A Season to Dance

by Rebecca Heflin

  “It’s a long tale full of woe. I’ll tell you sometime over another beer. Or five.”

  Olivia could have sworn she heard Kristen give a derisive snort.

  “I got some work to do in the back.” He thumbed behind him and glanced once more in Kristen’s direction. “Let’s catch up soon.”

  “That would be great.”

  Olivia took her seat again, leaning in to whisper, “Why don’t you like Tyler? And if you don’t like him, why do you come here and drink his beer?”

  “Who said I didn’t like him?” Kristen returned with an anything-but-nonchalant shrug.

  “Um, you did. Or rather your body did. I’ve seen more welcoming body language on a scorned ex-wife.”

  Casting Olivia a baleful look, Kristen threw a ten on the bar, grabbed her purse, and stood. “Gotta go.” Then she lit out of the place like her ass was on fire.

  “Was it something I said?” Olivia muttered to herself.

  “No.”

  Startled, Olivia turned to find Zach standing behind her, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets.

  “Kristen and Tyler are like oil and water. To this day, I don’t know why. Neither one will say.”

  Seeing Zach, knowing now that he and Kristen had slept together—even once—Olivia’s heart thudded, dull and heavy in her chest. She couldn’t do this now. She’d plan to buy him a beer, to thank him for rescuing her today, but she changed her mind.

  Taking a cue from Kristen, Olivia pulled a ten from her wallet and tossed it onto the bar. “I gotta go.”

  Zach stood, hands on hips. “Didn’t know I could clear a room with such efficiency,” he muttered, but she could feel his eyes on her all the way to the door. Eyes that haunted her in her sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  The following Saturday morning, Olivia climbed to the third floor of the studio, where Amy had assembled a crew of volunteers, made up, she’d said, of the usual suspects, to design and paint scenery—parents of students and a few local craftspeople skilled in wood working, painting, and drawing.

  And among the ten or so people assembled, Olivia was surprised to see the man who’d taken a bee sting for her. Although she shouldn’t have been surprised. Zach had said he would help, and when he said he’d do something, he’d do it.

  He sat on the floor, his broad, muscular, T-shirt-clad back to her, painting what would be part of the backdrop for the ball. She still had trouble looking at him knowing that he and Kristen had . . . well, she really needed to get over herself. It wasn’t like she’d been celibate in the years they’d been apart either.

  Two men worked on what would become Cinderella’s carriage, based off a photo Olivia had of the carriage used by The Joffrey for their production. Probably more elaborate than the carriage needed to be, but Olivia thought it would be an elegant touch to the production. She admired the creativity of the men, turning everyday materials into a gleaming gold carriage.

  The group worked together in a harmony born from years of experience. Her mother had had good friends and loyal supporters. And those friends and supporters were now becoming her own. She shook her head. They would have to become friends and supporters of the new owner once she sold the studio and returned to the world of professional dance—no matter what her role in that world would be.

  Well, rather than stand there and watch, she might as well help. Even though she had some choreography she needed to work on. Picking up a clean paintbrush, she headed in Zach’s direction under the excuse that he had a big area to cover and looked like he could use the help.

  Lowering herself to the floor about three feet from him, she said, “Hi.”

  He sat back and smiled. “Hi, yourself. What are you doing here?”

  “It’s my production. I could ask you the same thing.”

  “It’s my friend’s production.”

  Friends? Is that what they were?

  “But seriously,” he continued, “don’t you have other things you need to do?”

  She shrugged. Truthfully, yes.

  But . . . this was where she wanted to be. “I can’t concentrate on choreography with all the noise up here.” Not a total lie. She could hear the thud of tools and the clamor of feet above her. It’s what drew her to the third floor in the first place. “I’ll work after everyone is gone and the studio is quiet.”

  Dipping her brush in the beige paint for the balustrade, she tried to turn her attention to the task at hand and not the hunky cop next to her. The one that smelled so good she longed to bury her face in his neck and maybe slide her lips along his warm skin before nipping at his strong stubbly jaw. She recalled The Kiss and shivered.

