Only the Brave Try Ballet

by Stefanie London

  The cab was now stuck in traffic on Spencer Street. A line of limos rounded the corner several blocks ahead; they would take their turn at dropping the players off at the entrance to the red carpet. How would she even find Grant?

  All of the limos were identical—or at least they looked so from this distance. She would have to check every last one. And then what? What if he had a date with him? Was she going to accost him right in front of the paparazzi?

  Her head pounded. She hadn’t though the plan out beyond putting on her dress and getting herself into the city. This could very well be a disaster.

  But she couldn’t stop—not now. Now that she was here...now that he could be around that corner. The very thought of seeing him twisted her stomach into knots. She’d shielded her heart for so long that she didn’t know what it was like to be free. What if she’d realised too late?

  Exhilaration coursed through her veins as she imagined falling into his arms, pressing her lips to his and telling him that she loved him. Whoa! Where had that come from?

  As she said those three terrifying words in her head warmth spread through her, thick and sweet and comforting. A weight lifted from her chest and she could breathe again. She took in great mouthfuls of air as the realisation dawned on her.

  She loved Grant.

  She loved his crooked smile, the bump on his nose, and the way he did things for her even when she didn’t want him to. She loved his secret tenderness and the way he made her feel as if she was the only person in the room. She loved the way he accepted her, scars and all.

  She loved him.

  The cab was chugging along Spencer Street, with the traffic thick and heavy as the limos clogged up the road. Jasmine checked her phone. The first players would already be walking the red carpet.

  ‘I have to get out of here.’ She fished in her purse for money to pay the driver.

  ‘But we’re not at Whiteman Street, miss.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  She threw a twenty over the seat. It was more than she had to pay, but she couldn’t afford to wait for change. Those precious minutes could mean the difference between finding Grant and losing him to the blinding glitter of the red carpet.

  Possibly for ever.

  She pushed open the door and stepped out of the cab into the wind and cool air. Her hair swirled around her as she ran, and goosebumps rippled across her arms and chest.

  The thin straps of her heels bit into her feet as she ran. Stumbling, she turned the corner onto Whiteman Street, to where the limos were lined up. Her heart pounded with adrenaline; her blood pulsed as she searched for him. She bent down to the first one and startled the dark-haired player and his very pregnant partner.

  Not here.

  She searched the next limo, and the next. Grant was nowhere to be seen.

  Staff lined the street: security guards with their don’t-mess-with-me expressions and event organisers carrying clipboards.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  A woman with an official-looking lanyard approached her. Her brow crinkled. It could have been in concern, though Jasmine suspected that it might have been in wariness. She must look like a crazy person, with her hair in disarray and her dress flowing behind her as she jogged in a pair of most unsuitable shoes.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Grant Farley.’ Her voice would barely work above the thundering of her heart and the heaving of her chest. Nerves had stolen her breath, and the crisp spring air seeped right through her dress, making her shiver. ‘He plays for the Jaguars, he should be here.’

  ‘Are you on the guest list?’ The woman eyed her suspiciously as she glanced down at the paper on her clipboard.

  ‘Jasmine?’

  She turned towards the voice.

  Grant hung out of the window of one of the limos, his mouth agape.

  ‘Grant!’

  She dashed away from the clipboard lady and towards the black limo. He pushed open the door and stepped out on the street, moving as easily in the inky black tux as he did in his sports gear.

  Her heart almost stopped at the sight of him. He suited up well. His thick blond hair was mussed just so; his black bow tie nestled perfectly at his throat. His eyes widened as he drank her in, his gaze smoothing over her dress.

  ‘I thought you didn’t do galas.’ He shook his head at her.

  ‘I don’t.’ She stepped forwards, her clutch pressed to her stomach as though the barrier might save her from his rejection.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to be paraded around like a piece of meat?’ He stepped closer, so that there was only her bag between them.

  Something flickered within the depths of his eyes—something passionate beneath the icy surface of that unwavering blue.

  ‘I don’t want that.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’ His voice was rich but jagged, like silk roughened by stone.

  ‘Dancing,’ she said, her voice catching in her throat. ‘And dinner...and sex...lots of flexible, mind-blowing sex. I want you.’

  ‘You left me without even saying goodbye.’ He shook his head, his fingers pressing against his temple. ‘You left me a note.’

  ‘I know.’ She bit down on her lip, pleading with her body to stop shaking. ‘I was trying to protect myself from history repeating itself.’

  ‘You freaked.’

  He didn’t want to understand. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to protect himself too.

  ‘Yeah, I freaked.’

  Her deep brown eyes were wide as saucers. She wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up and her hair was loose and flowing around her shoulders—untamed and just-slept-in. She was a fresh rose among poor imitations.

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘I had to see you.’

  Her chest heaved beneath her dress and his heart clenched. How could he trust her? At the first sign of trouble she’d fled.

