Just Say Yes (Escape to New Zealand Book 10)

by Rosalind James

  Text copyright 2017 Rosalind James

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com

  Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Kirsten

  who does dance like she’s on strings

  Author's Note

  Dedication

  Other Books By Rosalind James

  Happy Endings

  Ballerina Style

  Not What I Expected

  More or Less

  Rugby Muscle

  A Quitter. Or Not.

  All the Wrong Moves

  Dancing Around It

  Twenty-Dollar Deal

  Routine Until It's Not

  Change of Plans

  Everywhere You Turn

  The Fixers

  Stepping Carefully

  Hurts So Good

  Soaking Wet

  One Step at a Time

  Stained Red

  The Pony Show

  Good at Me

  Drawing the Line

  Sad or Not

  Postcards From Oz

  A Restless Heart

  To Music

  Pas de Deux

  Careful Navigation

  She Can Fly

  Like It Never Was

  Nothing to Give

  If It Killed Him

  Controlled Damage

  Revisions

  Like a Warrior

  A Sea Change

  Strong as Batman

  Not As Planned

  Into the Wind

  Nothing but Glamour

  Giving It Up

  The Bad and the Good

  Sucker Punch

  Fallout

  Other Venues, Other Worlds

  Easy-Peasy

  Adulting

  Who Knew

  Home

  My Best Everything

  All Sorts of Ambitions

  A Change of Plan

  Up the Guts

  Over the Line

  All the Way Home

  Epilogue

  A Kiwi Glossary

  Links

  Other Books By Rosalind James

  Acknowledgments

  THE PORTLAND DEVILS SERIES

  Dakota and Blake’s story: SILVER-TONGUED DEVIL

  THE ESCAPE TO NEW ZEALAND SERIES

  Reka and Hemi’s story: JUST FOR YOU

  Hannah and Drew’s story: JUST THIS ONCE

  Kate and Koti’s story: JUST GOOD FRIENDS

  Jenna and Finn’s story: JUST FOR NOW

  Emma and Nic’s story: JUST FOR FUN

  Ally and Nate’s/Kristen and Liam’s stories: JUST MY LUCK

  Josie and Hugh’s story: JUST NOT MINE

  Hannah & Drew’s story again/Reunion: JUST ONCE MORE

  Faith & Will’s story: JUST IN TIME

  Nina & Iain's story: JUST STOP ME

  Chloe & Kevin's story: JUST SAY YES

  THE NOT QUITE A BILLIONAIRE SERIES (HOPE AND HEMI'S STORY)

  FIERCE

  FRACTURED

  FOUND

  THE PARADISE, IDAHO SERIES (MONTLAKE ROMANCE)

  Zoe & Cal’s story: CARRY ME HOME

  Kayla & Luke’s story: HOLD ME CLOSE

  Rochelle & Travis's story: TURN ME LOOSE

  Hallie & Jim's story: TAKE ME BACK

  THE KINCAIDS SERIES

  Mira and Gabe’s story: WELCOME TO PARADISE

  Desiree and Alec’s story: NOTHING PERSONAL

  Alyssa and Joe’s story: ASKING FOR TROUBLE

  On the day her best friend got married, Chloe Donaldson couldn’t manage to be happy. Fortunately, she was a good actress.

  The little church overlooking the sea in Katikati was full of light and love and music. It was nearly Christmas, the sky was blue, and the sea was calm. And Josie Pae Ata, soap star extraordinaire, was marrying Hugh Latimer, All Black, captain of Auckland’s Super Rugby team, and big brother of the decade.

  It was the stuff of a tabloid’s dream. But sometimes, even tabloids got it right.

  Chloe rose to her feet with the rest of the congregation to watch the bride come down the aisle on the arm of her father. Josie’s face was hidden under her veil, and her father’s was set with all the fierce determination of a dad who’d made his mind up not to cry. Hugh’s face, though ... that was different. He stood and watched his bride approach with a naked joy that took Chloe’s breath away.

  That wasn’t an expression. She clutched the pew in front of her until her knuckles turned white, focused on breathing in and breathing out, and willed the sickness back.

  You are not going to faint. You are not going to run out. You are not going to spoil Josie’s day.

  It was all the same. Mid-December, high summer in New Zealand, sunshine and warmth and planes leaving for tropical honeymoons. Pachelbel’s Canon for the bride’s entrance, with its somber bass and soaring violin, and then the second violin coming to join them, the melodies weaving together, complementing and perfecting each other. The seriousness of the greatest commitment two people could make, and the piercing joy of it.

  Josie, too, was the same steadfast, shining force she’d always been. Only Chloe was different.

  At the altar, Hugh lifted Josie’s veil, and the congregation drew in a collective breath. And Chloe, sitting now, held a tissue to her lips and tried to hold the memory back.

