Yaz hugged her best friend’s mom, enjoying the warm welcome. “I’m fine, thanks. Are you busy?”
“Never too busy for you. Look—”
Mrs. Morgan pointed to the framed Playbill on the wall over the cash register, Yazmine’s signature scrawled across the front in red Sharpie ink. “In a place of honor. I love showing it off to our customers!”
“That’s, uh, great.” Yaz struggled to breathe through the herculean knot of pressure squeezing her chest.
“And to think, I remember the days of you and my Cheryl sharing sleepovers. All that giggling as you girls danced around the house.” Mrs. Morgan cupped Yaz’s cheek, then gave it a gentle pat. “Once you hit high school and I saw your focus, I knew you’d make it. Reynaldo must be so proud of you. He and your mom were always your biggest fans.”
“Papi’s still my best cheerleader.” And the main reason she had to get back to New York and shine. For him. Not to mention Mrs. Morgan and everyone else in Oakton who assumed her rightful place was on a Broadway stage.
“How’s he doing?” Mrs. Morgan moved back behind the glass counter, her face creased with a mix of sympathy and hope. “Cheryl told me his cancer’s in remission, right?”
“Yes, thank God.” Yaz kissed her fingertips and pressed them up toward the sky. Remission had become one of her favorite words.
“Honestly, sweetie, I was shocked when I heard you were setting aside your career to come back and take care of him, instead of one of your sisters.”
Yeah, most people didn’t understand how she could step away from the glitz and glamour of New York. They didn’t know that the break had been for her as much as for Papi. No one did.
She still couldn’t bring herself to admit her doubts out loud.
“It was the right thing to do.” Yaz stared down at the decorative hair combs and tubes of stage makeup in the glass display case, unable to look Mrs. Morgan in the eye and say the half-truth. “With Rosa and Lilí still in college, I couldn’t let them take a leave of absence. Besides—”
She blinked back the sting of tears, forcing a smile to hide the fear she’d been battling since the day they’d found out about the cancer. “I wouldn’t trade these months with Papi for anything. Now that he’s doing better, I’m spending more time at Hanson’s getting myself audition-ready. It’s all good.”
Or it would be—she simply needed to keep repeating that mantra to herself.
“So you’ll be leaving us again, headed off to bigger and better things?” Mrs. Morgan leaned over to grab a pen next to the register.
Yaz bit her lip, measuring her words. Sure, New York was bigger than Oakton. But better? That was still up for debate.
“Looks that way.”
“I always knew you’d do it!” Mrs. Morgan pointed her pen at Yaz, her face beaming with glee. “Imagine, our very own Broadway superstar!”
Yazmine flinched.
Superstar or superflop. She wasn’t sure which label fit.
Anxiety surged inside of her like a race-car driver revving his engine.
“Speaking of Cheryl . . .” Her desperation to steer the conversation away from her failures kicked her voice up an octave. “The last time I talked to her, she mentioned a job interview in town. Has she heard anything?”
“I’m surprised she hasn’t texted you already,” Mrs. Morgan teased. “I got off the phone with her a few minutes ago. My girl’s moving back home!”
“No way!” Relief kicked her knees out from under her and Yaz sagged against the counter.
Dios mío, this was fabulous news! With Cheryl back, maybe she would finally be able to confide in someone. Yaz hadn’t wanted to burden her sisters. They were stressed about Papi already, why worry them with her issues. Tears of relief stung her eyes and Yaz held up her hand for a high five, hoping Mrs. Morgan didn’t notice her sappiness.
“Cheryl will start at Bright Minds the first week of December.” Mrs. Morgan gave Yaz’s hand a slap. “Now, as much as I love chatting with you, I doubt that’s why you stopped by. What can I help you with?”
“I’m hoping you might have found the order sheet for the Christmas recital costumes. It wasn’t in the box when I unpacked everything at Hanson’s.”
“Oh yes, I tacked it to the message board in the back. Why don’t you look around and I’ll go grab it?” Mrs. Morgan disappeared behind the black curtain.
Leaving her peacoat on the checkout counter, Yaz headed off to peruse the sale rack, still smiling over Cheryl’s good news. After her stressful morning, it was nice to see things were starting to look up.
