by Pam Godwin
The room he built for me.
One more dance.
I move mindlessly to the stereo and select What Is Love by V Bozeman.
Then I dance slowly, tearfully, through the room, committing everything to memory—the give of the flooring, the glow of the sun through windows, the smoothness of the ballet bars, and the echo of the music through the high ceiling.
When the song ends, I dry my eyes and force myself to leave. To leave it all behind.
An hour later, I back the Midget out of the garage and pull onto the dirt road, weeping. The moment I can’t see the house anymore, I burst into ruthless, shoulder-shaking sobs. Then I grab my phone and call my sister.
Bree talks to me through most of the four-hour drive. She wants me to stay with her until I move my things out of storage. She wants to take care of me.
She’s done that enough for one lifetime. Yeah, I’m sad. I’m fucking miserable. But I’ve got this. I can do it all by myself. Even if it means sleeping on the floor.
As my house comes into view, I’m hit with a poignant wave of nostalgia. It’s been eleven months. I wonder how my neighbors are doing? God, I hope no one has died.
Someone’s been keeping up with the landscaping. I pull into the driveway, squinting at the cut lawn and trimmed hedges. Did Cole hire a management company to take care of the property?
I park the car and enter through the back door, shivering against the cold December wind. It’s not any warmer in the house. Shit, I didn’t even consider the possibility that the utilities would be off.
As I race through the kitchen, I flip the light switch, and the ceiling bulb flickers on. Yes! In the hall, I push the thermostat to hell hot. Then I take a deep breath and step into the bedroom.
There’s a bed and other furniture. At least, I think that’s furniture beneath all the white cloth. With a burst of focus, I start yanking off the sheets, moving from room to room, revealing more furniture and scattering clouds of dust. Everything is mine. It’s all the stuff I moved to storage.
Given the layers of dust, he did this a long time ago. Like he knew I’d come back to the house we shared.
Our house.
If I inhale deep enough, I can smell him. I feel him in the air and hear him moving through the rooms. It’s his spirit, like he’s dead all over again. That’s what it feels like.
The tears flood in, and I let them fall freely as I bring in my bags from the car and curl up in bed.
I need to give myself time to grieve Cole.
Then, when I’m ready, I’ll take the next step.
If I’m brave enough, it’ll be a step into The Regal Arch Casino.
I search through the crowd of restaurant patrons for a tall, scowling silhouette. My feet haven’t even crossed the threshold to Bissara, and I’m already violently shaking in my high-heeled booties.
Around me, slot machines ding and clang. Cigarette smoke tinges the air, and servers bustle by carrying plates of Moroccan food.
I told myself to take it slow. I took it slow. I’ve been in St. Louis for a month. I survived the holidays with my sister, reconnected with Nikolai, my dance partner, and started volunteering at the homeless shelter again.
There’s been no contact with Cole. No job hunting. No Trace.
If Cole and Trace still talk, Trace knows I’m back. Yet he hasn’t called. Hasn’t shown up.
He moved on.
I’m sweating, nauseous, wracked with ungodly nerves. But I have to do this. I have to know if there’s a chance my heart will beat again.
Running a hand over my cute gray shirt dress, I tug on the mid-thigh hem and dry my palms on the soft fabric. Where is he?
“Danni?”
I turn toward the feminine voice and find the sweet face of a hostess I knew when I danced here.
“Crystal!” I hug her.
She was here the night Trace proposed to me. I can only imagine the rumors that circulated after our break up.
“You’re back?” She returns the hug, grinning. “Are you dancing here again?”
“Just stopping by.” I stare at the empty stage with an ache that burns in my bones. “Is the position open?”
“Mr. Savoy hasn’t found the right dancer. I bet if you apply—”
“Is he here? I haven’t seen…”
Then I see him. Sitting at a table in the far corner, cloaked in shadows, he’s angled away from me. The dining room is so packed I can barely make out his profile behind the crowded tables of people.