  It came all the same.

  She’d been nervous almost beyond bearing, so she’d moved. Shaking her legs fast to loosen them, then tendu, coupé. Tendu, coupé, bourrée. Pointing her right foot to the side, sliding it back into fifth position, and then she was up on her toes in tiny, fast steps. Pas de bourrée to the back, side, front: more tiny steps, dancing in place. And then the same thing on the left side. It was important to be balanced.

  Josie, her maid of honor, opened the interior door a crack and peeked through, then closed it and said, “A couple more minutes.”

  Chloe nodded and kept her feet moving. She could barely hear the hum of the function room from the anteroom where she waited with her dad and Josie, and that suited her. A fresh breeze came through the half-open window and ruffled the stack of extra programs on the table that also held her bouquet. Outside, the sky was an impossible blue, and over the water, a double rainbow, relic of an earlier squall, arched over Waitemata Harbour.

  It was, in fact, a glorious day. And a glorious occasion. The happiest day of her life, except for the one that would arrive in a few short weeks. She picked up the yellow bouquet that matched her dress, then set it down on the table again.

  Josie said, “All right?”

  “Yes,” Chloe said. “Of course.”

  She wished, suddenly, that she’d insisted on a white dress. Ivory, anyway, even though her mother had said, “It’d be ridiculous, darling.”

  Which wouldn’t have mattered, except that Rich had agreed. He’d said, “Discreet is probably better. You wouldn’t want to imagine anyone laughing, even inside.”

  She’d wanted to ask what kind of guest would laugh at a bride, heavily pregnant or not, on her wedding day. She’d wondered whether he’d been the one imagining people laughing at him. But when it had come down to it, she hadn’t really cared about the color of the dress. She’d never played bride as a girl. She’d played ballerina, and the only white costume she’d ever coveted had been Odette’s white swan tutu, with thos
e feathers on it that made you feel like you could actually fly.

  She’d finally worn that costume two years earlier, and if the opening night of Swan Lake had seemed like the best day of her life ... well, it was only the best so far, no matter how many butterflies she had right now.

  It wasn’t that she was uncomfortable physically. She’d taken company class every day with the Auckland Ballet until the start of her ninth month a week before. An hour and a half of training more rigorous than any sport’s, even if it wasn’t followed by another four to six hours of rehearsal anymore, had kept her supple and energized.

  And had kept her believing. That was important as well. Her break didn’t have to last any longer than three months. Only as long as it took her body to recover.

  Again.

  Outside, the music swelled, and Josie said, “That’s us, love,” pushed the door open, and headed out. Chloe knew Josie would do her part as beautifully as always, however much she’d downplayed her looks, so much more spectacular than Chloe’s quiet prettiness, for the day.

  Her father stood up at last. “Ready, kitten?” he asked. “I think this is us.”

  She smiled at him. He didn’t call her by her pet name often anymore, and he never said all that much at any time. But it helped to have him here, and it helped more when she tucked her hand into his arm and felt his hand close over her cold one.

  He took one step toward the door, then stopped, looked down at her once more, and asked, “Are you sure?”

  She honestly thought her heart had skipped a beat. “Why?”

  “If you love him,” her dad said, “you’re all good.”

  “I love him,” she said, and he nodded, pulled the door open, and escorted her through it.

  Rich was there. Of course he was. Dark suit, dark hair, yellow rose in his buttonhole, standing beside his brother. Looking at her, his dark-brown gaze intent. Handsome. Serious. A lawyer on the way up, and with a pedigree as polished as her own, not that she cared about that. Most importantly, a man who appreciated ballet and accepted the sacrifices it required. Even this one.

  As always, once she was on stage, it got easier. She moved to the music, let herself be carried in the moment. The music, the sky, the day. The audience didn’t matter. It was about expressing what was inside.

  Closer, and closer still, her still-slender legs moving precisely and lightly under the yellow gown that had been cut in a Grecian style to emphasize her long limbs and delicate proportions while allowing for the bump that was her baby boy.

  As if he knew that this was the day his parents were making it official, he moved inside her, so suddenly and strongly that she nearly gasped. And then she was there, standing before the celebrant. The music had stopped, and her father was taking her hand and putting it into Rich’s.

  It was here. It was now.

  “Dearly beloved,” the celebrant began, “we are—”

  Rich cleared his throat. Loudly.

  The celebrant stopped and raised his white eyebrows.

  Rich said, “I can’t.”

  There was a noise from the guests—the congregation—whatever—like the intake of eighty breaths, but Chloe barely heard it. She looked at Rich and said, “What?”

  “I don’t want this,” he said. “I can’t do this. Husband, father ... I’m not ready.”

