by Lynn Turner
“You didn’t have to lure me here with fairytales,” she said. “I would have come anyway.”
“Is that so?”
“Oui, I like you well enough.”
“That’s encouraging.” He parked close to the curb. “But I wasn’t spinning tales. Come on.”
He got out and came around to open her door. Giving her a hand to help her out, he didn’t even try to hide his admiration of her legs. “Look up,” he said when they were safely on the sidewalk.
“Where?”
He pointed to the rooftop of Alex’s brownstone. Craning her neck, she saw green shrubbery jutting over the ledge, a profusion of plant life sprouting and spilling down the limestone façade of the building. Sprays of colorful blooms and the pale bark of small trees glowed in the moonlight. The street, in contrast, boasted very little green apart from the trees that lined it.
She hadn’t noticed it at all the last time she’d come, but then, she’d noticed little of anything through her haze of emotional turmoil. Looking back at him again, she lifted a brow. “Wonderland?”
“Better, and you won’t have to fall down a rabbit hole to get there.”
“Thank God. I’m wearing the wrong shoes for that.”
Predictably, his gaze took the scenic route down her body, ending at her strappy silver heels. “You’re wearing exactly the right shoes. I’m committing those to memory with the ‘fuck me’ ones.”
“I’m so glad you like them. After all, I choose all of my shoes with you in mind.”
A grin tugged the corners of his mouth, and he reached for her hand. “Good, because I have a deep, dark closet where I hang photos of your sexy feet on the wall and come back to stare at them later.”
She tensed, pulling her hand away.
He grimaced. “You’re right. Bad joke. You’re safe with me, petite.”
“That’s not what I—that’s not why.” She surveyed the street with obvious unease.
“Stop worrying. It’s Brooklyn, not Los Angeles. Paps aren’t following dancers around unless they’re on a red carpet.”
Looking around again, her shoulders relaxed, and she let him lead her inside.
Flipping on the light in the foyer, Zack felt for the light switch at the base of the stairs, then took her up the steps without letting go of her hand. The chandelier at the landing lit their way to the second floor.
“Oh mon Dieu!”
“You okay, Alice?”
“I was just…admiring the rabbit hole. Alex is a very stylish rabbit.”
All around them were gilded mirrors, floor-to ceiling, but for the wall directly opposite, where natural light from two ten-foot windows flooded the deep mahogany floor during the day. There was a baby grand piano, and a golden barre stretching from corner to corner in front of the windows. There was even a powder room just off the hall.
Zack’s heart did calisthenics at her stunned expression. “I forgot what it’s like seeing this place for the first time.”
“This is the most gorgeous studio I’ve ever seen. Is Alex secretly a billionaire?”
“Publicly a millionaire. This studio is in high demand, booked even in the off season. Hopeful parents pay a steep price to get their kids private lessons from the legendary Alex Verenich.”
“It really does feel like Wonderland. It should be in a magazine.”
“It is.” He marveled at her face reflected in the mirrors. Her beauty was almost too much in the elegant space, and images of her draped over the baby grand in her gown, or en pointe in the center of the floor filled his mind. He had to have her photographed here. He cleared his throat. “It’s his sanctuary in the middle of a teeming metropolis.”
“Bravo. You sound like a writer.”
“I fancy myself one too. Would you like a tour?”
“I don’t know,” she said in a coquettish tone, fanning her face with her hand. “It’s so sudden and unexpected.”
Laughing, he tugged her to him, enjoying her quick gasp, pecking her lips playfully. “Tonight’s your lucky night. Turns out, I’m a playwright. Improv is my middle name.”
“It’s a very respectable name.” She relaxed into his embrace.
He moaned quietly at the feel of her soft curves pressed gently to his frame. “I’ve already forgotten it. What were we just talking about?”
Pulling back, she gazed at his face. “Your eyes are cloudy. Like sea glass. You look just like the Cheshire Cat.”
“Seems appropriate.”
