A Season to Dance

by Rebecca Heflin

  No. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t abandon his father like his mother did. It would be the final blow.

  Olivia’s hand touched his arm and he started. “Zach?”

  He’d known this day would come, but he’d thought he had four more months to prepare for it. With his heart thudding heavily in his chest, he turned, and her hand landed on his chest, right over his heart, which had become heavy as lead.

  “I can’t leave.”

  Olivia studied his face, her eyes filling, and part of him died.

  “I can’t leave my father.” He wanted to touch her. To glide his hand down her cheek, to kiss her parted lips, to bury his face in her neck and inhale the sweet scent of her and let the rest of the world fall away. To forget his obligations. To make her forget her dreams.

  She dropped her hand and stepped back, shaking her head. “I can’t stay, Zach,” she whispered.

  A bitter laughed escaped. “You can’t stay, and I can’t leave.” The words burned his throat, raw with pain. A tear spilled down her cheek, but Zach stood, grounded to the spot. “So, this is it.”

  “You’re breaking up with me?” Her voice was small and distant.

  “I think we’re breaking up with each other,” Zach corrected.

  She pressed a hand to her mouth, clenched her eyes shut, and shook her head. A moment passed, painful and wrenching. Finally, she turned away. “Goodbye, Zach.”

  I love you. He couldn’t speak. The words stayed in his throat where they would fester for so many years.

  He’d gone in the house, walked straight to the bathroom, and vomited.

  Letting her go had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. And as much as he’d like to say he didn’t regret it, he did. Every single day of his life. But Olivia James was meant for more. Always had been, and he’d known it from the beginning.

  Later that evening, Olivia stared at the meager selection of clothes hanging in her closet. Her Chicago condo housed a large closet filled with fine clothes, mostly designer wear provided for photoshoots. By contrast, this one held the bare necessities—jeans, sweaters, casual blouses, a pair of boots, some tennis shoes, ballet flats, etc.—the LBD she’d worn for her mother’s funeral the only ‘something nice’ she had in her closet. Reluctant to wear something that stirred up sad memories, she threw her hands up in defeat.

  Why did she even care? Nothing would, or could, come of Zach’s attentions. She’d been all but handed her walking papers, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t return to Chicago, at least until she figured her shit out. Then, who knew where she’d be? But it was for damn sure it was not going to be Northridge, Georgia.

  Tempted to bag the whole thing, she turned her attention to more pressing concerns—like calling friends in the ballet world about a job.

  Craving a cup of Kristen’s excellent French press coffee and looking for an excuse to see Kristen, Olivia detoured into town before heading to the studio the next morning. She’d come to appreciate Kristen’s take-no-bullshit attitude.

  Essentially a loner—partly from shyness, partly from drive—Olivia had had few friends growing up. Her classmates, among them Kristen, had thought she was a snob, while her dance mates had been intimidated by her skill and her single-minded focus. Her world had been the studio, dancing, and Zach. She’d had little time for anything else.

  Now, acutely aware that she didn’t have a girlfriend, here or in Chicago, with whom she could share her doubts and concerns, she regretted her isolation.

  The bell over the door chimed a warm welcome as she entered the café, and the scents of coffee, chocolate, and cinnamon assailed her senses. She bit her lip as she gazed into the display case at the flaky, chocolatey croissants she knew from experience tasted like heaven. The plain yogurt and fruit she’d had for breakfast had been a poor substitute, but she shouldn’t—couldn’t—indulge in their sugary, carb-and-calorie-filled deliciousness, even if she couldn’t dance professionally anymore. Especially if she couldn’t dance anymore, she amended.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Kristen said, as she came from the back of the café, a case of to-go cups in her arms. “You look like a half-dead mouse.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Kristen laughed and shrugged her shoulder. “Any time.” She set the box on the back counter. “You look like you need a strong coffee.”

  “And the Earth is round.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll bring it out to you.” She indicated an open table by the window.

