Over the Fence Box Set

by Aarons, Carrie

  The light blue dress runs over her entire body, the delicate lace sleeves running down to her wrists. The material poufs out at her hips, creating an effect that makes her already slim torso look incredibly tiny. Black curls of silk are piled on top of her head, a headband made of pearls holding the entire thing up.

  She doesn’t look like Fraulein Maria. She looks like a real-life Disney princess.

  My heart must be lying on the floor somewhere because I can’t feel it beating. I want to speak, but somehow my voice has failed me. Finally, I choke out a word. “Wow.”

  Chloe turns, unaware before now that I’ve been in the room. She gives a shy smile and aims her eyes to the floor. “Thanks.”

  I stand there, just staring at her. I can’t do anything else.

  “Oh, listen. Um, Owen asked me to talk to my papa about a possible job at my family’s restaurant over winter break. Well, I asked him, and he said he’d be happy to hire any friend of mine on.”

  I don’t really register what she’s saying at first because I’m too busy committing this image of her to my memory. But then the word “job” breaks the surface and I tune in.

  “Wait … what? Owen told you I needed a job?”

  “Yes, he said you were in need of some money …”

  Fucking Owen. Why did he have to go around trying to be helpful and shit? “I do, but, Chloe, I don’t need a job from you.” I backpedal fast when her face falls. “Not because I wouldn’t love working for your family, or because I’m above it. It’s the nicest offer anyone’s ever made me. But I can’t put you in that position. You wouldn’t want me there.”

  She looks inquisitive. “Not necessarily, no. But if you need help, I’m never going to be the kind of person who doesn’t offer it. So the offer stands, if you want the job, it’s yours.”

  Brooke comes in and interrupts us. “We need you out on the floor now. It’s showtime!” She flashes her too-white smile exclusively at me.

  Chloe walks across the room without another word, silently signaling for me to follow her. A million thoughts race through my head. Why would she do this for me? I have a job? I’ll be working with Chloe and her family for the entire winter break?

  We sit supportively in the audience as the other couple performs their final dance, a fiery-hot salsa. They’re good, but we’re classic. I’m glad Chloe saved this dance for last. It’s the kind of dance that makes little girls fall in love, that makes every cool dude want to be the prince.

  Finally, Brooke announces us, and I grab Chloe’s hand and parade her out onto the floor. I see Owen and Minka, front-row center, and I think I see Minka even tearing up already. Like I said, girls go gaga over this shit.

  We line up next to each other, our eyes connecting and holding. When the music starts, we trot across the floor hand in hand. Then I spin her into my arms, the entire time our eyes never leaving one another’s.

  As we spin across the floor, I hold her eyes, searching them for any ounce of emotion or feeling. I’m trying my hardest to pour everything I feel for her into her open depths, to show her just how much I love her. And it hits me, square in the chest as I twirl her in my arms in front of hundreds of people.

  I love her. I love Chloe.

  It didn’t happen fast, or all at once. Or even slow and steady. Gradually, over the process of this goddamn stupid competition, I’ve fallen in love with this sweet, caring, amazing woman. This woman who has never once given up on me. Who, even now, after all of things I’ve done to her, is still trying to help me.

  The song ends and we stop moving, frozen in our embrace, her head dipped back so that the pile of curls is almost skimming the floor. Her collarbone is exposed; her face in a wondrous smile. She is so beautiful.

  The applause comes, thunderously, and then Brooke is dragging the other couple to stand next to us. A drumroll starts in the speakers.

  “And the winner of this season’s Dancing with the Greeks, the winners who will take home the Mount Olympus trophy, are … Chloe Trabucco and Miles Farriston!”

  A deafening roar comes up from the audience, and I grab Chloe by the waist, hoisting her above my head, shouting and smiling. Chloe is awestruck, her face in a permanent dazed smile, her laughs coming out in disbelief. I lower her slowly so she can find her footing, as the crowd pours onto the dance floor, everyone trying to talk to us. I keep her gaze as she travels down my body, coming to stand on her feet in front of me. My body is pressed to hers, my arms wrapped around her to protect her from the mosh pit forming.

