfort from his presence, even as he thrummed with an intense, almost palpable energy. It was so different from her own energy, deflated and tired. When had she gotten so tired? “He built it for Jenna. She expressed an interest in ballet one day, and voilà—a studio was born, an instructor engaged, the nanny’s daughter encouraged to take lessons with her to sweeten the deal.”

  As if understanding how difficult it was for her to confess—to put into words this thing she’d never admitted to anyone, not even herself—Ryan pulled her tight, tucking her head into his neck and allowing one hand to drift to her waist. Their posture meant she was talking into his muscles again rather than to his face, but she found that made the words come easier. And reduced the ghosts to curious spectators. Curious, slightly perverted spectators.

  “It wasn’t your dream, was it? The dancing. It was never your dream.”

  “Not even remotely.”

  “Oh, Amy.” He sounded sad for her. Maybe even disappointed. “Didn’t you ever tell anyone how you felt?”

  Of course she didn’t. How could she have, when all she’d ever wanted was to be a part of this family that wasn’t her own?

  “I never had much opportunity to,” she said by way of explanation. “Jenna quit ballet after a few months when she got more interested in horses, but Mr. Montgomery said he’d keep the instructor on for as long as I wanted. I would have preferred to do gymnastics or play soccer, but I was so little at the time—six, maybe seven—and it was the first time I’d had something of my own here. My very own, not just as a bystander to one of the other kids. Even though the studio was a hand-me-down, I liked the idea of having it all to myself.”

  She could feel Ryan’s arms grow tighter around her, and she knew in an instant what he was thinking—what he was feeling. She drew back a little and lifted a hand to his face. “Don’t pity me, and don’t say that this just means I don’t owe Mr. Montgomery anything. I had a lot more than most kids growing up.”

  One of the ghosts mocked her in the distance.

  “So what happened? How did you go from six and a private instructor to sixteen and the professional circuit?”

  “My teacher, Madame Pritchard, thought I showed promise, though I don’t know how much of that was true and how much of it she was being paid to say. I used to spend hours after our lessons, working the barre, trying to get all the way down in the splits, desperate to learn the grace Jenna had been born with but didn’t seem to care about using. I hated it. I was lonely. I wanted to be upstairs with the other kids, riding horses, playing video games, eating cookies. But even more than that, I wanted to show Mr. Montgomery that his gift was appreciated. That I was worthy of receiving it in the first place.”

  “Amy.” Ryan reached down and lifted her chin, forcing her to look up, acknowledge him standing there, bask in his warmth. But she didn’t want to. The Montgomery Manor chauffeur was yet another thing she couldn’t have for her very own. He was only on loan to her, would be snatched away the moment she let her guard down.

  “Ryan.” She echoed his tone, that condescension and heat somehow wrapped into one.

  “What will it take for you to realize that you’re so much better than these people?” he asked. “They have money, yes, and power, sure, but that’s all. Nothing they buy or demand or build will ever change the fact that you’re worth a thousand of them. I’d rather have one of your smiles than a million of Mr. Montgomery’s dollars. I’d trade everything I have to see one right now.”

  She felt a smile—maybe not a million-dollar one, but one worth at least a few hundred—lift her lips. “Maybe there aren’t quite so many ghosts in here now. I think they’re scared of you. If you stuck around, I think you might be able to banish them for good.”

  Ryan’s jaw tightened, and the troubled murkiness in his gray eyes signaled to Amy he was struggling not to
say what was really on his mind. The compliments might trip off his tongue, the anger at her unwillingness to rip open the wounds of her birth he would gladly share. But God forbid he open up any further than that. They were back to square one. Chauffeur and nanny. Complicated man and a woman so simple it hurt.

  She waited, wondering if he’d win the internal struggle not to speak.

  He did.

  Instead of false promises or soul-searching discussions, he gave her the only thing she’d been promised. A kiss. And she was just stupid enough to take it. His mouth dropped to hers in a slow, almost tentative exploration of tongues and lips.

  “I don’t care if you never dance another day in your life,” he murmured, and pressed another kiss on her mouth before moving on to the rest of her face. Eyelids, cheekbones, jawline, ear. No part of her was left untouched, no nerve ending ignored. “Or if legions of children are bereft at your absence from the theme park. I only care that you do what makes you happy.”

  “You make me happy,” she said. “How’s that for starters?”

  “It’s not bad.” He growled against her throat, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin, firing her body and causing a warm pull in her belly. “And if you don’t mind my saying—that’s exactly what you should do right now.”

  Laughter gave her desire a soft edge. “Wow. That was really smooth. I’m impressed.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” He didn’t stop kissing, now all the way down to her clavicle, where he paid proper homage to the delicate bones there. “I’m swelling up in my own importance over here.”

  “Oh, you are, huh?” She slipped her hands along the broad strength of his back, trailing the taper of his waist, not stopping until his ass was cupped in her hands and his important swelling was pressed against her. “I can tell.”