His voice was gruff. Again. The fullness in his throat remained, even after several attempts throughout the evening to clear it. He’d begun to sound chronic, with his mother threatening to bathe him in a vat of VapoRub by the time the ceremony had ended. The fullness became fuller as he lost himself in Mina’s expression. Wonderment etched itself all over that alluring face. And welcome. He did not need her looking soft and welcoming and full of wonder. For Christ’s sake. Giving her waist a quick squeeze, he reluctantly let her go.
She stepped back, flushed and breathing deeply, a hand at her chest. “Tell me, cat, which way should we go?”
The fullness threatened to suffocate him at the husky tone of her voice. Clearly the air up here was affecting her, too. It took him a few more breaths to recover, but when he did, he grinned. “Depends on where you want to end up.”
Mina gaped, pressing a hand to her chest. The entire third floor housed a stunning library, with a small theater in the back. There was a fireplace, built in mahogany shelves, and an en-suite bathroom. “A theater in the library?”
“Complete with noise-canceling headphones,” he said. “Someone reading in here wouldn’t hear a thing.”
“I’m in love. I want to live in this library.”
Zack chuckled, tearing her attention away from the hundreds of gorgeous, leather-bound books.
“I mean it. If I lived here, I’d never leave.”
“Then it’s my great fortune you don’t.” He approached the third flight of steps. “I’d look ridiculous prancing around onstage singing to myself.”
She broke into laughter, stumbling subtly.
Looking back at her with creased brow, his eyes trailed her frame. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” The butterflies in her stomach mated and multiplied. This was the fourth floor. Zack’s floor.
“Old building,” he said by way of explanation. “No elevator.”
“I don’t mind.”
Flipping on the light switch, he let go of her hand, removing his tuxedo jacket and draping it over a chair. She didn’t gasp this time—couldn’t because she was breathless. It was far more intimate than simply knowing where he slept, confirming with a single glance that two could fit in his well-made bed. It was that the master suite occupied the entire floor and was the unquestionable lair of a creative mind.
She took in the room slowly…the stacks of books on the floor beneath the windows, the guitar and keyboard in one corner, the sheet music on its stand covered in scribbled red notes, the who-knows-what-draft of a script on the desk, countless notebooks, and at least a dozen poster-sized inspiration boards on easels along the walls.
One of the boards enticed her feet to move until she stood, dumbfounded, in front of it. Her face, her body, the entire essence of who she was, was tacked to that board. She was dressed for a different role in every photo, held in position or frozen in flight, but every emotion on her face was genuine—immortalized in stunning captures at just the right moment. There were sketches of costumes, and choreography carefully drawn out step-by-step. She fingered the swatch of ruby red fabric beneath her head shot and a scrap of paper that read simply, “Camille.”
The warmth from Zack’s body sent prickles down her spine seconds before he spoke. “What do you think, petite? Did I get it right?”
She shivered, unnerved to be in his head, to see for herself the irrefutable evidence that he knew her. He knew her, and she hadn’t told him a single thing.
“I think I need some
air.” She faced him, too tired to mask how shaken she felt. “Do you know where I might get some?”
His eyes were sharp, penetrating, like they could read every thought in her mind. To her relief, he softened the intensity in his features, giving her an easy smile. “I know just the place.”
They climbed a narrow staircase to a narrower landing in front of a windowed mahogany door. He flipped the switch beside it, and the most enchanting sound filled the space—a classical piano being played near a lake, surrounded by trees and birds…in a light rain? Biting her lip, she tried to identify each sound she heard.
He stopped short. “If you’re sick of classical music, I can turn it off. Alex’s taste is impeccable, but pretty predictable.”
“Non, I—I like it. It’s beautiful.”
“Used to be a ladder and a hatch door where we’re standing.” He undid the lock. “Alex had the stairs and door put in a few months ago.”
“It’s lovely, but a portal would have been much more Wonderland.”
He opened the door and the music followed them out onto the roof. “I agree. Luxury is a real buzzkill.”