  Our eyes are still locked onto each other, the space between us crackling with lust. I could just bend my head down, press my lips to hers. But I don’t want to, not here. Without a word, I pull her hand and drag her through the crowd, back toward our dressing room. When we get there, she breaks into a fit of giggles.

  “Ugh, thank you for getting me out of there, I thought I was going to get trampled.”

  Chloe’s busy taking the bracelets off her arm when I join her from where I stand in the doorway, slamming the door hard behind me.

  “What the—” I cut her off, moving swiftly to stand in front of her, grabbing her waist and pulling her flush against me. After a beat, I lower my head, her eyes going wide.

  I touch my lips to hers, just a brush, just the top of my skin to the top of hers. An electric current rolls through my body, all the way to the balls of my feet. I want to devour her, take her pleasure and make her mine. I grab her, kneading the tight flesh of her hips through her dress. She feels amazing, her lips moving in time with mine. I love her; I love her; I love her. The thought keeps flashing through my head, like the stocks on one of the ticker symbols in the business building. I’m trying to pour all the love I have in my body into hers.

  “No, Miles. Stop.” She pushes me back, her small hand flat against my abs. They constrict under her fingers, aching to feel her skin against mine. “We can’t do this. I meant what I said, this is over between us.”

  Panic seizes me, infects my blood so that I feel like I might pass out and throw up at the same time. She doesn’t want me anymore. I fucked up my chances. For years I ignored her, and just when I realize what a fool I’ve been, she’s over trying to make something happen between us.

  I want to plead, beg with her to reconsider. But I won’t. I’ve already put Chloe through more than enough of my shit. And Minka’s been right all along. She deserves better than me.

  “Yeah, okay. I’m … sorry. Maybe I’ll see you over Thanksgiving?” I know she’ll be home, and I am staying with Owen.

  She twists at her fingers and slowly backs toward the door. “Yeah, maybe.” And then she’s gone.

  19

  Chloe

  The crackling of the oil, the smell of fried dough in the air. I can see the white, red, and green sprinkles already poured into a bowl. It can only mean one thing.

  Mama is making Christmas struffoli.

  I glide into the kitchen, never letting my feet drag on the floor. I once had a ballet teacher who said the worst thing any human could do is shuffle their feet. I’ve lived in fear of that woman ever since. So, even though it’s six in the morning, I point my toes each time they leave the ground.

  I can practically taste the frying dough in the air, my stomach so barren and empty from the last few days of starving through the semester. We had our winter showcase, and a bunch of high-powered agents and ballet industry folks were in the audience. Even though, as a freshman, I only really danced in the chorus line, I strived to look my best, dance my best. I hope it had shown.

  “My bella, why are you up so early?” Mama stands in front of the stove, her apron tied over her silk pajamas. Her Sicilian accent is all but gone, but around Christmas time I hear the inflection more than ever. I think it’s because, around this time, she misses home so terribly.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Not when I can smell heaven from my bedroom.” I move to sit on a leather and wrought iron stool at the enormous island Mama currently has the prepared dough set
up on. Our house is like a huge Tuscan villa set down right smack in the middle of suburban North Carolina. I know that some people in the area find my parents so “new money,” but honestly Anthony and Isabella Trabucco couldn’t care less. They came from nothing, and when they had the opportunity to finally give their children everything they never had, they went for it. In a big way.

  I love my parents unconditionally, everything they’ve done is for me, my brother, and my sister. I couldn’t care less what other people think. It’s where I get my positive outlook on life, the two of them. Growing up as poor as anyone could in the south of Italy, my parents fell in love in the back of a kitchen, and have honestly never left. They married six months after meeting and took off for the United States to try their hand at the restaurant business. It has taken them more than a few years, but they finally struck gold with Lucca’s, their upscale Italian restaurant in the heart of Mitchum. From there, they expanded, planting Lucca’s roots in three other Carolina cities. They love what they do; they love each other, and they love us. I had an amazing childhood, and I know how rare that is.