  “I need to get to the studio.”

  “Sure. After you have your coffee. Right now, you’re an accident waiting to happen.”

  Olivia caved and took a seat at the empty table.

  Kristen came over, a cup in each hand, and sitting in the chair opposite Olivia, handed over one cup and keeping the other for herself.

  “Spill.” She gestured to Olivia with her cup before taking a sip. “And I’m not talking about the coffee.”

  Olivia gratefully took the cup and, after testing the temperature, took a gulp of the hot, bitter brew. She practically felt the caffeine as it coursed through her veins, clearing away the cobwebs and sharpening her senses.

  Shaking her head, she said, “There’s nothing to spill.”

  Kristen eyed her over the cup, making Olivia squirm. If Kristen ever has kids, they’ll confess any sin under the weight of that knowing stare. “I call bullshit.”

  Laughing in spite of herself, Olivia leaned back in her chair, cupping the coffee between her hands as if it held the answers to life’s greatest mysteries.

  “Zach asked me out on a date.”

  Kristen sat back. “It’s about damn time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means if the guy’s sleeping with you, the least he could do is buy you dinner.”

  “We’re not—”

  She held up a hand, cutting Olivia off. “Don’t even try it. Of course you are.”

  “Really, we’re not.”

  Kristen considered her a moment. “Well, no time like the present to correct that omission. What’s the occasion, and where’s he taking you?”

  “Birthday and Atlanta.”

  Kristen leaned back, brow lifted. “Nice. Happy birthday.” She nodded her approval. “And?”

  Warmth rose to Olivia’s face, and it wasn’t a result of the steam from the coffee. She lifted a shoulder in an attempt at a nonchalant shrug. “I have nothing to wear.”

  Kristen snorted and sat back again, arms crossed. “Riiight. And I don’t have any coffee.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “I mean, I don’t have anything here to wear. Most of my clothes are still in Chicago.”

  “Ah.” She nodded her head. “That makes more sense.” She sat a moment, sipping her coffee, clearly in thought. “Okay. Short of a morning trip to Atlanta, here are your options. Abigail’s three doors down has dresses. I’ve picked up a few things there on occasion.” She glanced down at her blue T-shirt that read, I RUN ENTIRELY ON CAFFEINE AND INAPPROPRIATE THOUGHTS.

  From what she knew of Kristen McKay, Olivia thought, truer words had never been written.

  “Not that I have much occasion to wear such things.”

  Olivia nodded. “I’ll check it out. And the other option?”

  “You could borrow something from me.”

  “Really?” Olivia eyed Kristen’s five-foot-four-inch frame. “It’d be awfully short on me.”

  A grin spread over Kristen’s face. “I don’t understand the problem.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Zach had an adolescent’s case of nerves as he approached Olivia’s front door. Not unlike the night he’d picked her up for senior prom. Right down to the borrowed car. The only thing missing were his ill-fitting rented tuxedo and the carnation corsage.

  Carefully lifting the vase of pink roses, which, according to the florist, conveyed grace and admiration, he closed the car door of Tyler’s Maserati Ghibli and strode up the walkway.


  Olivia had been working so hard on the recital and had been through so much the last few months, weeks, and days, he wanted to treat her special. That, and he wanted an entire evening with her to himself.

  After ringing the bell, he stuffed his free hand in the pocket of his suit pants. The door swung open, and his breath left with a whoosh.

  A short, slinky, dark purple dress showcased Olivia’s athletic body, and a pair of strappy silver sandals elongated her stunning legs. Yards of bare skin begged to be stroked. Her long dark hair enveloped her, falling nearly to her waist. The color made her olive skin glow and set off the chestnut highlights in her hair that shimmered in the late afternoon sun.

  Sweet Jesus! Temptation sank its claws into him, knocking him off balance and shifting his libido into overdrive.

  “Are those for me?”

  Olivia’s question broke through the haze of desire.