Mina hardly heard him. The lush life thriving in this new stratosphere sucked her in. It worked against nature, a tiny corner of respite from the unremittingly loud, distracting city below.
Wordlessly, he took her hand again and led her farther out. They walked in comfortable silence, free-falling the rest of the way down the rabbit hole, to a serene garden that reminded her of a Japanese tea house. A multitude of flowers flourished in planter boxes, pots and undulating borders. There were Japanese maple trees, and statues and artifacts obscured by twisting vines.
“Alex collected these during his travels to Asia.” He narrated the last stop on the tour. “Some are from Thailand, some from China…Burma, Japan.”
She recognized four of the statues. They were varying interpretations of what Buddha looked like, some skinny, some fat. She reached out to touch a short statue of a monk holding a long staff. “What’s this one?”
“Ah, Jizo Bosatsu. Protector of travelers and children, and all the sorry souls trapped in hell. Some say he awakens us from our dreamlike world of illusion.”
Something precisely dreamlike colored his voice, enticing her to meet his gaze. Her chest tightened at the way he looked at her, like it wasn’t a look at all, but an embrace.
“Then let’s keep going,” she said. It seemed it was contagious, because it affected her voice, too. “I like this dream.”
Deeper in the garden, what appeared at first to be small pools of clear water, were skylights allowing light to the fourth floor below. They stepped across pavers that were brushed and polished to look like Tuscan stone, following its path to the edge of the garden.
“Wow,” she whispered. “This is…” She struggled to find a word, even with three language banks to choose from, staring at the softly lit oasis in front of her.
Beneath a pergola made from Indian columns and covered in vines, was a seating area with deep cushions, patterned pillows and a richly colored Persian rug.
“It’s breathtaking.” Feeling his regard on her again, she met it instinctively with her own, reading his thoughts as easily as if he’d said them aloud. She pursed her lips. “Really? Of all the times to hold your tongue, you choose now?”
“I think my thoughts right now are obvious.” He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.
“Be kind to me. Tell me anyway. I’m not immune to vanity.”
Releasing her hand, he touched her face, trailing a cheekbone with the back of his fingers, then let his hand fall to his side. “You are an obstinate, unrelenting smartass who sometimes makes me want to quit the business and open a distillery…but unquestioningly the most breathtaking woman I’ve ever seen.”
Dieu, her lashes fluttered like a speeding camera shutter, making everything around her appear in slow motion. Her involuntary nervous system gave out on her, so breathing took some effort…as did speaking. “I-I’m choosing to ignore the first part, because the second part was really beautiful.”
“You’re really beautiful.”
Breathe. “That’s better.”
Smoothing his hands down her bare arms, he brushed them over her palms, tickling her fingertips with his. Then he lifted her arms and draped them over his shoulders. “It was good, wasn’t it? But this is better. Way better.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, letting him lead her in a slow dance. The music hung in the air around them, so soft it felt confined to the rooftop, like no one could hear it but them. “Your mother was lovely.”
“My mother is…a lot.” He said it warmly, though. “She likes you, which I’m sure you noticed.”
“Oui, she’s not subtle. It’s very easy to like her, too.”
“Good, because she teaches dance at the recreation center where I grew up. She’s been begging me to bring you with me the next time I come…and the kids would love to meet a real life, superstar dancer.”
“They’ve met you.”
“Yeah, well, they don’t get out much. Besides, I’m not as pretty.”
“You mispronounced, ‘breathtaking.’”
“Apologies.”
“Of course I’d love to stop by.” She searched his face a moment, biting her lip.
“Petite?”
“Your mother is Latina? And your father…?”
“Puerto Rican. So is my father.” He grinned. “You obviously aced biology—and Spanish, too. My mother is beside herself. You’ll probably get a marriage proposal from her on my behalf.”
The butterflies multiplied again. It was getting crowded in her stomach. “I…”
“Breathe, petite. You’re turning a lovely dark shade of pink.”
