by Pam Godwin
I can’t dance to this. I don’t even want to hear it. But I will not break down.
Behind me, the suite is stocked with enough food and liquor to entertain twenty people. I head up the stairs, brushing a hand casually over Trace’s broad shoulder as I pass.
“Want a drink?” My smile is strained, forced. Maybe he won’t notice.
He shakes his head, squinting at me.
I keep moving, focused on the ice chest filled with beer. Rummaging through the amber bottles, I find a Bud Light and pop off the cap.
Warm fingers touch my spine, bared by the open back of my dress. “You don’t like this song?”
I hate it. I love it. I nod my head and guzzle the beer.
He lifts the bottle from my fingers and sets it aside. “What’s wrong?”
I hum a conflicted noise and set my gaze on the beer. “We can go whenever. Or stay. Whatever you want.”
“I asked you a question.” He grips my chin, forcing my eyes to his.
“It’s messy.” The tiered fringe on my ivory mini dress quivers violently, broadcasting my discomfort.
“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”
I ease my chin out of his grip and cross my arms. It’s a defensive posture, but I don’t feel safe with him. Not with my feelings.
He stands a foot taller than me, hands at his sides, shoulders back, and frown firmly in place. So confident, intimidating, and sexier than he has the right to be. He’s a curse, a blessing, and a second chance, like the black walls of desolation collapsing to reveal a glimpse of light. Being near him shakes me to the very roots of my soul.
He’s wearing another charcoal suit, sans the tie. A few buttons open at the neck. If I hadn’t seen his pajamas with my own eyes, I would’ve imagined him sleeping in a suit.
“Do you own a pair of jeans?” I ask.
His scowl deepens. “Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”
“All right.” I reach around him for the beer and swallow a zealous gulp to flush the knot in my throat. “Cole was overseas for a year, and I spent that time planning our wedding, specifically our first dance.”
“To this song.”
“Yep.” I lift the beer to finish it off.
He intercepts it and pours it out. Then his arm comes around me, pulling my chest against his.
“I own four pairs of jeans.” His mouth moves against the top of my head, his breath fanning my hair. “Listen.” A pause of silence. “The song’s over.”
“Yeah.” I gaze up into his soft blue eyes, my hands falling on the placket of his white shirt.
“Are there any other songs you don’t want to hear?” he murmurs.
I shake my head.
“Then we’ll stay till the end.” He leads me back to the balcony, down to the front row, and closes in behind me at the railing.
His hands rest on my hips, and his brow lowers to the back of my head. Maybe he wants to stare down the length of my nude back to watch my ass move. Maybe he simply wants to keep me close.
Either way, it takes several songs before I loosen up enough to dance again, and when I do, I limit my movements to a gentle sway, remaining right where I am. Because I love the feel of his hands on me. Because his breath on my nape gives me comfort. Because the heat of his body reminds me what it feels like to be intimate with a man.
I thought I lost my one chance to experience this—the elusive, all-consuming high that can only be found in a romantic connection.
Maybe I just needed time.
Or the right person.
When he walks me to my front door, it’s after one in the morning. The August humidity lingers in the air, and a blanket of silence stretches over the moon-soaked street.
He reaches for my hand, holding it between us. “I had a nice evening.”
“Same. Thank you for taking me.”
As I pull away, I realize he’s not holding my hand. He’s gripping the ring on my finger, pinching it as if he wants to yank it off.
My chest tightens, and my brows pull together.
If you never take it off again, I’ll be the happiest man on the planet.
Cole broke his promise to me. He’s gone. I’m not beholden to the promise I made to him.
I straighten my fingers and slowly inch my hand back, away from the ring. But as the band slides over the first knuckle, Trace lets go.
My gaze jumps to his, but he’s already turning, striding back to the car where his driver waits.
Teasing and dodging. Connecting and missing. I swing right, and he steps left. I’m over the ballad of Trace Savoy.
“Hey, Trace?”
He pauses, glances over his shoulder.
“I just wanted to warn you.” I cock a hip.
“Yes?” He shifts to face me fully, hands clasped behind his back.
“I ordered this thing online called Her Ultimate Decoder, and it’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he says slowly.
“It’s guaranteed to decipher confusing cryptic men. Hundreds of five-star ratings on Amazon support the claim.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Your evasive maneuvers are about to be exposed. Any last words?”
The shadows might be playing tricks on me, but I swear there’s a grin on his face.
He drops his head, shakes it slightly, then turns away with an unmistakable smile in his voice. “See you tomorrow night, my tiny dancer.”
The next morning, my sister wakes me at the ungodly hour of nine o’clock with my niece and her husband, David, in tow. I mentioned the previous day that the brakes on the Midget are screeching, and now she’s here to meddle… I mean, fix it. Or rather, make David fix it.
With the car up on jacks in the driveway, he stretches on his back beneath it, grunting and clanking tools. Angel squats in the flowerbed, stabbing Rollie Pollie pillbugs with a stick, while Bree and I drink coffee on the loveseat under the old oak tree.