  “Yes.” He held the vase out to her, afraid the thing would slip right out of his sweaty palm.

  “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

  He closed his eyes in chagrin, realizing she received roses after every performance. They were likely nothing special to her. Should have brought chocolate.

  She rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. Before he could wrap her up and pull her close, she stepped back. “Let me put these in the living room and I’ll be right out.”

  If the front of Olivia James in that dress took his breath away, the back of her nearly dropped him to his knees. The slippery fabric revealed all of her graceful, well-muscled back, draping to just below her waist, while the short skirt stopped mid-thigh, revealing legs he’d once felt wrapped around his waist as he drove into her.

  Swallowing hard, he adjusted himself and winced. If he didn’t gain some measure of control, they’d never make it out of the driveway, much less Northridge.

  “I’m ready,” she said, as she drew the door closed behind her.

  I’m beyond ready, he thought as he followed her down the walk, eyes pinned to her swaying ass.

  “Whose car?” Olivia asked in confusion as she observed the silver Maserati.

  “Tyler’s.”

  “What happened to his truck, or yours for that matter?”

  “I didn’t want to take you to Atlanta in my truck. And Tyler still has his. This is his . . . indulgence.” The car hummed to life and Zach pulled out into the street.

  She didn’t know how she felt about this special treatment from Zach. She smoothed her hands over the fine tan leather seat. Okay. It didn’t suck. “I’ll say.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “First, to dinner in Midtown. Then, a surprise.”

  “Hmm.” It had been longer than she cared to remember since someone had treated her special. She eyed Zach, in a charcoal-gray suit, white shirt open at the collar. What he did for a uniform ought to be illegal. What he did for a suit ought to be a sin.

  As a teenager, he never had much call to wear a suit. Other than the tux he wore to prom—and wore well, she might add—she’d never seen Zach dressed up. And when she’d pressed her lips to his, it took everything she had not to press the rest of her body against his. The scent of his cologne and his own unique scent—one she’d never forgotten—toyed with her overwrought hormones.

  “You look incredible,” Zach said, his voice husky and warm, interrupting thoughts that would likely end in the gutter. His eyes traced the length of her bare thigh, making her shiver.

  She glanced up and into his navy eyes, alight with desire. “Thank you. You look pretty incredible yourself.”

  A grin split his face, then a car honked behind them, impatient at the now-green light, and Zach released a self-deprecating chuckle. He reached over and took her hand, his large warm fingers intertwining with hers, and they rode in comfortable silence for a bit.

  When they hit I-85 into Atlanta, talk turned to the recital, but they tacitly avoided the topic of her post-recital plans.

  “So, you’re pleased with the progress?” Zach asked, as he changed lanes.

  “Yeah. I think so. I mean, there’s still plenty left to do. I need to finish the choreography, so the students can rehearse it. But . . . yeah.” She recognized the surprised note in her voice. Several weeks ago, who would’ve thought she’d managed to get this far in the production?

  “You shouldn’t sound so surprised.” His voice was soft, tender, but he kept his eyes on the traffic in front of him. “You’re good at,” he continued, his tone so matter-of-fact he might as well be proclaiming the Earth was round and revolved around the Sun.

  “Thanks.” They drove a few minutes in silence, but not an uncomfortable one.

  She adjusted her position, crossing one leg over the other. Zach caught the movement and glanced her way, his gaze raking her bare legs. Just sitting with him in the enclosed car, his pheromones were bombarding her like bees on the attack. “Have there been any more vandalisms?” she asked, simply to reduce the sexual tension between them.

  “No. We still haven’t traced the pink DayGlo paint to any retailers around here. The perp likely bought it online.”

  Olivia nodded. “Probably like you said, kids with too much time on their hands, and with break over, they’re otherwise occupied.”

  “Hope so.”

  They settled into their seats—Zach had splurged for orchestra center—with fifteen minutes to spare before curtain. Dinner had been a decidedly romantic affair, and he was feeling quite pleased with himself. When he’d presented her with the tickets over dessert, she’d been surprised, and not necessarily in a good way.