She slipped her cell phone out of her dance bag’s side pocket, checking to see if she’d gotten a text message from Papi.
Confirming that she hadn’t missed the alert tone because he had yet to respond to her apology text, Yaz sighed and dropped her phone back into the woven bag. Arguing with Papi didn’t happen often. When it did, she wound up feeling guilty, scared, and frustrated.
For several weeks now he’d looked pale and fatigued, but every time she asked about it, he gave her the brush-off. Today she’d finally confronted him. Rather than answer her, he’d left in a huff for his weekly domino tournament at the rec center, informing her he was fine, not to worry.
If only it were that easy for her.
Yaz shoved a bright pink leotard aside, taking her annoyance out on the garment. The hanger’s wire hook screeched along the metal pole, grating on her nerves just like Papi’s obstinate behavior.
Across the shop, the front door opened, ushering in a bitter gust of wind.
“Mira, Papá, they have tons of shoes! Look, over there!” Maria Garcia’s high-pitched voice trilled with enthusiasm as she pulled her father into the store.
One glimpse of the enigmatic man who’d been in her thoughts far too much since last Wednesday sent Yazmine ducking to hide behind a multicolored cloud of tutus.
“Slow down, m’ija,” Tomás cautioned his daughter.
Like a Peeping Tom, Yaz peeked around a flounce of blue tulle, taking in the sight of those broad shoulders. Gone was the Brooks Brothers navy pinstriped suit. Today he sported a dark leather jacket over an olive-green sweater that accented his tanned skin, with a pair of jeans that fit him snug in all the right places. His shiny wing-tip shoes had been replaced by a pair of well-worn hiking boots. The epitome of a rugged outdoorsman. Camping had always been more her little sister Lilí’s forte, but spending a night in a tent with someone as yummy as Tomás Garcia made Yaz reconsider. A sleeping bag on the ground didn’t sound half bad if it meant snuggling up with a guy like him.
A trill sounded and Tomás pulled his cell out of his back pocket. “Wait a minute, Maria. I have to . . .”
His voice trailed off as he tapped the screen. Maria wriggled out of a puffy winter coat, then plopped down onto the bench in the shoe area, apparently used to her father not finishing his sentences. Her pouty lips said she wasn’t too happy about it though.
The image of cuddling with Tomás in a sleeping bag evaporated as quickly as steam from a pot of Papi’s favorite asopao simmering on the stove.
During Wednesday’s father-daughter practice, Tomás had bristled at her insinuation that he was neglecting his daughter. She hadn’t meant to offend the guy, but the proof that he’d been letting Maria down was clearly evident in Yaz’s attendance binder.
Across the store, Tomás’s thumbs tapped away at the tiny keyboard on his phone. Yaz stayed hidden, interested in seeing how the shoe-shopping trip would play out. Based on the little she knew about Tomás Garcia—fanatical about his job, relying on his nanny for most of Maria’s caregiving—she’d bet he was out of his depth in Center Stage.
A few moments passed before Tomás tucked his phone away and hunkered down next to Maria so they wound up eye to eye. “Okay, chiquita, what are we looking for? You’re the expert here. I’m ready to learn from you.”
Nice start. She’d give him that. Yaz craned her neck to listen more closely.
�
��Ms. Yazmine said we should buy Capezio, ’cuz they are the bestest ones.”
“And Ms. Yazmine knows her stuff?”
“Oh Papá, she knows everything. She’s supersmart!”
Maria’s exaggerated endorsement brought a heated flush of embarrassment to Yaz’s face. She’d spent the past few days flip-flopping between being irritated with Tomás for his workaholic habits and exasperated with herself for mooning over him and his hotness. Thinking about his easy smile, sexy wink, and bedroom eyes at odd times throughout her day.
And night.
Now here Maria was singing her praises. The best thing to do was sneak out of the store before either father or daughter noticed her.
A heartbeat after Yaz remembered her peacoat lying on the counter, Mrs. Morgan emerged from the back stockroom. “It took me a minute, but here’s your invoice. Yazmine? Where’d you go?”
Hunched behind the mass of tutus, Yaz watched Mrs. Morgan scan the store. The older woman called her name again and Tomás rose from his haunches, curiosity drawing his brows together.
Darn, no way she could sneak out now.