  “You cold?”

  It was a chilly morning, but no, she wasn’t cold. In fact, it was just the opposite.

  “You’ll warm up with the effort,” Zach assured her, oblivious to her internal struggle.

  “How’s your hand?” She eyed his right hand as he dipped the brush in the paint tray.

  “No permanent damage. But explaining it all to the worker’s comp rep was . . . interesting.”

  “You filed for workers’ comp?”

  “No, but we have to report any injury sustained in the line of duty.” He chuckled. “Even bee stings.”

  “My hero,” Olivia said on a laugh. “Seriously. I’m sorry you were stung, and I appreciate your help the other day.”

  Zach shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

  “Maybe they’ll give you a special commendation.”

  He deserved a fucking special commendation for keeping his hands off Olivia right now. His entire body was attuned to the woman next to him. The scent of her perfume or shampoo wreaking havoc with his senses, her warmth bombarding him with memories, memories of her sitting next to him in her dance clothes, painting scenery, just like they were doing now.

  After rehearsals, she would sneak away and climb the stairs on the afternoons he’d come by to help, and they’d work side by side until her mother came up to say it was time to close up. He’d persuade Carly to let Olivia get pizza with him, and he’d walk her home holding her hand in his, knowing he was the luckiest guy in the world. And knowing someday his luck would run out.

  And when they’d reach her mother’s front porch, he’d take her into his arms and kiss her like it was their last one. He’d wanted her so bad it hurt. An ache that started deep inside his chest and spread like a slow-burning fire. Shaking his head at the memories, he stood, taking the paint tray with him. “We need more paint. I’ll be right back.”

  As he stood at the plywood work table pouring paint into the tray, he lifted his gaze to Olivia where she dabbed paint onto the backdrop.

  Now clad in yoga pants and a black A Chorus Line T-shirt, she looked the same yet different, in all the best ways. Her long silky hair hung down her back, her lithe body put even some ten years younger to shame, and yet, it was definitely a woman’s body, with a woman’s subtle curves. Curves she didn’t have as a leggy seventeen-year-old. Curves she’d had pressed against him just a week ago when he’d backed her up against the wall and kissed her breathless.

  She’d also blossomed into this worldly, confident, off-the-charts-sexy woman.

  And she’d be leaving again. As soon as the final curtain came down on the recital.

  He’d never gotten over Olivia James. There had been other women, but they never stuck. Or should he say, he never stuck. The longest, Alicia, had been one of his fellow officers in Atlanta. Six months after it began, it ended when he resigned to return to Northridge and his father.

  When he returned, he and Kristen reconnected, but the moment they kissed, they knew they would never be anything but friends, so that turned into a casual hookup instead. Once.

  As cliché as it sounded, no one ever measured up to Olivia. And no one ever would, if he didn’t put her behind him. The best thing he could do for himself was to steer clear. Two more months until she left again. He could hang on until then, right?

  Riiight.

/>   “You missed a spot,” Zach said, interrupting a jaunt down memory lane.

  “Where?” Just as Zach rose to his knees to point out the area Olivia had missed with his paintbrush, she turned, the paintbrush in her hand swiping across his right cheek. “Omigod!” She covered her mouth in horror. “I’m so sorry.” Seeing Zach’s surprised expression, the streak of blue-gray paint across his cheek, a giggle bubbled in her throat. No attempt at swallowing it succeeded, and the giggle escaped.

  “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” Zach’s eyes glowed with both mischief and annoyance.

  She shook her head no, but another chuckle bubbled to the surface. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  Zach’s muscles flexed, and he reminded her of a cat ready to spring on its prey. “Zach, no.” Her eyes widened, reading his mind. She sprang to her feet, just as he executed a jump that took him from kneeling to standing, paintbrush extended like a weapon.

