Chapter 18

chapter

eighteen

ADDIE

My Wednesday evening has been reduced to a pile of sequined costumes at the dance studio.

At least the new costumes arrived in the correct color. The company finally got it right, and to make up for the inconvenience, they expedited shipping.

The fitting tonight went about as expected.

Five- and six-year-olds ran around the room, a blur of Christmas red, the matching headbands in their mouths.

The older age group wasn't much better. The number of complaints over itchy fabric and uncomfortable wedgies was off the charts.

Not to mention the decibel of moms, big sisters, and grandmas as they fought for attention. The mess would compete with a volcanic eruption.

Iris threw her back out trying to hold a younger dancer still while she pinned the costume in order to alter it for a better fit, so I insisted the poor woman go home, draw herself a warm bath, and relax.

Her niece and I cleaned up, and now I have the studio to myself, much to my delight. After the week I've had, I need this alone time.

I shuffle the last of the costumes onto the table at the head of the studio, the bright Post-Its with names pinned to the various costumes. Green means they're ready, yellow means they need altering, and blue means they go in the pile of extras for future dancers. These are for the winter recital in a couple of months, and Iris and I have plans to reuse these costumes in the future.

I slump onto the chair next to the blues, my head spinning from echoes of the chaos of tonight's classes. I enjoy a moment to catch my breath, but there's no better way to alleviate some of the pressure in my body than what I plan to do next.

With a deep, steadying inhale, I retrieve my phone from my tote bag, open my music app, and click on a song. Tonight's choice is a fast-paced one—I need something uplifting after the last week I've had.

The beginning notes soon blast from the Bluetooth speaker, the trumpet of "Hips Don't Lie" by Shakira ringing out with passion. With a newfound zap of vivacity, I spring from my seat and glide into the center of the room by the time the song jumps into the first verse.

I mouth the words as I move my body with the freedom I never experience outside this studio. It's the reason my stepmom insisted I take dance as a girl—something to simultaneously help me loosen up and build my confidence.

This outlet worked so well I never gave it up, but nowadays, dancing is just a way to escape the colliding thoughts in my crowded head. When I'm moving like this, energy courses through me, clearing my mind and making me smile.

It's hard not to smile with this much fire blazing inside me through every bounce, shimmy, and twerk of my hips, the latter of which doesn't match Shakira's abilities in the slightest, but this isn't about accuracy or skill level at all.

This is my time. No scores or judgments at all. I'm just dancing for me.

And a surprising guest, evidently, as my head swivels to the side and catches movement by the door. My gyrations slow as I strain my neck for a better view through the glass—who is lurking out there at this hour?

The studio's been empty for half an hour.

With the song nearing the end, the trumpets softer now, I tiptoe toward my phone and turn it off, then wait for any sign of more movement. Another shuffle outside draws my attention, and I inch toward the door. Did one of the parents or guardians leave something behind? I yank on the handle, and the familiar face staring back at me is unexpected.

"What the hell?" I screech through a heavy exhale as beady eyes shine under the streetlight. "Why are you creeping around in the dark like a possum?"

Owen enters the light of the studio, his features more visible and prominent under the bill of his baseball cap. "A possum?" He scoffs. "There are much sexier animals to compare me to."

"This is about being creepy, not sexy."

"So, you admit I am sexy, then?" He lifts his chin, angling it to the side, and I nearly lose myself to the outline of his strong jaw.

The urge to trace every line, valley, and peak of his chiseled physique suddenly captures me in a chokehold. My imagination runs wild like a bull once its pen opens, bucking and kicking through my lower stomach.

Being this close to Owen hurls a hot current of desire for this frustrating man.

"You don't need to answer, but your silence speaks for itself." With a wink, he maneuvers around me, but he doesn't disappear down the sidewalk or cobblestone alley toward Bready or Knot and the rest of the square.

Instead, he enters the dance studio.

"Wait." I pick up my feet one after the other with great difficulty. "What do you think you're doing?"

He reaches his long fingers for the folder tucked underneath one bulging arm. "Two days early."

I place my hands on my hips and wait for an explanation.

"You asked for my class schedule, and I'm turning it in two days earlier than the deadline you gave me." His grin widens, transforming from an innocent one to something more smug. "Do I get extra credit for that?"

"Not quite." I accept the folder—props to him for using one. In my flustered state, I didn't think to use one for my own, and I appreciate his attention to detail. "You could've given this to me at school in the morning."