“Excuse me.” I leave Crystal standing there and float toward him, thoroughly hypnotized by his presence.
Black suit and tie, starched white shirt, arresting facial features, and not a sexy blond hair out of place, he’s a paragon of masculine beauty.
I crane my neck, trying to make out his expression. Is he heartbroken? Reconciled? He’s too far away. The lighting’s too dim, and those ice blue eyes haven’t shifted in my direction. Not once.
I pick up my pace, dodging servers, pushing through the crowd, grower more anxious with every step toward him.
Twenty paces away, his table comes into view. I stumble, breath hitching.
He’s not alone.
My heart sinks to the floor.
An elegant woman sits across from him. Long black hair, lean muscle, long limbs, she wears a classy black dress, smiling and talking with beautiful red lips. Everything about her is beautiful. Especially the man she’s with.
He’s not looking at her and instead stares at the dark stage like he’s watching a ghost dance to the soft background music. It gives me courage. Hope. He might be trying to move on, but he hasn’t. Not yet.
I change course, veering toward the platform and stepping into his line of sight. My hands slick with sweat as he blinks, looks directly at me, and blinks again.
Time stands still. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react in any way. There isn’t a hint of emotion etching his face. The man is a master at putting up a smoke screen.
If I found him gazing longingly at the woman across the table, maybe I’d turn heel and walk out. But he’s not. If the roles were reversed… Scratch that. The roles were reversed. I loved two men, and Trace never gave up. He didn’t leave me until I made a bullshit decision.
I need to know if he moved on, if he found happiness. If he hasn’t, I don’t care who this woman is. It’s game on.
Pushing back my shoulders, I approach his table and fight like hell to keep my nerves out of my voice. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner.” I turn toward his date. “Hi. I’m—”
“Where’s Cole?” He scowls at me.
“I don’t know.” My entire body tries to curl in on itself.
“He hasn’t answered his phone in over a month.”
My pulse quickens. Cole hasn’t called him? That means Trace didn’t know I was back.
I straighten my spine and meet his cold, unwelcoming eyes. “It turns out I was right about one thing.”
“Just one?”
I’m sure there are other things, but I don’t recall them at the moment. “Yeah.”
He releases a haughty huff. “What were you right about?”
“Love isn’t a choice.”
A twitch tugs at his mouth, there and gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
Then something shifts in his demeanor. The stiffness in his spine leaks away, slightly dropping his shoulders. His expression slackens. His eyes grow distant, empty, and that’s when I see it.
Deep sorrow.
My heart beats frantically, stabbing pain through my stomach. Maybe he’s trying to find happiness with the quiet beauty at his table. Maybe he’s too heartbroken to ever forgive me. But beneath his cool facade, he’s not okay. Not even close.
I bend toward him, holding his gaze until my mouth reaches his ear. “I’m going to fight for you.”
His hand flexes on his lap, and the intoxicating scent of his skin threatens to bring me to my knees.
“Enjoy your dinner.” I step back and forc
e my feet to turn toward the door.
Then I go home.
Standing in my bathroom an hour later, I stare at my reflection in the mirror and cringe. I’m going to fight for you?
“Good one, Danni,” I mumble around the toothbrush hanging from my mouth. “How are you going to do that exactly?”
Impulsive as usual, I jumped in without a plan. What I wanted to do was rip that woman away from the table by her Pantene hair and toss her out of the restaurant. But I won’t win Trace by behaving like a psychotic, jealous bitch. He deserves better.
He deserves respect, sacrifice, and patience—all the things he’s given me.
Maybe his dinner date is a worthy, ideal partner for him. If so, points for her. She’s elegantly beautiful, and she’s never broken his heart. More points in her favor.
But her greatest competition is a woman who has nothing to lose and everything to gain. There isn’t a soul in the world who will fight as hard as I intend to fight for his happiness.
