So the Heart Can Dance (A Hidden Beauty Novel Book 2)

by Mary Crawford

  Javier’s face lights up like a Christmas tree as he replies, “Good! I’m so glad somebody could use my daughter’s old computer equipment. Otherwise, it would’ve still been in the corner of our storage unit. What are we doing out here today?” Javier asks looking around.

  Before I can launch into my clinical explanation of what happened, Heather thrusts some random pieces of paper into his hand.

  “What’s this, Miss Heather?” Javier asks.

  “It’s just some notes that I took throughout the day as all this was happening,” Heather explains, with a small shrug.

  “You’ve been taking real-time notes and this is the first time you’ve bothered to mention them to me?” I ask, overwhelming fatigue suddenly seeping into my bones.

  “Well, yes,” she explains patiently. “But you never bothered to ask because you were too busy assuming I am the world’s biggest bimbo. I figured the small details might be important, so I started writing them down as soon as I noticed the break-in.”

  Something about the way she matter-of-factly describes the way I dismissed her opinion tells me that it happens to her quite a bit. I want to kick myself in the head for being so stupid.

  “You’re right. I should have asked you what you did next instead of assuming,” I admit, as I dig around in my gear bag for evidence markers. Suddenly, today is feeling like the world’s longest day. I really wish someone else would have caught this call— it would have been a whole heckuva lot less complicated.

  “Look, Cowboy, there’s something about us that seems to react like oil and water. I’m not usually such a witch, either. Of course, I know it’s your job to tell me what to do because you are a police officer. Normally, I wouldn’t even give it a second thought. But somehow, coming from you, it feels like criticism. I don’t even know what to make of that. It makes me sound like I belong in the loony bin,” she admits.

  I feel a strange sense of relief. At least I’m not the only one that feels completely off balance when she’s around. It’s strange. I feel like I’ve had some bizarre personality transplant. One that makes me regress to my inner third-grader. I’m tempted to metaphorically pull her pigtails and throw earthworms at her to show her that I like her. Not a positive development when you’re almost thirty.

  “Now that the evidence team is here, why don’t I take you down to the station where it’s warmer? I can take your formal statement there. It will be faster, and I can even stop by Starbucks on the way so you won’t have to drink that tar I call coffee,” I suggest.

  “There’s no way I can get back in there and show them how to handle the flowers?” Heather pleads.

  Well, I have to hand it to her, the lady is persistent. I softly chuckle as I reply, “No, Gidget, I’m sorry I can’t let you do that. But Javier is extremely careful in his work. He’ll take really good care of your babies. I promise.”

  Heather dramatically sighs as she replies, “I sort of figured that was going to be your answer. But it was worth a shot in case you were feeling more charitable. I guess I’ll just have to trust Javier. But it’s okay to take this bucket of gum paste and my tools, right because they were in the cupboard?”

  Now, it’s my turn to sigh under my breath. “Yes, I’ve already logged that stuff out for you, so you may take it,” I advise.

  “Thank you very much, Officer Colton. I appreciate your help with this matter,” Heather replies primly, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes that wasn’t there the last time she addressed me by my last name.

  “Now, is that a yes or no to my offer of decent coffee, Miss LaBianca?” I tease as I pull the seatbelt over her and latch it.

  “Here I was giving you all this credit for being a smart guy, Cowboy. Don’t ruin the illusion. What do you think?” Heather asks with a raised eyebrow.

  After Heather completes her statement and I hand her case off to the local detectives, I decide to go for broke. I have this little theory that she doesn’t hate me, any more than I hate her. We just seem to have a special talent for pushing each other’s buttons. Under the right circumstances, it could be really hot. I just have to figure out what those circumstances are. So far, the closest I’ve ever come to making Heather happy was at Jeff and Kiera’s wedding reception.