Bree knows every quarrelsome detail of my time spent with Trace Savoy. After catching her up on the concert, I’m anxious to hear her thoughts. But the slaughter going on behind me makes my skin crawl.
“Tell her to stop doing that,” I say to Bree.
“Angel, leave the bugs alone.”
The hem of my niece’s cute sundress drags through the dirt as she drives the stick down over and over, chanting, “Die. Die. Die.”
“They’re just bugs.” Bree tilts her head, studying her daughter. “That’s normal behavior, right?”
A first-grade teacher is asking me—someone who’s never around children—what I consider normal?
When Angel was born, I thought it was adorable that Bree named her after our family name, Angelo. But if I knew then what I know now, I would’ve given her The Book of Baby Names: The Demonology Edition.
“Yeah, there’s nothing frightening about her at all,” I say dryly.
Bree slumps back on the seat. “Okay, so when you called Trace out last night for being confusing and cryptic, what did he do?”
“He shook his head and walked away, smiling.”
“The smile is new. Sounds like progress.”
“Progress? I thought you were against me getting involved with him.” I lift my coffee mug and find it empty. Damn.
“Jesus, Danni. You blew past involved when you stayed the night at his penthouse.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she sticks a finger in the air.
“Hold that thought. We need more coffee.” She grabs my cup and darts into the house.
Footsteps approach behind me, and I turn, staring into the large brown eyes of a demon.
Angel brushes a wayward hair back toward her pigtails and smiles a toothy fiendish non-smile. “I’m going to eat your head.”
“That sounds…complicated.”
“I’m going to put it on a stick and roast it and eat it with a fork.” She swishes the dress around her knees.
“If you eat my head, we won’t be able to have these creepy conversations.” I shud
der.
She lifts a shoulder. “I’ll find other heads to talk to.”
Where does she come up with this shit?
I raise my voice toward the car. “Are you hearing this, David?”
“A little busy,” he yells back.
Yeah, but I know he’s listening, and that’s what I call denial.
Angel skips away, humming Hell’s version of A-Tisket, A-Tasket. I love that kid, but sweet lord have mercy, she scares the crap out of me.
“What’s that look for?” Bree steps out of the house and hands me a warm mug.
“I’ve changed my mind. There’s something really disturbing about your child.”
She blows on her coffee. “She’s just going through a phase.”
Is demon possession a phase?
“So.” Bree regards me, as if revving up for a scolding. “You don’t think you’re involved with this man?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just not going to pursue a relationship with him.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t want one, not with anyone. Least of all with me.” My stomach hardens. “He sleeps around—
“You don’t know that.”
“I see him with women, Bree. And he said he never spends a night alone.”
“He told you that…like three months ago.” She props an elbow on the back of the loveseat, her sharp gray eyes looking straight through mine. “I think he’s waiting for you.”
“That’s ridiculous. Waiting for what?”
Her gaze drops to my engagement ring, and her voice softens. “For you to get over Cole.”
My throat goes dry, and I twist the band on my finger. “It’s been on my right hand since I met Trace.”
“Okay. But can you take it off?” She gives me a small, encouraging smile. “From what you’ve said, it seems to bother him.”
Without letting myself think about it, I work the ring off my finger and slip it into the pocket of my jeans. “There’s your answer.”
My heart thunders painfully, but after a few measured breaths, all is quiet.
“How are we doing?” She rests a hand on my forearm.
I resent the concern in her eyes. It reminds me of that godawful part of my life, the months that followed Cole’s funeral, when she repeatedly dug me out of the alcohol-induced abyss I numbed myself in. Which is why I’m also so fucking thankful for her. Every damn day.
“I’m good, Bree. But I think you’re off-base about Trace. He’s not waiting for anything. I mean, it’s not like he’s competing for my attention. Cole’s dead, and I’m here, single and available.”
“You’re single. But you’re not available.”
“That makes no sense.”
She eyes the mug of coffee in my hand. “Hold out your cup.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.” She guides my fingers to the handle and adjusts the position of the mug over a patch of grass. “Imagine that the cup is you, and the coffee is all your love for Cole.”
The mug is full, sloshing over the sides as I hold it in place. “This is stupid.”
“Shut up and pay attention.” She stands over me and lifts her mug, which is equally full. “My cup represents Trace, and all the love he wants to give you.”
I snort. “As if.”
She ignores me and proceeds to pour her coffee into mine. As it flows over the sides and into the grass, she continues pouring, her expression taut with concentration.
“You just wasted all that coffee,” I say. “Maybe you should stick with teaching first graders.”
“I swear, Danielle.” She fists her hands on her hips, the empty mug dangling from her fingers. “Sometimes you’re denser than a first grader.”
“I’m not dense, Gabrielle. I get it. My cup runneth over because it’s half-full of shit.” I grin, knowing full well that’s not what she’s insinuating. “I need a bigger cup.”
“Wrong.” She plops down beside me. “I was trying to demonstrate an old Chinese Zen saying. You can’t fit Trace’s love into the love you already possess. It’s supposed to ask the question…” She meets my eyes. “Do you have the right cup full?”