By tomorrow night, I’ll have the dance position at Bissara. He’s had seven months to hire someone. The job is still open because he wants me on that stage. After we negotiate a salary and schedule, I’ll dance my way through his chilly exterior.
I don’t have a strategy after that, but one thing I won’t do is give up. I let him go twice, and both times destroyed me. I’ve fallen and lost and hit rock bottom, and through the deepest pain, I found strength, found myself, and found what makes my heart beat.
Dressed in fleece pajama pants and a long-sleeved shirt, I head to the kitchen and pour a glass of wine. Before the glass touches my lips, the doorbell rings.
Every muscle in my body tenses. It’s after ten o’clock. My neighbors are asleep. Bree has school early in the morning. There’s only one person who would show up at my door at this hour.
Trembling, twisting, nervousness rises and swells, months of separation threatening to spew my dinner across the kitchen floor. I swallow down the nausea and breathe. Another deep breath, and I concentrate on my lungs all the way to the door. But my tenuous grip on composure slips as I turn the lock.
I’m so nervous I don’t remember to check the peep hole until I open the door to…someone I’ve never seen before.
Black suit, weathered face, and silver hair, a short man stares back at me, expressionless. Parked behind him on the curb is a black sedan.
Is he one of Trace’s drivers? Is Trace inside that car? I squint at the tinted windows, unable to see the interior.
“I’m Oliver, a private chauffeur for The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel.” He lifts his chin. “Mr. Savoy would like to meet with you.”
His words invoke a profound sense of déjà vu, transporting me back to the night Trace and I met. A delicious shiver races through me, making me want to relive that moment, over and over. Maybe that’s Trace’s intent.
“Why does he want to meet with me?” I repeat the question I asked his assistant that night.
“He wants to discuss your services.”
The same answer. This has to be rehearsed.
My heartbeat accelerates. “If he wants dance lessons, he can set up an appointment.”
“He’s waiting.”
In the car? Instead of wasting words, I dart around him and sprint across the frozen grass, hunching against the cold. When I reach the sedan, I yank open the rear passenger door. My heart stops.
The back seat, the front seat, the entire fucking car is empty.
Shit. I close the door and back away, stomach clenching.
“Ma’am?” Oliver appears at my side. “I’m here to escort you to the casino.”
What game is Trace playing? Should I go along with it? Or should I stick to the script from the night we met? I bet he expects the latter, and I don’t want to disappoint him. I’ve done that enough.
“He can make an appointment.” I hug my chest and plod back inside. “I have plans tonight.”
“He was quite adamant, Miss.” Oliver trails behind me and pauses on the front porch. “The offer is now.”
“Send my regrets to Mr. Savoy.” I close the door partway, peering through the gap. “If he’s interested in my services, he can call on me himself.”
I close the door, twist the lock, and drop my forehead against the wood. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Did I do the right thing? I want to fight for Trace, not piss him off.
He sent a driver to take me back to the casino. Does that mean he ended his date? Maybe not. He knows me well enough to predict I wouldn’t have jumped into that car.
Dammit, I hate these fucking head games.
My insides shrivel as I pace through the sitting room. A year and a half ago, I sent Trace’s assistant away only to find him sitting on my couch like he owned the place. The mystery, the sexual tension, everything about that night was thrilling. He loved me then, and I didn’t know it. I didn’t even know him.
That night marks a transitional point in my life. I was grieving Cole, wholly in love with him. Trace showed up and tipped my world upside down.
I still love Cole, but everything’s different now.
My heart belongs to Trace, and I hurt him. Possibly irreparably.
Tomorrow, I’ll go to the casino as planned and get my job back. Then I’ll do whatever is needed to make him happy again.
With a reinforcing breath, I stride through the empty dining room, into the hallway, and yelp.
Tall and imposing, Trace stands in the narrow walkway in the kitchen. Hands clasped behind him and shoulders back, he scowls at me with an intensity that lifts the hairs on my nape.
“How did you get in?” After seeing the photos of the dead body in my house, I always make sure the doors are locked. “You broke in.”