  The wedding was something straight out of a fairytale. I felt like I had been cast as the lead in some romantic comedy. Usually, I’m the guy who keeps the barstool warm all night, and the barkeep well stocked with tips. Because I’m a big guy, I tend to get drawn into fights that aren’t even mine. But I am nearly always the one to stop them. I suppose it’s why I ended up as an MP until I switched my MOS to logistics. Not too long after I graduated from high school, I went to college on a football scholarship. But, I was young, dumb and thought I was invincible. When my grades slipped because I spent too much time being the big man on campus and not enough time studying, I lost my scholarship and joining the Army was plan B.

  I had a girlfriend back then, but she was only interested in being my groupie if I was a jock. She wasn’t interested in a soldier. She said she was going to stick by me through thick and thin, but her promise didn’t last much beyond Basic Training and Advanced Individual Training, better known as AIT. My college buddy Galen, who still played running back, was more her speed. The whole situation was a mind-bender and a half. I carried her engagement ring in my pocket for two years, before I finally sold it at a pawn shop and got myself a sweet little motorcycle. I ended up having to leave my bike in the Iraqi desert, but that’s a whole other story.

  Unlike what’s-her-name, Heather is incredibly loyal to her friends and family. But she doesn’t take any crap from anybody. If you tick her off, you’ll know about it—usually in some pretty creative language. She uses such unique colloquialisms, and she has a vividly funny story for any situation you could ever run across. I swear, that woman never forgets anyone she’s encountered anywhere, anytime or anyplace. Her comedic timing is brilliant. If she were not such a phenomenal cook, she could give stand-up comedy a run. If comedy isn’t her thing, she could have a career in fashion design. I’ve never seen a woman pull off as many looks as she does, and always look impeccably polished. The first time that I met her, she looked like she had just walked off the pages of a vintage copy of Life Magazine, and as much as she looks like a vintage pinup girl like Betty Grable or Veronica Lake, there is an innate wholesomeness about her. Heather’s refreshing lack of guile and diminutive size compared to me, earned her the nickname Gidget. As an added bonus, it seems to annoy her and bring out her sassy side.

  In truth, I’ve been thinking about asking Heather out for months. I’ve just never worked up the nerve to do it. There’s been so much darkness in my world lately that I feel like it might be unfair to bring someone like Heather into it. She's irresistible to me. I don’t know if Jeff and Kiera are playing matchmaker, or if it’s just coincidental. Still, every time I turn around, Heather seems to be there, dancing around under my nose like forbidden Christmas candy.

  This time, I’m going to do something about it. I’m going to answer at least the fundamental question of what happens when we’re in a room together for more than a few minutes alone. It’ll go very well, or it will be an unmitigated disaster. But first things first, I have to get her to agree to go someplace with me without threatening to arrest her first. I think this time I’ll shoot for someplace casual.

  After I’ve finished my formal interview, I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator in the break room and walk to the bench where she is sitting in the reception area. As I hand her the bottle, I casually ask, “Are you hungry? I feel like pizza tonight. I know this great Italian place where they toss the dough by hand. I’ll even let you pick the toppings.”

  “Ouch, you sure know how to find a girl’s weakness. I’m starving, and pizza is absolutely my favorite food. Unfortunately, I need pizza like I need another hole in my head,” Heather says wistfully.

  I flop down beside her on the outdated vinyl bench. Turning toward he
r, I just shake my head in disbelief. “Gidget, I know we’ve had this conversation before. But could you please explain it to me again. Why would someone as bright and pretty as you are, deny yourself something you clearly love when you freely admit that you’re hungry? It just doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Tyler, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that Tara is about the size of a half a toothpick and Kiera isn’t much bigger,” Heather points out.

  “So? Kiera has red hair, and you have blond hair. Tara is about 11 feet tall, and you’re not. So, what’s your point? I don’t know how many different ways I have to tell you I think you are knockout gorgeous. You are pin-up worthy all on your own. Don’t you realize women everywhere are having surgery to have bodies like yours?”