  I reach across the counter and pop a freshly fried ball in my mouth. I gasp as the exquisite sweetness hits my tongue, sending me into a sugar coma.

  “Hey!” Mama swats at me with her spatula, but smiles. “Those are supposed to be for later!”

  “Mama, it’s still a little over a week before Christmas. You’ll make this at least four more times.” I smile goofily, loving our Christmas traditions. And mama’s tradition of generally overfeeding all of us until we burst.

  “Yes, yes. How’s my oldest child? Are you happy with how the first semester went?” We’ve talked since I got home two days ago, but only briefly. This is why I got up early. I savor these quiet moments alone with my mama.

  “It went well. I learned so much, Mama, you wouldn’t believe the amazing things these new teachers have to show us. And I finally did a pas de deux dance at the end of the semester. I didn’t even flinch!” My mom knew about my fear of dancing with a partner. I don’t know where it came from, but since I could remember I’ve had this irrational fear of it.

  “I’m glad, bella. And you won the Greek competition, your papa and I were so proud when we heard!” It was a little upsetting that my parents hadn’t made it up for any of the competition, but I know they work like dogs, giving their lives to the restaurant all hours of the day.

  “That’s okay, I know you were busy. It was good though, to dance a different way. It almost made me re-commit myself to ballet after it was over.”

  After the competition, I immersed myself in my ballet. I’ve been in the studio eight hours a day sometimes between classes and personal work. My feet bled, my joints ached, but I continued on. I want that summer intensive so much, I can taste it like a little struffoli ball.

  “And that dance partner of yours, the boy from home, huh?” Mama doesn’t look up from where she has her back turned to me, but I see her do the nod. The nod she does when she’s trying to bring something up without bringing it up.

  When I don’t answer, she tries again. “He called Papa to see if the job offer was still on the table. Papa told him he could start tomorrow, on your shift.”

  She turns, pinning me with her typical “curious mother” look. I cast my eyes down to my fingers, which I’m now pulling on. She knows something’s happened, I can feel it in her laser stare focused on the top of my head.

  “Chloe, what’s going on with that boy?” She doesn’t ask it in a judgmental parent way, but in a, “You better tell me before I drag it out of you,” way. I don’t want to involve her, don’t want her thinking any less of Miles or giving him the stink-eye while he’s on the job. But if I don’t let loose, she will bug me for the next month that I’m home.

  “Something did happen, but it’s over now.”

  She tilts her head and turns back around to poke at the dough balls frying in the oily pan. “It’s not over. I can see it all over your face it’s not over.”

  I sigh. The way she knows me is freaky. It’s like she has my internal thermometer, she can read every single thing I’m feeling. And it’s amazing how, just like that, I feel like a little girl, seeking my mother’s comfort. Instead of an adult, college student. “It is, Mama. We can’t … he’s not good for me. Or I’m not for him, right now.”

  “It’s not over, bella. I’m your mother, I know you. You’ve loved that boy since you came up to my knee.” She measures her hand, gesturing just how little I’d been.

  I’ve forgotten how I used to moon over Miles to her in my younger years. Before I learned you should try to keep all secrets from your parents. “But he doesn’t feel the same, Mama. I think he actually hates me a little.”

  She chuckles. “Do you know that I hated your father the first time I met him? I couldn’t stand him. That suave, cocky way he’d saunter into the kitchen, smiling at the waitresses and wielding his knife around. I wanted to wring his neck.”

  My mouth hangs open in shock. “What? I never knew that?” My parents have always seemed as in love as horny teenagers. Always kissing and holding hands.

  “Oh, yeah! I couldn’t stand the sight of him. And he wasn’t too keen on me either. But, something happens, and BAM! Everything changes. I think maybe you know what I’m talking about, bella.”

  She points her spatula at me, that all-knowing look in her eye.

  “I don’t know, Mama …”

  “Then why did you agree to let him come work at Lucca’s?”