She took a scaredy-cat step out from behind the tulle, sending Mrs. Morgan a hesitant finger wave. “Over here.”
“Ms. Yazmine!” Maria squealed with joy, running over to wrap her tiny arms around Yaz’s waist for a tight hug.
Mortification at being caught hiding quickly gave way to delight at Maria’s warm greeting. Yaz bent to give the little girl a squeeze in return. “I see you’re doing some shopping today. It’ll feel better to dance when your shoes aren’t pinching your toes anymore.”
“I hadn’t realized that was an issue.”
Yazmine glanced up to find Tomás had moved closer, his expression guarded.
“Maria’s mentioned it a few times over the past couple of weeks,” she said. “I think Mrs. Buckley planned on buying her a new pair over the break.”
“Mrs. B left early for the Thanksgiving holiday. But I’ve got it covered.” Tomás’s dark eyes assessed her, the teasing spark from their first meeting on Wednesday now subdued.
Good. She had no problem distancing herself from a moody workaholic. She’d done it once before.
“That’s nice to hear.” Yaz ducked her head to look down at Maria, still plastered to her legs. “And you’re correct, Capezio is a great brand. I’m sure you’ll find the right pair. I’ll see you after the break, okay?”
Yaz tweaked one of Maria’s lopsided pigtails and then headed toward the cash register.
“What a cutie,” Mrs. Morgan whispered.
“Yeah, she is.”
“I was talking about the dad.” The older woman chuckled when Yaz gaped at her cheekiness. “Honey, I’m older, not dead. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.”
Far too much for her sanity, but no need to admit that. “There’s only one page from the order?”
Mrs. Morgan gave her the age-old I-know-what-you’re-up-to stare moms across the globe had mastered. “All business, are you?”
While she and Mrs. Morgan went over the inventory sheet, Yaz couldn’t help but watch Tomás and Maria out of the corner of her eye.
They’d pulled several boxes off the shelf, obviously uncertain what size Maria would need. Tomás’s hands dwarfed a slipper and he struggled with sliding it onto Maria’s foot. His large fingers fumbled with the tiny decorative laces, his expression endearingly serious as he concentrated on his task. Maria wiggled her body, trying to shove her foot into the ballet shoe. They laughed with each other, Tomás pausing to wipe his brow before tackling the problem with another pair.
Yaz forced herself to look away. The touching father-daughter scene scratched at a hearth-and-home itch she’d ignored out of necessity. Since as far back as high school, when she’d started missing family dinners because of dance practice, then fast forward to how crazy busy she’d been in New York, it had become glaringly clear to her that family life and her hectic dance schedule did not mix.
Tomás’s cell phone trilled again. He dug it out of his back pocket, scowling at the display. “I’m sorry, m’ija, I really have to take this.”
“Okay, but not long this time. You promised, ’member?” Worried hope pinched Maria’s round features, a heartache-y plea in her voice.
“I’ll try to be fast,” Tomás answered. How many times had Maria heard that same piecrust promise? “I need to step outside for some privacy. But I’ll be right in front of the window so we can see each other.”
Maria bowed her head, flicking her fingers at the pale pink ballet shoe on her lap. “I guess.”
Tomás grabbed his leather jacket and connected the call, stopping the computerized ringtone. “Hi, John, are you still having problems with the program?”
He pushed open the door. The brisk winter wind rushed in, Tomás rushed out.
Yaz meant to keep her distance. She really did.
Yes, she loved her students, but getting too attached would make leaving that much harder when the time came. Make her homesickness that much worse than before.
After several gut-wrenching seconds of watching Maria struggle to tie the tiny shoelaces herself, Yaz threw in the towel on her willpower.
“Hi, sweetie, want some help?” She slid onto the wooden bench beside Maria.
“Gracias. Papá’s outside, but he’s coming soon.” Maria sent a plaintive look at the front window. “We’re shopping, then having pizza for lunch.”
“Sounds like fun. Let me see what you got there.” The size Maria had chosen was too big, but Yaz made short work of selecting the correct pair and tightening them on Maria’s feet.
“Are you buying a tutu?”
The random question had Yaz fumbling with the second tie. “Hm? Uh, no, why?”
“’Cuz you were looking at them before.”