  Heather laughs out loud. “I think you have me confused with someone else. Either that or my clothes hide a lot more than I thought. I have a lot more in common with a Weight Watchers ‘before’ poster than a pin-up girl.”

  I have to will myself to relax. This woman doesn’t need anyone to beat her up. She does a fine job of it herself and it totally pisses me off. I just want to be able to magically show her how she looks through my eyes. Maybe that would shut her up. So, I try again…

  “Gidget, do I look like a man who doesn’t know what I like?” I ask, not bothering to disguise the frustration in my voice. Man, this woman can frustrate me faster than a kitten with a ball of yarn.

  Heather smirks and tilts her head sideways, inspecting me. “No, I’d say you’re the type of man who pretty much has it all figured out,” she observes.

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d go that far. But I do know that I like what I see. So, are you saying I don’t know what I’m talking about, or are you calling me a liar?”

  “No, I don’t mean it like that. I just mean that you and I view the situation very differently. When I look at myself in the mirror, I hear every fat joke my family has ever told at my expense,” she continues. “I also hear every PE teacher and trainer’s voice in my head. They would say, ‘Heather is a pleasant girl; however, she might actually have some friends if she were thinner.’ Even the voices of well-meaning strangers echo in my head, ‘You’re so pretty, honey. If you would just lose some weight, you could catch yourself a real handsome man. I try not to let it affect me. But after a while, it just kind of wears you down and changes who you are on the inside.”

  “It doesn’t help that I’m often surrounded by perfectly skinny friends and family. I feel like I’m part of that Sesame Street game—‘One of these things is not like the others’. I’m always the thing that’s not like the others. Most of the time, I can ignore it and let it roll off my back. But sometimes it gets to me. Being asked out by a cute guy is one of those unavoidable triggers for me. I wonder whether you want to go out with me because you like me or because dating a fat girl is such a novel experience, you want to check it off your bucket list.”

  I cringe at the idea that she considers herself a fat girl. “Have I ever given you any reason to believe I don’t find you totally, off-the-charts-attractive?” I ask, laying it all on the line. “In fact, I think that you’re so hot, for lack of a better term, I was having a hard time concentrating on my job today in what could’ve been a life-and-death situation. I spend a lot of time thinking about you, and I can tell you that not a single, solitary moment of that time is spent thinking about whether or not you eat too much pizza,”

  Heather blushes a pretty shade of pink and then stammers, “Really? You think about me even when I’m not around?”

  “Yes, and I don’t waste a single second of that time wishing you could fit into smaller jeans, that you would eat more salad, or any other related nonsense,” I answer.

  “Do I even want to know what you do wish for?” Heather asks, a dubious expression on her face.

  “Probably not,” I answer, after a long beat of silence. “Even if you asked, there are certain things a gentleman really shouldn’t share.”

  Unbidden, some of the dreams I’ve been having over the past few months flood my brain. None of them are exactly tame, and virtually all of them are wildly erotic. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Good God, if the mere thought of her makes me react this way, I’m going to combust if and when I get to touch her.

  “Heather, I’ll ask you one more time. What are you really craving? Not what you think you should be eating. Not what society thinks is politically correct for you to be having. Not even what your parents would wish you were going after. What are you, Heather Lydia LaBianca, hungry for?”

  “Honestly, I would love a deep dish sausage and pepper pizza topped off with a root beer float,” Heather admits, the words spilling out in one large breath.

  “Sounds good to me. How do you feel about Hawaiian pizza?” I answer.

  “I can take it or leave it. The only thing I’m not a big fan of is barbecue pizza. Barbecue sauce on pizza doesn’t make any sense to me. Make it a traditional red sauce or traditional white sauce—anything else to me is pizza sacrilege.”

  “What about pesto?” I tease.

  “Darn it. You got me there. I like pesto sauce on my pizza, especially if there are artichoke hearts involved.”

  “I don’t know about that combo. Might be too much green stuff for me,” I reply. “Whatever happened to good old pepperoni?”