  She has a point. “Because he’s in need, and I could never say no to someone who needs help. Even, and maybe especially, him.”

  “Ah, always my sweet girl. You see the best in the world, and I love you for that. But sometimes you need the drama, the conflict!”

  “Ah, Mama, I don’t want the drama and the arguing that comes with having something with him.”

  “But, honey, that’s what makes life worth living. We don’t live in this perfect world where everyone is happy all the time.”

  Thundering steps down the kitchen stairs catch our attention. Piled at the bottom landing stands my papa, my sixteen-year-old brother Anthony, and my fourteen-year-old sister Vanessa. All sleepy-eyed and stumbling. If I were my mother, Tony and Nessa were most definitely our father.

  And okay, we have two staircases in our house. Three if you count the basement. Maybe I am a bit spoiled. But come on, Miles is a Farriston. He has more money than a small, or even a medium-sized, country.

  “Struffoli!” Tony snatches a handful of the little dough balls and throws them in his mouth before Mama can hit him.

  “Is there coffee, Isa?” Papa rubs the sleep from his eyes. He’s never been a morning person, mostly because he runs the restaurant until closing every night. But now that I am home from school, he tries to get up for these family weekend mornings.

  She hands him coffee while Nessa flops down, her head buried in her phone. She’s at the age where you talk to your friends every second of every day, and your family is just boring as hell. I haven’t been able to get through to her for months. We used to be joined at the hip.

  Papa takes a sip of his coffee and sighs in satisfaction. “So, your friend starts at the restaurant tomorrow …”

  Why are my parents intent on bringing Miles up? They’ve definitely had conversations about this. “Yep.”

  I don’t feign interest, because if I do he’ll keep at it. The truth is, I’m going to have butterflies for the next thirty-six hours, right up until I see Miles.

  I haven’t seen him since that last night we danced. And he kissed me. Oh God, what a kiss that had been. It was a mind-numbing, drool-worthy kiss. But I made a promise to myself.

  I don’t know what to think about us working together at Lucca’s. I am there all the time, and from what it sounds like, Miles would be too. He needs as many shifts as my father could give him, or so I heard. We’ll be together every night for almost a month. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to w
ard off this new charming Miles I’ve encountered the week before Thanksgiving.

  “Are you still seeing this football boy?” Papa flips on the news, and I can see Mama’s ears perk up where she’s assembling the struffoli on the island. In the corner, Tony’s turned the already lit and decorated Christmas tree on, the lights twinkling in the dark family room.

  “No, I called things off.” After I got back from Thanksgiving break, Steven asked me out again, and I turned him down. I wasn’t been feeling it, and after our fourth date knew enough was enough. I’m not

  the type to string someone along.

  “Hmm.” Papa leans back in his chair, rocking in the expensive leather glider. No one sits in that chair but him.

  “Okay, since you already all snagged some anyway, come eat this struffoli wreath before it’s cold.”

  Everyone looks at each after Mama’s declaration and then sprints to the kitchen.

  20

  Miles

  I adjust the button on my collar for a fifth time, licking my fingers and slicking down the curls that have sprung loose on the side of my head. So much for trying to gel them down.

  It’s my first day on the job, ever, and I am a nervous little shit.

  I check my appearance one last time in the rearview mirror, peering at Lucca’s backdoor from where I’m parked in the back lot. My stomach feels like I’ve been on a dozen roller coasters in five minutes because Chloe is probably already in there. She probably looks like a sexy Victoria’s Secret model in her white button-up and black slacks. I just look like a penguin.

  Sighing, I roll my body out of the cabin of my truck, which, even though it’s the largest model you can buy, still squishes my long limbs when I place myself in there.

  Letting myself in through the backdoor, a hurricane of activity hits me full force in the chest and ears. People are running frantically around the large kitchen, screaming orders at each other in both Italian and English. The sounds of knives, blenders, boiling sauces, and spoons scraping pans create a buzzing melody in the air. The only thing louder than the sound is the smell. It smells like fucking heaven in this kitchen.