Into Your Arms (A Contemporary Romance Novel)

by Strom, Abigail

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Mine’s easy. Flaky artist, of course. Forgetting peoples’ birthdays, late for appointments, that kind of thing.”

  “And is that stereotype actually true about you?”

  She took another sip of tea, which drew his attention to her mouth. She wasn’t wearing lipstick, he noticed. But her lips were so soft and full and pink that she didn’t need it.

  “Sometimes. I’m flaky about things I don’t care about, but not my work. I never miss a class or a rehearsal, and I’m really disciplined about my diet and workout regimen. But sometimes I flake out on other things.”

  The waiter came back, and Nick realized he hadn’t even glanced at the menu. He took a quick look while Sara placed her order and then he asked for the steak and shrimp combo.

  “What about me?” he asked after the waiter had gone. “Do you think I have a stereotype? Something I put on like a costume?”

  She studied him for a moment, resting her elbow on the table and pillowing her cheek on one hand. “Hmm. Well, you’ve got that whole generic thing going, so—”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m generic?”

  She grinned at him. “That sounded bad, didn’t it? But I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Just that your clothes and your haircut don’t make you stand out—they make you blend in. You look clean cut and professional, with nothing quirky or defining about the way you present yourself. That means that you have a clean slate when you talk to people, because they can’t really draw any conclusions based on your appearance. So you have a lot of freedom to define your interactions based on what you say and how you carry yourself. But you’re handsome, which probably gives you a leg up in most situations, especially if you’re meeting people for the first time. People tend to give good-looking people the benefit of the doubt.”

  Now it was his turn to grin. “You think I’m handsome?”

  She pointed a finger at him. “There it is.”

  “What?”

  “Your stereotype. Or your costume, or whatever. You’re charming.”

  He felt a jolt, and flirted to cover it. “So you think I’m handsome and charming? I sound like quite a catch.”

  “Charm is your costume. You can put it on when you need to. It’s your fall-back position.”

  The waiter came by with miso soup and salad with ginger dressing, and Nick was glad to have an excuse to look away from Sara for a second.

  He was thinking about what his brother had said last night.

  For the first time in my life, I’m in a situation I can’t charm my way out of. I have to work my way out of it, and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  And he remembered something an ex-girlfriend had said once.

  I don’t need you to charm me. I just need you to talk to me.

  When he looked up again, Sara was biting her lip. “I didn’t mean that in a judgmental way, or anything. Everybody has costumes.”

  He shrugged. “Sure, whatever. And believe me, I’ve been called worse things than charming,” he added with an easy grin. But the smile felt forced, and after what Sara had said he wondered if she could tell. The truth was, he felt oddly unsettled by her comment, and he didn’t want her to see it. So he changed the subject.

  “So what about Harry? What’s his costume?”

  She accepted the new topic readily enough. “Harry? That’s an easy one. Tortured artist.”

  He let out a snort of surprised laughter, hearing her voice his own thoughts about Harry. “He was like that in college, too.”

  “How did the two of you end up friends, if you don’t mind my asking? You seem so different,” she added.

  “We were in the same fraternity. That’s really the only thing we had in common, but in college that’s enough. We’re both still on the fraternity’s email loop, and when I sent out a message that I was going to be in New York for a few months and was looking for a place to sublet, he let me know about the apartment.”

  “So you both went to Columbia?”

  “Yeah. What about you? Where did you go to school?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t. I was dancing professionally by the time I was sixteen.”

  He stared at her. “So young? Wow. What about high school?”

  “I went to a professional children’s school. You know, for kids who are actors and dancers and athletes. They did their best to fit math and science and literature into our crazy schedules.”

  He tried to imagine growing up like that, with his life already mapped out for him.

  “You knew you wanted to be a dancer that young? You never thought about doing anything else?”

  She shook her head. “Never. Not from the time I was five years old. Some kids are pushed by their parents to be athletes or ballerinas or whatever, but I wasn’t. My parents weren’t that crazy about the dance thing and they would always question me. ‘Are you sure about this? You can quit anytime.’ But I never thought about quitting. Ballet was my whole life.”

  He noticed that she used the past tense, and that she was looking down at the table, tying a careful knot in her chopsticks wrapper.

  “And now?”

  She looked up again. “What do you mean?”

  “Is it still your whole life?”

  She nodded. “Yes. But…” she stopped.

  “But what?”

  She chewed on her lower lip for a second. “When you’re young, people can warn you about things and it doesn’t make any difference. Everyone warned me that dancers’ careers end early, that I’d never make any money or have any security…all of that. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to dance. A dancer’s life is all about the present. This class, this movement, this rehearsal, this performance. We don’t think about the future. We can’t.” She took a deep breath. “But now…now I can see the end coming. And it’s scary.”

  People in Nick’s world didn’t reveal their fears like that. But first his brother and now Sara had talked about being scared.