  The thing was, after their conversation he’d decided not to give her the dress—he’d decided to respect her wishes. But he hadn’t even had the chance to do the right thing.

  He hadn’t had the chance to explain.

  ‘I...’ He shook his head, disorientated by the emotions that swelled in him. ‘I can’t do this now.’

  ‘Please don’t walk away.’

  At that moment his date walked up to them. ‘Is everything OK, Grant?’

  Jasmine’s eyes widened and she looked from him to the tall blonde and back again. He expected her to retreat, to step back and run. His stomach churned. What she did now could very well make or break them.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She turned her attention to his date. ‘I’m Jasmine.’

  The woman looked at Grant with a what-the-hell-is-going-on? expression.

  ‘I am so sorry to interrupt your date, but it’s important that you know I love this man. I only realised it today on my way here.’ Her face was alight, cheeks pink and eyes sparkling. ‘But I love him and I can’t let him go. So I hope you haven’t got any thoughts about getting serious with him.’

  ‘Jasmine,’ Grant said, stifling a smile. ‘I’d like you to meet Annabel Farley. My sister.’

  Her mouth formed a shocked O and she blinked. ‘You called them?’

  ‘Yeah, I called them...before it was too late.’ He sighed, the fight leaving his body. ‘I got some very wise advice recently and I decided to make a few changes.’

  ‘You know, now that you mention it, the family resemblance is quite strong.’ She pressed a hand to her forehead, her cheeks reddening to an attractive shade of hot pink.

  ‘I’ll give you two some privacy,’ Annabel said, skipping off to chat to one of the other football players.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She shook her head, her mouth opening and closing with a failed explanation
.

  ‘So you love me, eh?’ he teased.

  He had to give it to her: she’d done something gutsy, coming here and laying it all out. ‘So what else do you want—apart from the flexible, mind-blowing sex?’

  ‘Commitment,’ she said, her eyes glittering as she spoke. ‘I will do what I need to do to show you that I’m not going to run again.’

  ‘Does that include red carpets?’

  ‘It might do. It might include photos and media. It will definitely include cheering you on at every single game you play until you retire. It will include me wearing your guernsey around the house.’

  ‘Now, that sounds like a sight,’ he said.

  He hovered in front of her, wanting to kiss her but holding back. Could he trust that she wouldn’t change her mind about his lifestyle?

  ‘It includes me trusting you...and it means I have a meeting with the Melbourne Contemporary Dance Company.’

  ‘You called them?’ He wanted to grab her and twirl her around, but he needed to be sure she was serious about them. Because he didn’t want to meet her halfway—he wanted them to be all the way in. Together.

  ‘I love you, Grant,’ she said, her breathing shallow. ‘I didn’t want to love you, but I do. You’ve pushed me since the day we met, you’ve driven me crazy, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  He laughed. ‘Back at you. You’re the most dedicated and difficult person I have ever known. You didn’t give me special treatment because of who I was when the rest of the world was ready to use me for what they could get. You questioned me, argued with me, and I loved every second of it.’

  They stood there as the limos crawled past and curious passers-by watched them in the street. But they might as well have been the only two people in the world for all Jasmine cared.

  ‘But what if you wake up one day and decide you can’t handle all of this?’ He gestured to the fanfare around them—the flashing of the paparazzi’s cameras behind him, the limos, the noise and hustle. ‘I can’t have you leaving me because it gets too much. If you’re in, you’re in for good.’

  ‘I’m in.’ She shook her head and pressed her lips together in determination. ‘I’m in all the way.’

  ‘Well, it’s a damn good thing we have an extra seat at our table.’ He smiled and reached for her, secretly thanking Don’s date for pulling out last minute. ‘Because I love you too, Jasmine Bell, even if you are as stubborn as a bull.’

  He crushed his lips to hers, parting them and delving deep for a long kiss that set her pulse racing. Pleasure, desire and love hummed through her body as if she was conducting enough energy to power them both...and the rest of Melbourne.

  Lights popped and flashed around them.

  ‘Grant! Grant!’ A journalist stuck his microphone towards them. ‘Who’s the lucky lady?’

  ‘Don’t you mean who’s the lucky guy?’ He held Jasmine close to him and grinned for the cameras. ‘That would be me. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.’

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from HER HOTTEST SUMMER YET by Ally Blake

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin KISS story.

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  ONE

  Avery Shaw barely noticed the salty breeze whipping pale blonde hair across her face and fluttering the diaphanous layers of her dress against her legs. She was blissfully deep in a whirlpool of warm, hazy, happy memories as she stood on the sandy footpath and beamed up at the facade of the Tropicana Nights Resort.

  She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the shimmering Australian summer sun, and breathed the place in. It was bigger than she remembered, and more striking. Like some great white colonial palace, uprooted out of another era and transplanted to the pretty beach strip that was Crescent Cove. The garden now teetered on the wild side, and its facade was more than a little shabby around the edges. But ten years did that to a place.