  “Pepperoni doesn’t have enough green stuff for me,” Heather challenges. “You’re asking for a stroke before you turn thirty if you eat it very often.”

  “Well, I doubt any pizza can be called health-food, but I suppose vegetables would help the cause. I guess I like pepperoni because it reminds me of my childhood,” I explain. “Every time we had an accomplishment at school or in church, we always went out for pizza to celebrate. So, I always associate pizza with happy times. If I’m having a bad day, I’ll opt for pizza as a way to focus on the good things in life. I know it’s corny. When you’re a soldier stationed overseas, you spend a lot of time reliving all the sentimental parts of your life and wishing you could re-create them.”

  Heather holds up her palms. “Okay, okay, I surrender. Who can hold firm in the face of really good pizza and an emotional story like that? I’ve got no choice. I have to cave. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself when I step on the scale in the morning.”

  “Remember what I said about scale stepping? I like you the way just as you are. If I wanted to date a twig, I would. But I don’t. I want to date you. In case you haven’t noticed over the past few months, I kind of fancy you,” I say as I help her with her coat.

  “Well, you could’ve fooled me. I was pretty much sure you hate my guts,” Heather responds. “In fact, I wasn’t even sure you cared enough about me to learn my name.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t like pasta? Everybody likes pasta!” I exclaim. I can’t even wrap my head around the concept. I have pasta water running through my blood. “You don’t like any pasta? No Fettuccine Alfredo with tons of garlic, or spaghetti with meatballs? Not even the Kraft macaroni and cheese with the weird yellowy-orangey-powdered cheese that isn’t cheese?” I ask, incredulous at the thought of someone excluding an entire food group I consider essential to daily living.

  Tyler leans back in the wrought-iron chair and stretches out his long, lanky legs in front of him. “Nope. Sorry, I just can’t do it. That stuff is just downright nasty. Library paste comes to mind.”

  “Library paste? Good Lord, Ty! I’m beginning to wonder about the caliber of cooks in your life. First we had the issue with the coffee, and it’s becoming abundantly clear that you’ve never had decent pasta. Properly cooked pasta could never, ever be confused with library paste.”

  “Whatever you say, Gidget. I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it. I’m a grown up now, and I don’t have to eat stuff I don’t like,” he pouts.

  I can’t disguise my giggle. “Real mature approach there, Cowboy. Are you running late for recess or something?”

  “What?” he asks defensive
ly, then shrugs. “I’m a grown ass man. If I haven’t earned the right to eat what I want after serving two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to.”

  “Okay. You have a point. But what if I told you that I can make you pasta you’ll love? In fact, I’ll bet it becomes one of your favorite dishes.”

  “Oh, Gidget, you don’t know this about me, but you just said a couple of really dangerous words. I never turn down a bet.” Ty challenges with a wicked gleam in his eyes as he rubs his hands together with absolute glee.

  I suppose I should be nervous right about now, but Tyler doesn’t know me very well either. Competition is a huge deal in my family.

  It may be my hunger, the stress of the day, or the fact that I’ve been drooling over this sexy lawman for several months; but I decide to throw caution to the wind. “Hmm, that’s interesting because I’m not the kind of lady who backs away from a wager either. Might be fun,” I quip with far more bravado than I have. “What are the stakes?”

  Tyler examines me for a moment and tips his hat down over his forehead. “Gidget, I’m not sure I know you well enough to assign the appropriate wager,” he announces. “I want to make sure that when you lose, you know you’re paying a penalty. Otherwise, it’s no fun to play the game. So let’s do a wager with stakes to be named at a later date.”

  “See, I find it interesting that you think I’m going to lose. That’s a fascinating approach. You don’t know me very well if you think I’m going to surrender easily. I don’t enter competitions I don’t plan to win. Therefore, after I fix you the best meal you’ve ever eaten, you’re also going to be eating some crow, and I’ll be collecting an appropriate marker. You might be surprised at how creative I can be,” I retort boldly.