  Seeing the vulnerability in her beautiful brown eyes, all he wanted to do was comfort her. “You have to be years away from that, though. What are you, in your late twenties?”

  She smiled. “I’m thirty-five.”

  “Not exactly decrepit.”

  The waiter came by for their empty soup bowls and salad plates. With the dishes out of the way, Sara rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “What do you think the average retirement age for a dancer is?”

  “Um…forty-five?”

  “I wish. Try lower.”

  “Forty?”

  She shook her head. “Thirty-four.”

  Thirty-four. What would it be like to have to quit doing the thing you love so young?

  “But that’s just an average. So some dancers go on longer than that, right?”

  “Sure. And some have to retire even earlier, because of injuries. Or because their bodies just break down.”

  Could she honestly be worried about that? She had the most perfect body he’d ever seen. Every inch of her was firm and smooth and toned. When she leaned forward, he could see the top of the valley between her small, perfect breasts, and a hint of the lace bra that covered them.

  He’d always thought he preferred big and voluptuous to small and perky, but Sara Minetti was making him rethink his preferences. He remembered those heady moments when she’d been hovering over him in her bra and panties, and the way his hands had actually itched to cup her. She was so small he’d be able to cover her breasts completely, and feel her nipples harden in the center of his palms.

  The waiter came by with their entrees, breaking the spell.

  He cleared his throat. “Your body looks pretty good to me. I think you probably have a few good years left.”

  Sara lifted her tea cup and took a sip. “I hope so,” she said.

  The plate in front of him smelled wonderful. He used his fork—he hated chopsticks—to take his first bite, and it tasted wonderful, too.

  “This is great,” he sai
d, and Sara smiled.

  “I’m glad you like it. When you didn’t order sushi I was worried you don’t really like Japanese food.”

  “I come from a small town in Iowa, and there weren’t a lot of sushi restaurants in my neighborhood. Even after fifteen years on the East Coast I haven’t acquired a taste for raw fish. But I like steak with teriyaki sauce.” He glanced at her plate, which held tiny portions of vegetables and sushi. “Is that enough to fill you up?”

  She nodded. “Definitely. I eat a big breakfast and a medium sized lunch, and I try to eat light at dinner. This is the perfect amount of food for me.”

  He looked from her plate to his, which was heaped with fried rice and vegetables and steak and shrimp. “I’m glad I’m not a dancer.”

  “What is your work? You know all about my job and I don’t know anything about yours.”

  “I’m a political consultant.”

  There was a short pause. “Oh.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the tone of her voice. “There was something disapproving about that ‘oh’.”

  “No, not at all,” she said quickly. “What does being a political consultant entail, exactly?”

  “These days I work mostly on campaigns. That way I can guarantee myself variety.”

  “So you help politicians get elected?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Oh.”

  He raised his eyebrow again. “And there’s another one. What is it you disapprove of, Sara?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  She smiled at that. “Well…I’m not crazy about politics. Or politicians, I guess.”

  That was something he heard all the time. In an election season, even a midterm one, politicians were everyone’s favorite target. With the sluggish economy, the divisive rhetoric, and all the negative campaign ads, it was hard to find anything lovable about politics right now.

  So yeah, he heard that all the time. It never bothered him. Why should it? He loved his job. He was naturally competitive and there weren’t many fields more competitive than politics. And since he enjoyed what he did, he never cared when people took digs at his profession.

  Except for right now.

  “You don’t think there are any good politicians out there?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t seem like there are. And the whole thing just gets more and more vicious. I don’t watch the news on TV anymore, because they have political commentators on and I can’t stand all the fighting and arguing.”

  “So you don’t like conflict.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t say that. It’s the way they fight that really bothers me.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Politicians only argue to win. All they want is to beat their opponent.”

  “Well, why not? The point of arguing is to win the argument.”

  “But politicians get so entrenched in their positions that they don’t even care if they’re right. They just argue a side because it’s theirs, or because their opponent has taken the opposite side.”

  “If that were true, then compromise wouldn’t be possible. And politics is all about compromise.”

  She made a face. “Compromising the wrong things, you mean.”

  He swallowed his last bite of steak. “You’re not very consistent. You don’t like politicians because they’re too entrenched in their positions, and you don’t like them because they compromise too much.”

  “They only compromise if it will help them win—and if it will help them win, they’ll compromise anything. They care more about winning than doing the right thing, or being true to themselves.”

  “And I suppose you’re always true to yourself.”

  She frowned, sensing the trap. The trap he couldn’t seem to stop himself from setting.

  “I try to be.”

  “And you never compromise the wrong things.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Then explain to me why the hell you’re dating Harry Blake.”

  Her mouth fell open. “What?”

  “He’s a jerk. Your friend Emilio knows it, and I bet you know it, too. Because you’re smart and insightful. But you’re still going out with him, which means you’re compromising the wrong things. You’re settling. And you’re not being true to yourself.”