Looking at them, hiding behind them. Chagrin teased the corners of Yaz’s mouth into a smile.
“I never had one. But I will someday. When I’m a real ballerina.” Maria hopped off the bench to execute a slightly wobbly turn. She dipped into a plié, then, arms curved in front of her, she slid her feet into the various positions Yaz had taught their class.
“I think you’re a real ballerina now. Come on, let’s try one on.”
Minutes later, she and Maria stood in front of a full-length mirror admiring the purple tutus they’d slipped over their jeans. Arms raised above their heads, elbows bent so their fingertips nearly touched, they stood on tiptoes while turning in circles.
“You look mahhhvelous.” Yaz’s teasing tone elicited the response she’d been hoping for when Maria giggled. Yaz grinned back, feeling relaxed and at peace for the first time in days.
“I have to agree.”
Yazmine’s knees buckled at Tomás’s deep baritone. He stepped into the mirror’s reflection, her stomach quivering at his cheeky smirk. Ay, ay, ay, the sexy playboy was back.
She dropped her hands to her sides, then quickly slipped off the tutu. “We were—”
“Playing dress-up!” Maria’s squeal could have been heard across town. “Wanna join us, Papá?”
“Sí, I bet the red one would look great on you.” Yaz laughed at his scandalized expression. “Didn’t they show you the costumes for the recital? All the dads agreed to dress in drag.”
Tomás’s eyes widened to the size of huge gumballs, his tan face turning a putrid yellow. He visibly swallowed, at an obvious loss for words.
Yaz bit her lower lip, fighting against the grin threatening. When was the last time Mr. Sexy Workaholic had been this tongue-tied? She waited a few beats, enjoying his discomfort before she let him off the hook.
“Okaaay, I’m kidding.”
He huffed out a breath. “Very not funny.”
“I don’t know. I kinda thought it was.” Yaz wrinkled her nose playfully as he wagged a finger at her.
They shared a laugh. The richness of his husky tone warming her like a cup of café con leche.
The bell above the shop door jangled
and together they turned to see who entered. Yaz noticed Tomás wince moments before a red-haired woman with a tad too much makeup rushed toward him, unwrapping a thick, multicolored scarf from around her neck.
“Well, my goodness, fancy meetin’ you here. Sugar, you are a hard man to track down. Whatever happened to us meetin’ for drinks?” The woman’s Southern drawl oozed charm. The manicured hand she hooked onto his forearm spoke of her interest in more than “drinks.”
Tomás backed up a step to stand shoulder to shoulder with Yaz. A bland look replaced his easy grin from moments ago.
“Life’s been pretty busy,” he replied, his words stilted to Yaz’s ear.
“Honey, life is never too busy for a bit of relaxation, is it?” The woman’s red-nailed hand slid up his arm to caress his biceps.
Wow, this woman oozed sexual attraction like most people oozed sweat. Unfortunately for Trina Weston—according to the nametag advertising her realty business—while she appeared ready to jump-start something with him, Tomás’s rigid posture and uncomfortable gulp told Yaz he felt otherwise.
“Hi, sugar.” Trina wiggled her fingers at Maria, who danced around them in her tutu. “You sure look cute.”
“Thanks! Papá and me are shoe shopping, then we’re having pizza for lunch.”
Tomás shook his head at his daughter, but she was too busy having fun to notice. Trina obviously didn’t either. “I was thinking of grabbing a bite to eat myself. Maybe I can join y’all?”
Dios, if Tomás’s spine stiffened any more, it’d probably fuse in that position. You would have thought he’d be used to women throwing themselves at him. This couldn’t be something new. Good-looking men filled every dance call in Yaz’s profession, and even she hadn’t been able to banish him from her thoughts all week.
He turned to Yaz, a good-God-save-me plea in his chocolate eyes.
Caught off guard, she didn’t respond and Tomás tilted his head imperceptibly toward hers, his intense gaze practically screaming for help.
Yaz didn’t know what made her do it. Maybe that crazy, impulsive family gene she’d often chided Lilí about. Or the fact that she had a hard time seeing someone going down for the count without throwing them a lifeline. More than likely, it was her attraction begging to spend more time with this trouble-inducing man.
His Perfect Partner Page 3