“Apparently, I don’t.” With a sigh, I stare at the mug. “So I empty my cup.”
“Empty the cup,” she echoes.
“But it’s also filled with my love for you and the demon—”
“Don’t call her that.”
“The angel and mom and dad—”
“Nope. That’s a different cup. This is the man cup.”
For the love of God. My head hurts. “What if I’m in a polyamorous relationship?”
“Do you want that?”
“Well, no.” I can’t even hold onto one man. “But—”
“Empty the damn cup.”
I do it to make her happy, dumping delicious java all over the grass.
Emptying the metaphorical cup, however, will be much harder than flicking my wrist.
“I’ll go get us more coffee.” I stand, needing a moment to regroup.
“Danni,” David calls from beneath the car. “Come here.”
“I’ll get the coffee.” Bree takes my mug.
“What’s the verdict?” I step beside his supine position on the ground.
Clothed in athletic gear, he’s recently acquired a dad bod, with the requisite extra around the middle. But he’s still a good-looking guy, especially for a high-school math teacher and soccer coach.
He doesn’t move his head from beneath the undercarriage. “When was the last time you had your brakes replaced?”
“Umm…”
He rolls out on a scooter thing and stares up at me with grease smeared across his brow. “Did Cole do it?”
I nod.
“So at least three years ago.” He sits up and blots a towel over his swarthy face. “As hard as you ride the brakes, I’m not surprised they’re already grinding metal on metal.”
Shit. I blow out a breath. “What does that mean?”
“It means your car doesn’t leave this driveway until I have time to replace the brakes.”
“I can have it towed—”
“It’ll take longer.” He collects his tools and climbs to his feet. “I can do it tomorrow night.”
“Are you sure? I’ll pay you.”
He laughs. “Your sister would castrate me if I took your money.”
It’s clear who wears the pants in their family, but who I am to judge? They’re in love, and I’m enviously happy for them.
After they leave, I change into a mini dance skirt and strappy crop top. Then I head into the dance studio and send Trace a text.
Me: I need a favor
My phone rings within seconds, displaying his name on the screen.
“Did you miss my voice?” I set it on speaker, on the floor, and bend at the waist, warming up to work on a new routine.
“Is everything okay?”
I melt at the worry rumbling through the phone. “Brakes are shot on my car. Can I get a ride to and from work tonight?”
His relieved exhale makes me smile. Stretching my arms over my head, I study my form in the mirror.
“Yes, of course. I’ll send my driver.” He pauses, breathing softly through the silence. “Is that all?”
Not even close. I want to talk to him. Share my feelings, my thoughts, my desires. I want to empty my cup.
Lowering to the floor, I arch in the Cow Stretch to warm up my tummy muscles. “What are you doing today?”
“Running a multi-million-dollar empire.”
“What’s that involve? Snapping fingers and counting dead presidents?”
“Dead presidents?”
“Money.” I roll into a neck-stretching back bend. “You know, Jackson, Grant, Benjamin—”
“Benjamin Franklin wasn’t a president.”
“Then why is he on the hundred-dollar bill?”
The phone vibrates with his chuckle. “What are you doing today?”
“I’m practicing a ne
w belly dance routine. Wanna hear the song?”
“I’d love to.”
A smile lifts my cheeks. “Hang on.”
I leap over the phone on the floor and power on the sound system. Keeping the volume low enough to hear him, I move back to the phone. A moment later, Criminal by Britney Spears streams through the speakers.
“Talk me through the movements,” he says. “So I can visual it.”
Warm energy fizzes through my veins. “The dance begins with just my hips.” I move them, watching my reflection in the mirror. “I’m sweeping through soft figure-eight motions.”
He listens without interruption as I speak through every twitch, head toss, and hip thrust.
I love his interest in my dancing. He might be moody and layered with mixed signals, but there’s something underneath it all, something behind the stuffy suits that calls to me, awakens me, makes my heart flutter like a baby bird.
The first and last time I felt anything like this, it was instantaneous and explosive, spinning and colliding and welding Cole and I together under the force of our own gravity.
With Trace, it’s different. More like seeds. Two hearty seeds that weather drought and neglect and tribulation, all the while sprouting roots—roots that grow toward each other, building a foundation, stretching, and blooming, not two but one single stalk, straight through the cracks in a hostile landscape.
We’ll either grow into something beautiful.
Or we won’t.
The song winds to a close, and his voice echoes behind me, in stereo. “Play it again. I want to watch this time.”
I spin and find him leaning in the doorway, his phone and a set of keys dangling from his hand.
Today’s suit is navy, with a light blue shirt and black tie. His tailored slacks fit so well my gaze is drawn to them, to the way they cup and mold to his groin. He’s so insanely, incredibly sexy and masculine it takes a great deal of effort to look away.
I wish I’d worn something nicer or at least brushed my hair. That’s what he does to me. Makes me want to tear through my closet, try on ten outfits, take a shower, put on makeup, hairspray and tease and hairspray some more. Because at some point in the last four months, this man helped me move past a broken promise and gave me a reason to try again.