  “Harry’s not a jerk.”

  The waiter came for the empty dishes but they barely noticed. They were leaning towards each other, focused and intent.

  “He’s never made time to see you dance. Doesn’t that bother you? And let me ask you this. When you go out together, does he pick you up?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but when a man takes a woman out on a date, I think he should pick her up.”

  She took a deep breath. “Maybe the women you date care about things like that, but I don’t. I don’t need Harry to pick me up for our dates.”

  “Which means he doesn’t. Does he ever come to your place, or do you have to go to his? He lives downtown, right? Does he ever meet you on your turf, or do you always meet on his?”

  He was pulling a political trick—asking a question he already knew the answer to.

  “Harry is very understanding about my schedule. He never complains if I have to change plans because of extra rehearsals, or if I have to replace an injured dancer. So I try to accommodate him about some things.”

  “Which is your way of saying that I’m right. You always meet Harry where it’s convenient for him, because he’s selfish. And you, for some reason, don’t think you deserve any better.” He shook his head. “You deserve a man who’d climb a mountain to pick you up for a date. So why are you selling yourself short?”

  “I’m not selling myself short. I’m just trying to find some kind of balance in my life.”

  Her right hand was fisted on the table, and he wanted to cover it with his. He wanted to say he was sorry and change the subject, but he didn’t.

  “How does Harry bring balance to your life?”

  For a moment he thought she might not answer. “Men think they want to date a ballerina,” she said finally. “They think of us as these beautiful butterflies, delicate and exotic. They fall in love with the way we look or the way we move or whatever fantasy they have about us. But the reality is, we don’t have a lot of money, we work nights and weekends, and all we think about is dancing. We don’t eat much and we work out all the time. So dating a ballerina isn’t much fun in real life.”

  “So you’re saying you’ll take whatever crumbs a jerk like Harry will give you?”

  “I’m saying that I decided a long time ago that I couldn’t have a ballet career and a normal social life. I chose dance, which means my social life…” she shrugged. “It’s not the stuff that dreams are made of. But I’m okay with that. I made my choice and I can live with it.” She lifted her chin. “And Harry’s not a jerk.”

  He didn’t know why it burned him so much to hear her defend him, but it did.

  He sat back in his chair and tried to look relaxed. “Okay. How about this. Call him right now and ask if he’ll meet you at your place tonight instead of downtown. If he says yes, I’ll take back what I said and never bring it up again.”

  It was a dare. And as Sara stared at him, he knew exactly what was going through her mind. She wanted to take him up on it, to prove that Harry would go out of his way for her. And at the same time, she was afraid to put him to the test. She was afraid he would let her down.

  After a minute she dropped her eyes and pulled her phone out of her purse. Then she flipped it open and dialed.

  Chapter Five

  Please answer. Please answer. Please—

  “Sara! What’s up, babe? Are we still on for tonight?”

  He’d answered the phone. So far, so good. “Yes, definitely. I was just wondering…”

  She paused, still looking down at the tablecloth. She was aware of Nick’s keen blue eyes watching her�
�eyes that in the last few minutes had gone from warm to challenging.

  She wasn’t sure what had happened, or why he was pushing her like this. But it had suddenly become absolutely critical to prove him wrong—and Emilio, too, even though he wasn’t here.

  She wished she had some way to communicate to Harry how important this was to her.

  Maybe he’d sense it in her voice. He was an artist, like her. Sensitive. Perceptive.

  Please say yes. Please.

  “I was just wondering if we could meet at my place tonight instead of downtown.” When he didn’t answer right away, she added quickly, “It would really mean a lot to me.”

  She regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth. They made her sound pathetic. They made her sound…

  Like her mother.

  In a visceral rush it all came back. Her mother with that needy, dependent, clinging tone in her voice, and her father responding with dismissive contempt. A hateful, miserable, petty cycle of hurt.

  A cycle she’d sworn she’d never be a part of. She never wanted to let someone down or be let down, which was why she broke up with guys who couldn’t handle her commitment to ballet, and why she never asked anything of her boyfriends she wasn’t sure they could give.

  But she was asking now, when she wasn’t sure at all.

  When Harry spoke, his voice was low and intimate. “Tell me this. If I come to your place, what are the chances we’ll finally take this thing between us to the next level?”

  Sex. Such a simple solution. All she had to do was say the chances were good, and he’d come.

  Her eyes still on the tablecloth, she thought about what Nick had said.

  You deserve a man who’d climb a mountain to pick you up for a date.

  She took a deep breath. “I can’t say for sure. We’ll have to play that by ear. But I’d really like you to come over.”

  Whatever his answer was, it would have to be on that basis alone—the fact that she’d asked.

  There was a long silence, and by the end of it, she already knew what his answer would be.

  “The truth is, babe, I’ll probably be pretty beat after my gig. Why don’t you come downtown like usual? No need to shake up a routine that works for us, right?”