"I couldn't wait that long. It's a good idea."

"You didn't think so this morning." With the folder in one hand, I place the other back on my hip, my pulse slowing back to its normal rhythm after a quick dance.

"I just needed a minute to let the idea wash over me. Kind of like chocolate mousse. It's not really meant to be whipped like that, but once you realize it still holds the same flavor in a different, delightful medium, you agree it's a great idea."

"Do you ever get dizzy living in your own head with all those wild thoughts?"

"Do you?" he tosses back.

"Touché."

He presents a small bag dangling from his wrist that I hadn't noticed. "I'm also here tonight to give you this."

I don't immediately accept the black-and-white gift bag from Conversation Pieces, the C and P scrolled across the front in a vintage Victorian font.

"It's not going to burst with confetti the second you touch it. It's just a gift."

"Why? Are you trying to buy my affections?"

His exhale is one of exasperation, and seemingly losing patience, he dips his own hand into the bag and retrieves… a mug. At least, that's what it appears to be. I've just never seen one like this, with its giraffe-printed stripes decorating the sides in diagonal patterns.

The frame itself doesn't stand upright. It's like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Leave it to Mrs. Marilyn to sell such a bizarre item at her store of wild and wondrous things.

Owen nudges it into my hand. "You said you need a new favorite coffee mug, so here you go. It's one less thing you need to worry about, which gives you more mental capacity to consider dating me."

My gaze snaps to his and travels over his face. Determination blossoms in his green eyes, and his Adam's apple bobs before he sets his jaw into a firm position.

Owen is completely, utterly, certifiably sober and very serious.

Did someone turn the heat up in here? Suck out all the oxygen like a damn crane just picked up the studio and planted it on Mars? Why can't I breathe?

I am speechless, but he breaks the silence for me. "What dance was that?" He wiggles his finger over the floor and levels me with his wide eyes, a glint in them that I don't believe I've ever noticed before.

I think he's impressed.

Pride swells in my chest as I croak, "One I made up."

"I had no idea you were a choreographer." He spins around. "Hell, I didn't know you worked here."

"How did you find me?" I ask as I place the items he brought me onto the table next to the costumes.

"Austin."

"He's busy with Caroline in New York!" I gape as I inch toward him again.

"He's never too busy for his best friend."

" I'm his best friend," I argue, my eyes narrowed.

"You were a lot more relaxed while dancing," he says, a light tilt in his smooth voice. Owen always seems at ease, and it draws me to him.

He lures me in with his peaceful presence without me even realizing it.

Just like now, I inch closer to him because I can't help myself.

"How long have you been practicing that one?"

I run my fingers through my loose ponytail, and my cheeks flush. "I actually just made that up. When I dance alone, I don't stick to a routine or calculated sequence. I only do whatever feels right."

"You, Addison Lockhart, don't have a formula or practiced sequence?"

"Not in here, I don't. This is a sacred space, like when artists go to the park and simply draw whatever they see or feel."

"Being an artist looks good on you."

I dip my head, reaching my hand behind my neck just to have something to hold onto. I might as well be thrust under a spotlight, splayed open for his scrutiny and curiosity.

He's so damn curious.

And it's rather intimate, especially when he looks at me with such intensity. It's like he truly sees me and can't get enough.

"I don't actually work here, though. I volunteer."

His eyebrows disappear under the shadow cast over his forehead from his hat.

"It's just that Iris is nearing retirement, and her niece will take over afterward. While she currently pays her to show the dancers their choreography, there's no money in the budget for a third helper, but they need more bodies around to wrangle these kids. They're like chickens."

His chuckle floats between us, effortlessly consuming the small space—and me.

"So, Iris and I came to an arrangement. She insisted she didn't feel right letting me volunteer, so I suggested she let me use the studio after hours for myself. Win-win."

"You dance a lot here alone, then?"

I nod and swivel my attention around the room, admiring the potted plants in the corner. They're flourishing, with the help from Iris's niece. The older woman and I agreed neither one of us could take care of a plant.

The rest of the floor plan is occupied by nothing but echoes of dancers past. The imprints of their leaps, plies, and pirouettes can't be seen, but they exist in here like the giggles and cheers from a job well done.

This warm space has become almost as familiar to me as my own home.

"You looked… serene when you were dancing." He says it so softly I almost don't hear him. "I've never seen you look so free, and I'm sorry."

A ball of emotions lodges itself in my throat. "Why are you sorry?"

"For interrupting."