  Things changed. She was hardly the naive sixteen-year-old with the knobbly knees she’d been the summer she was last there. Back when all that mattered was friends, and fun, and—

  A loud whoosh and rattle behind her tugged Avery back to the present. She glanced down the curving sidewalk to see a group of skinny brown-skinned boys in board shorts hurtling across the road on their skateboards before running down the beach and straight into the sparkling blue water of the Pacific.

  And sometimes, she thought with a pleasant tightening in her lungs, things don’t change much at all.

  Lungs full to bursting with the taste of salt and sea and expectation, Avery and her Vuitton luggage set bumped merrily up the wide front steps and into the lobby. Huge faux marble columns held up the two-storey ceiling. Below sat cushy lounge chairs, colossal rugs, and potted palms dotted a floor made of the most beautiful swirling mosaic tiles in a million sandy tones. And by the archway leading to the restaurant beyond sat an old-fashioned noticeboard shouting out: Two-For-One Main Courses at the Capricorn Café For Any Guests Sporting an Eye Patch!

  She laughed, the sound bouncing about in the empty space. For the lobby was empty, which for a beach resort at the height of summer seemed odd. But everyone was probably at the pool. Or having siestas in their rooms. And considering the hustle and bustle Avery had left behind in Manhattan, it was a relief.

  Deeper inside the colossal entrance, reception loomed by way of a long sandstone desk with waves carved into the side. Behind said desk stood a young woman with deep red hair pulled back into a long sleek ponytail, her name tag sporting the Tropicana Nights logo slightly askew on the jacket of the faded yellow and blue Hawaiian print dress, which might well have been worn in the seventies.

  “Ahoy, there!” sing-songed the woman—whose name tag read Isis—front teeth overlapping endearingly. Then, seeing Avery’s gaze light upon the stuffed parrot wiggling on her shoulder, Isis gave the thing a scratch under the chin. “It’s Pirates and Parrots theme at the resort this week.”

  “Of course it is,” Avery said, the eye patch now making more sense. “I’m Avery Shaw. Claudia Davis is expecting me.”

  “Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum... The American!”

  “That I am!” The girl’s pep was infectious, jet lag or no.

  “Claude has been beside herself all morning, making me check the Qantas website hourly to make sure you arrived safe and sound.”

  “That’s my girl,” Avery said, feeling better and better about her last-minute decision to fly across the world, to the only person in her world who’d understand why.

  Tap-tap-tap went Isis’s long aqua fingernails on the keyboard. “Now, Claude could be...anywhere. Things have been slightly crazy around here since her parents choofed off.”

  Choofed off? Maybe that was Aussie for retired. Crazy or not, when Avery had first called Claude to say she was coming, Claude had sounded giddy that the management of the resort her family had owned for the past twenty years was finally up to her. She had ideas! Brilliant ones! People were going to flock as they hadn’t flocked in years!

  Glancing back at the still-empty lobby, Avery figured the flocking was still in the planning. “Shall I wait?”

  “No ho ho,” said Isis, back to tapping at the keyboard, “you’ll be waiting till next millennium. Get thee to thy room. Goodies await. I�
�ll get one of the crew to show you the way.”

  Avery glanced over her shoulder, her mind going instantly to the stream of messages her friends had sent when they’d heard she was heading to Australia, most of which were vividly imagined snippets of advice on how best to lure a hot, musclebound young porter “down under.”

  The kid ambling her way was young—couldn’t have been a day over seventeen. But with his bright red hair and galaxy of freckles, hunching over his lurid yellow and blue shirt and wearing a floppy black pirate hat that had seen better days, he probably wasn’t what they’d had in mind.

  “Cyrus,” Isis said, an impressive warning note creeping into her voice.

  Cyrus looked up, his flapping sandshoes coming to a slow halt. Then he grinned, the overlapping teeth putting it beyond doubt that he and Isis were related.

  “This is Miss Shaw,” warned Isis. “Claudia’s friend.”

  “Thanks, Cyrus,” Avery said, heaving her luggage onto the golden trolley by the desk since Cyrus was too busy staring to seem to remember how.

  “Impshi,” Isis growled. “Kindly escort Miss Shaw to the Tiki Suite.”

  Avery’s bags wobbled precariously as Cyrus finally grabbed the high bar of the trolley and began loping off towards the rear of the lobby.

  “You’re the New Yorker,” he said.

  Jogging to catch up, Avery said, “I’m the New Yorker.”

  “So how do you know Claude anyway? She never goes anywhere,” said Cyrus, stopping short and throwing out an arm that nearly got her around the neck. She realised belatedly he was letting a couple of women with matching silver hair and eye-popping orange sarongs squeeze past.

  Avery ducked under Cyrus’s arm. “Claude has been all over the place, and I know because I went with her. The best trips were Italy...Morocco... One particular night in the Maldives was particularly memorable. We first met when my family holidayed here about ten years back.”