“I have keys that will get me past every deadbolt.”
He must’ve come in through the back before his driver knocked on the front door? I don’t even care. He’s in my house. He came for me.
My pulse goes wild, throbbing in my throat. He’s so insanely good-looking I can’t focus. It’s not just the sexy suit, the alluring eyes, and strong jawline. It’s the proud way he holds himself, the confidence he carries through every action. He radiates tenacity and strength without opening his mouth.
I clear my voice. “Was I supposed to get in the sedan?”
“You tell me.”
“I think…” I scrunch my face, contemplating. “It doesn’t matter. The point was you wanted me thinking about the night we met.”
Stern and indifferent, he crooks a finger, commanding me closer.
I’m captivated by his eyes. They’re things of beauty and power, made of magical ingredients that fuse with my eyes to create an unbreakable spell. I have to physically shake myself to look away and put one foot in front of the other.
Stepping into the kitchen, I pause just out of arm’s reach. “How did you know I moved back into this house?”
“I had you followed when you left the casino.”
“You didn’t know I was in town?”
“No.” He casts a clinical glance around the kitchen. “How did you get the house back?”
“Apparently, Cole bought it a month after I sold it. You haven’t talked to him?”
He shakes his head, expression tensing. “Why isn’t he here with you? He stopped answering his phone when—”
“I left. Or rather…he left. But it’s not what you think.”
I need a drink, and wine isn’t going to cut it. Crouching, I dig through the bottom cabinet until I find the bottle of scotch I bought a couple weeks ago. Then I pour two glasses and slide one to him.
“When did you start drinking scotch?” He lifts the tumbler to his perfect lips and sips.
“Tonight. Can we…?” I point toward the sitting room. “Sit down?”
At his nod, I lead the way.
We settle on opposite ends of the couch, cradling our drinks. I take a second to steel my backbone. I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to fuck this up. I’m just
going to lay it all out, honestly and maturely.
“I never got over you.” I gulp down a swallow of scotch and launch into a fit of coughing.
Fuck that shit. I set the glass aside, wait for the burn in my throat to subside, and turn to Trace.
He watches me with disinterest, but I don’t miss the twitch in his fingers. He wants to reach for me, and I desperately want to be worthy of his touch.
“I tried to make it work with Cole.” I brush the hair from my face. “We had the connection, the commitment, it’s just…it wasn’t the same.” I stare into his eyes, let him see the raw wounds in mine. Wounds that bleed for Cole. “When he came back from the grave, I wasn’t the same person. I loved another man, and I still do.”
“But you picked him.” His hand balls against his thigh. “He’s your first choice.”
“He was a choice. Don’t you get it? You were never a decision.” I breathe in, recalling the words he said to me. “You’re the realization clawing at my insides without coercion or doubt or the pressure of time. My heart beats for you and only you, not because you command it, but because we’re meant to be.”
He sets the glass on the coffee table and rises from the couch, staring at the front door.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, heart aching. “For everything, but mostly for making you so unhappy.”
“I’m a grown man, Danni.” His voice is harsh, snapping through the room. “I don’t need your apologies or your coddling.”
Sucking in a breath, I jump to my feet. “I’m not coddling, dammit. I’m fighting.” I dart around the coffee table and stand before him, tilting my head back to see his face. “The day we went on the balloon ride, you told me I made you ridiculously happy, like you discovered a magical cure. You said you wanted to lock me away and protect me. Remember that?”
His jaw stiffens as he glares at me. Yeah, he remembers.
“I want to make you feel that way again. Lock me away, Trace. Do whatever you want with me. Just let me in.”
His unnatural stillness makes my scalp tingle. I search the shadows darkening his face, looking for hints that he’s considering my words. I only see pain.
He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, removes a folded document, and offers it to me. I don’t have to open it to know it’s an employment contract. It’s not a tearful reunion, but it’s a lifeline, nonetheless. I grab on with both hands.