  Olivia read over the dancer’s bios in the program, and Zach felt a twinge of doubt at his decision to bring her to the ballet. Given her recent news, was this really just adding insult to injury—no pun intended?

  “Have you performed in Romeo and Juliet?” he asked.

  “Juliet.” She didn’t look up from the program. “When I was twenty-nine. My second role as principal dancer.”

  Of course she had.

  The orchestra began to warm up, discordant notes floating up from the pit. He flipped through the program, not really seeing the pages, too aware of Olivia. Her delicate perfume tickled his nose, and her thigh brushed against his, the fabric of his suit pants a feeble barrier to her warmth.

  The curtain rose to the beginning strains of Prokofiev’s score and Olivia sat forward in her seat like a little girl at her first ballet. Watching her watch the dancers recalled his previous doubts. Seeing the performance had to call to her. Make her yearn to be the one on the stage rather than in the audience.

  Zach was no expert—Juliet was very good, but she lacked that something that Olivia had. Maybe he was biased, but he didn’t think so. Olivia’s heart and soul went into every performance—at least the ones he’d seen.

  She’d never phoned it in—sick, injured, it hadn’t mattered. Even that night in the studio when she thought no one was looking, she poured herself into the dance. Wringing out every ounce of emotion, sweat, and energy until there was nothing left. She left everything on that dance floor, revealing both her strength and her vulnerability.

  He laid a hand on a silky thigh, and she flinched. But as he made to remove it, she placed her hand on his, stopping him. The corner of her delectable mouth lifted, but her eyes never left the stage.

  Several hours later, after the suggested drinks at Margot’s, he pulled into the Northridge city limits. He could practically see the sexual tension humming between them, arcing like electricity. Zach asked the question he’d been pondering all night, “Your place or mine?” Her response would reveal her thoughts. If she said her place, she wanted to call it a night, given Jennie’s presence in the house. If she said his, the night was still young.

  She licked her lips, her gaze falling on his mouth in the dim light of the car’s interior. “Yours.”

  He palmed the inside of her upper thigh. Its heat nearly singed his hand, making him long to feel both of her thighs wrapped ar
ound his waist—or his shoulders, for that matter. The two miles to his house seemed like a cross-country road trip. He reached out and clasped Olivia’s hand in his, and she squeezed.

  There were so many things he wanted to do to her, he didn’t know where to start.

  Step One: Get naked.

  Step Two . . . well, he’d make it up as he went along.

  He pulled into the driveway, shutting off the car. Without the growl of the Maserati’s four-hundred-plus horsepower engine, silence filled the car’s lush interior. Lifting Olivia’s hand to his mouth, he pressed a kiss to it, gazing at her warm brown eyes, now filled with desire. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait.” Releasing her hand, he stepped out of the car and rounded the front end. He opened her door, and taking her hand, helped her out. When a long, silky leg emerged, he groaned. He felt like the teenage version of himself the night he and Olivia had first made love.

  She preceded him up the walk, and his eyes landed on her gently swaying hips. She’d always had a graceful walk, sexy but not overtly so. He eyed her bare back and added ‘kiss her from head to toe’ to tonight’s lineup. Wincing as he shoved his hands into his pants pockets for the house key, he wondered if he’d get through the first round—and yes, Olivia willing, there would be more than one round—without making an ass of himself.

  When they entered the house, the memories of all their times together in the dilapidated version flooded him, as they did just about every time he came home. One of the drawbacks of having bought and renovated the house that held their history.

  Wanting to make her comfortable first, he offered her a glass of wine.

  She shook her head and tossed her handbag on the sofa. The lamplight cast a warm glow on her skin and burnished her hair with copper. She smiled, tentative and shy. Then, with little more than a shrug of her shoulders, her dress slithered down her body to the floor, leaving her standing in nothing but a skimpy black thong and stilettos.