  Despite herself, Olivia laughed. “I said I was sorry.” She feinted right as he thrust left. “Don’t you dare,” she said, holding out her own paintbrush in a defensive pose, the warning losing its threat in another giggle.

  Before she could react, Zach had sliced the brush from left down to right, slashing paint from breast to hip, leaving a cream-colored streak across her black T-shirt. Gasping, she stared down at herself, mouth agape, then lifted her stunned expression to his smiling, triumphant eyes. “You’re going to regret that!”

  “Am I?” He crouched, paintbrush in one hand, the other lifted in challenge. “Bring it,” he challenged, waggling his fingers.

  She jabbed, catching him right in the six pack, a blue-gray splotch of paint coloring his white T-shirt. He looked down in surprise.

  “Ha!” she cried, her hands in the air, as she executed a victory dance, pleased to see her ankle didn’t protest.

  Her victory was short-lived, though. Zach took advantage, slashing the paintbrush across the patch of bare abdomen exposed by her lifted T-shirt. Sucking in a breath at the cool paint on her warm skin, she glared at him. “Hey!”

  He lifted a brow and shrugged. “You left yourself vulnerable.”

  She dove at him, brush at the ready. He caught her wrist in his free hand then swiped his brush up her thigh, painting a streak up the middle of her denim-clad leg.

  His masculine chuckle rumbled in his chest, loosening something in her own. The tightness that had gripped her since learning of her mother’s death released enough that she felt she could take a deep breath for the first time in months.

  In the struggle over her brush, she dropped it, and it bounced its way to the ground, hitting his head, shoulder, and leg in its descent. He pulled Olivia to him, and her breath caught at the contact.

  Lean as he was in high school, Zach the man was hard as steel and just as strong. The laughter died in her throat as his eyes changed from sparkling blue to blue flame, and his gaze dropped to her mouth.

  They stood, frozen in their own world until someone cleared their throat.

  Zach released her, and they stepped back, panting with both exertion and desire. She turned to find everyone in the room staring at them, some with sly grins, others with mouths agape.

  Olivia swallowed, then recovered her aplomb, and with a nervous laugh and a shrug said, “Who knew painting scenery could be so much fun.”

  Flipping on the shower, Zach examined his paint-stained T-shirt and jeans, then glanced in the mirror and added face to that inventory. Then a grin spread over his blue-splotched visage.

  Fun. When was the last time he’d had that much fun? Rollicking, belly-laughing fun? And then the temperature in the room had gone up a few degrees when he’d pulled Olivia to him, her lush body pressed to his, her breath warm on his neck.

  He groaned, as blood headed south at the memory.

  Damn! He’d wanted to kiss her—no, needed to kiss her. And she’d wanted to kiss him too. He knew it. The way her eyes dropped to his mouth, her tongue licking her lips, giving her away.

  Oh yeah. She’d wanted it.

  Then he’d forgotten everyone else in the room. Forgotten they’d had an audience of townspeople who no doubt would be talking about it tomorrow.

  Giving his head a shake, he told himself not to go there. She’d be leaving again after the recital, her obligations met. Stripping off the ruined shirt and jeans, he tossed them onto the bathroom floor with a shrug. He could always use them for yard work.

  He stepped beneath the warm spray, and looking down at the evidence of his desire, flipped the faucet to cold, bracing himself for the onslaught.

  Despite the cold water, his thoughts returned to the vision of Olivia in the shower the morning he and Cole had answered the security company’s call.

  He closed his eyes, and his imagination took over, filling in the details the steam-fogged shower door had concealed. Her silky water-slicked skin, the full round shape of her breasts, the curve of her ass, and the firm thighs.

  Then his thoughts turned to what he’d have liked to do to her in that shower.

  Groaning, he slapped the tile wall in front of him.

  Olivia James still intrigued him. Still called to him, as she’d always done. A siren song he couldn’t resist.

  But resist he must. For his own sanity.

  Chapter Eleven

  Olivia executed a careful pirouette on demi-pointe. Not bad. Not good either. A tad wobbly.