“It’s because of your bad jokes,” she sputtered, catching her breath again. She looked out beyond the roof to the buildings surrounding them, towering over them. “So, you were adopted?”
“Boring story, really. Pretty uninspired. My mother was a teen when she had me. My dad skipped out on her. I was in the system by three—foster care nomad. I was just some ruddy kid, invisible to starry-eyed parents looking to adopt chubby little cherubs.”
He tightened his hold, and Mina’s heart broke a little, making her rub her fingers soothingly through the hairs at his nape.
“Petite…” he groaned.
“Sorry.” She stilled her fingers, the butterflies taking flight en masse, fluttering into her chest. “Please, go on.”
He cleared his throat, and it occurred to her that he might be nervous. This tall, strong, self-assured man was tripping over his tongue and, Dieu, it was so cute. She softened her eyes.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” He licked his lips. “Let’s see, typical troubled kid story, so we’ll skip to my redemption…I started at the local rec center in the summer when I was nine. Swimming, basketball—standard stuff to keep me out of trouble. Then one day, the Latin dance teacher needed a strapping young lad to even out her class. She saw something in me—hips like a hula dancer, impeccable rhythm, luxurious head of hair…”
“Is that all?”
“I’m being modest.”
She smacked his nape.
“Whatever it was she saw, it helped me work through the adolescent anger every foster kid seems cursed with. We fell in love in that way adoptive parents and kids do.” He shrugged. “Sort of like falling in love with a puppy in a pound. It just felt…right. The ink dried when I was ten. My parents helped me find scholarships for my dance education, paid for the rest…and here I am.”
“I don’t think it’s uninspired at all,” she said. “It’s very stirring.”
He didn’t say anything else for a minute. Then he took a long, slow breath, like he was making his mind up about something.
“What?” She brought her arms down slowly to rest on his chest. They were no longer dancing.
“How did it feel, petite?”
The anticipation in his expression told her he wasn’t just talk
ing about the excitement of performing on an awards show. He looked vulnerable. Like he was invested in her response. Like his heart was wide open.
It made her want to hand over hers.
“Dancing with you felt…like learning I could fly,” she said softly, enjoying the stunned pleasure on his face at her words. “Like I didn’t know I could fly until that moment, and then you took my hand and said, ‘Allons-y’— ‘Let’s go, petite.’ Then, it felt like the sun was at our backs, and the wind was in our hair…and everyone else was watching us from the ground.”
A sound left his throat she couldn’t identify. Primal. Needy. Like he was starving. “That was quite a description. Very evocative.”
“It’s okay, if you didn’t feel the same way.” Her rapid heartbeat called her a liar. “I just wanted you to know.”
“I did feel the same way. I felt it when we were dancing, and when I saw you come down those stairs in this dress.” His hands smoothed up and down her waist. “I felt it in the car, downstairs, on the sidewalk…And I feel it right now.”
His fingers dug gently into her hips, his voice so deep, she was sure she’d feel its vibrations for days. They spread through her chest and up into the roots of her hair. It was embarrassing how happy it made her to hear his words.
It was too much.
“Zack—” She flinched, lifting her face toward the sky. Another tiny droplet hit her face, and another, and another. The clouds seemed to form from thin air. “Oh! Non!”
“Don’t worry.” Taking one of her hands from his chest, he led them back over the pavers, ducking under the pergola.
“Merde!” Her bare toes hit the framework, pain shooting halfway up her shin.
“Shit. I forgot this thing is slightly elevated—in case it rains.” Lifting her to the longest couch, he set her down gently.
“It’s—I think it’s okay.”
Ignoring her, he took her legs into his lap and deftly removed her shoes. He massaged the offending leg, working the muscle with his hands until she sank into the cushions with a sigh.
“Old injury?”
“Injuries.” She winced. “Stress fractures, mostly. I can jump on my legs, spend hours on my toes, but if I hit them the wrong way—ah!”