  In the category of cut-off-your-nose-to-spite-your-face, Lily pulled Chloe and Christopher from the recital, stating that if her daughter couldn’t be Cinderella, she and her brother would not be part of the production. Clearly Lily was bluffing, but the joke was on her because Olivia had called her bluff. She felt a twinge of guilt for the pawn in all of this—Chloe.

  And, for her trouble, Olivia now found herself dancing the role of the Fairy Godmother.

  The quick, sprite-like choreography she’d envisioned for the performance as the Fairy Godmother to “Impossible” might have to be dumbed down to accommodate her injury. Disappointment and frustration rocked her.

  Her brain, her heart, her soul, wanted nothing more than to dance—to fly across the stage in her trademark athletic grand jeté, to spin like a top in fouetté turns, or to be lifted high in the air by her partner.

  Attempting to walk off the bitterness that engulfed her, she strode the length of the studio then pivoted to find a woman standing just inside the door, a broad smile on her face.

  “Can I help you?”

  The petite redhead stepped forward, her sensible heels clicking on the wood floor, hand extended. “I’m Scarlet Ellis, Head of Northridge’s Cultural Affairs Council.”

  Olivia shook her hand. “Northridge has cultural affairs?”

  “I know, right?” She giggled. “But, yes, we do! A lot has changed in the years since you’ve left. In fact, your late mother started the Council and served on the board for many years.”

  Olivia shook her head. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  “Pfft. No.” She waved her hand as if brushing off that possibility. “I was behind you in school by four years, but I remember watching you dance, and I knew you’d make it big.”

  She’d made it big, all right. Until it all ended with a gruesome and excruciating pop. Olivia paused the music she’d been listening to. “Are you here about the recital?”

  “No, although there will definitely be an article about that in our monthly magazine.”

  Magazine? Northridge had a magazine? About cultural affairs?

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the Atlanta String Quartet is performing a concert in the Bailey Park Amphitheater next month to benefit Northridge’s fall concert schedule, and we’ve gotten some other big names to perform, including Georgia’s own, Allie Wall.” Scarlet clapped her hands in her enthusiasm.

  “The Southern Soprano?” Olivia asked, impressed. She’d heard Allie perform at A Night of Gershwin in Chicago.

  “The very one.”

  Olivia s
hook her head. “I’m sorry, this all sounds great, but what does this have to do with me?”

  “We were hoping you’d dance.” She pressed her hands together, seeming to hold her breath. “A piece of your choice, of course. The quartet can play, or you can use a recording—”

  “I’m sorry, maybe you haven’t heard, but I can’t dance. Ruptured Achilles.”

  “Oh, but I thought you were better. There’s been talk about you returning to Chicago after the recital.”

  Talk? By whom? “Well, it remains to be seen whether I’ll return to dance, and certainly not in time to perform for the benefit.”

  “Oh, but it doesn’t have to be extravagant. Anything you can do would be appreciated. And the citizens of Northridge would be thrilled.”

  Couldn’t this woman see that what she was asking was impossible? “Look, I’m flattered, really, but I just can’t.” She’d be lucky to perform for the recital that was only seven weeks away.

  Scarlet’s shoulders slumped. “I, I understand. But I hope you appreciate that I had to try. People around here would pay big money to see you dance, and our fundraising goal is a lofty one.”

  Nothing like a guilt trip to make you feel even better about yourself. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, we can always add you to the program.”

  “Thanks, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Scarlet left, clearly disappointed with the outcome.

  She’d said the dance didn’t have to be anything extravagant. Thinking about her simple performance for the Fairy Godmother, she couldn’t help wondering. If she couldn’t dance at the same level before her injury, would she even want to dance at all?

  “Another one?” Tyler asked, as he stepped up next to Zach who stood eyeing the spray paint on Dominick’s alley wall.

  Zach stood, hands on hips, looking at the spray-painted words, DICKS RULE. “Yeah. At least this one is on the alley side of the building.”