  Something hot was happening down low in her chest, and it wasn’t tears. It was rage.

  For one instant, she thought, Dignity. Grace. And then she thought, No.

  “You wanted it,” she said, “when I was dancing. When I was a principal. You asked me twice. Twice. On a knee. With the ring.” The one she was wearing on her right hand today, because her left hand was supposed to be free to receive that other ring. That plain platinum band that wouldn’t have been her choice, so cold and hard and impersonal, but you didn’t get to choose everything.

  You were grateful. You were gracious.

  The hell with that.

  “I’m sorry,” Rich said. “I can’t. It’s too different now.”

  “Because you don’t know if I’ll still be a star.” Somehow, she knew. No. She’d known. She just hadn’t let the thoughts in. “Because it’s been too long. I’m not on stage, and that’s not good enough. What if I can’t get back in three months, or six, or nine? What if I’m not on the billboard? What if you can’t introduce me as your wife, the ballerina? What use will I be to you then?”

  “It’s not that.” He cast a wild eye at the silent company beyond, then continued in a stage whisper, “I didn’t sign on to be a father. Neither of us wanted this. We were meant to be free for years yet. Ten years, even. In ten years—maybe even in five years—I’d have been ready. I’m not ready now.”

  The baby kicked again, and she said, “You don’t get to choose. The baby’s here now, and I didn’t do this by myself.” She wasn’t whispering, either.

  “We discussed it. That we could ... take care of it instead, and wait.” His voice was even quieter now. “Wait for the right time.”

  “We discussed it, I thought about it, and I said no.” Dancers had babies and kept dancing, she’d told him. She could do it too. It would take his support, but wasn’t that what marriage was about? “I said this was our baby, it was here now, and when would be the right time? Not everything can be planned. This is our life, here hitting us in the face. This moment here. This moment now. This is our baby.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not mine. I’ll do what I have to do, but I’m not ... it’s not mine.”

  Another intake of breath from the assembled group, and her father had sprung up, her mother right beside her. “Hang on,” her father said, not one bit quietly. “What the bloody hell—”

  Chloe knew what Rich meant. He wasn’t accusing her of being unfaithful. He was saying that he hadn’t wanted this baby, and he didn’t want it now. And that he didn’t want her. He was changing his mind.

  She knew what he meant, and she didn’t care what anybody else thought he’d meant. She only knew what she thought. What she felt.

  She transferred her bouquet to her left hand. And then, with the precision of twenty years of ballet training and the fury of a nine-months-pregnant bride left at the altar, she hauled back and slapped him hard across the face.

  There was dignity. There was grace. And there was this.

  Her voice rang out across the gasps and murmurs of the congregation. “You’re not a man. You’re a worm. You go to hell.”

  She dropped her bouquet at her feet, wrenched the ring from her right hand and dropped it as well, not caring where it landed. And then she turned and left.

  At least she’d beaten her dad to the punch.

  Change seemed to enjoy arriving in Chloe’s life as suddenly and devastatingly as a New Zealand earthquake. Three months after Josie’s Katikati wedding day, three years after her own non-wedding day, that change took the form of too much muscle, hair that was much too red, and intentions like no prospective partner ever.

  He wasn’t even a ballet dad.

  Outside the Takapuna Arts Centre on this sunny March afternoon, Auckland’s North Shore was summer-serene, the warmth of the day suggesting that beaches and barbecues would be put to good use tonight. Even the traffic on the road beyond sounded softer than usual. It was almost six o’clock on Monday, Chloe’s work at the studio was done, and she was nearly ready to go home and enjoy what was left of the day.

  So it was another Monday. So the house in which she rented the top-floor tower apartment was in the process of being sold, and she didn’t know whether the new owners would let her stay on. She’d deal with that, whatever the answer was. Meanwhile, she had the job and the life she wanted, or at least the best she could make it. She’d collect Zavy from the babysitter’s and have a lovely, relaxing evening, starting with taking him to the beach to look at tidepools for a few minutes, maybe. Then they’d go home, she’d feed him baked beans and toast for dinner, put him to bed, take a lovely bath herself, do a bit of
paperwork, and then put her feet up with a Fred Astaire movie and a cup of tea until she fell asleep on the couch.

  Bliss, retired-ballerina and solo-mum style. But first, she’d give herself a barre. The nagging thoughts about her housing situation wouldn’t leave her mind, no matter how hard she worked or how busy she stayed. She didn’t want to carry them home with her.

  Feelings were confusing. Feelings didn’t have enough rules. Feelings insisted on pushing you beyond the limits of your self-control. Dance, though—dance was clear. Dance was focused. She’d give herself a barre.

  Kevin McNicholl pulled his Ford Territory into the carpark of the Takapuna Arts Centre, then sat with his hands on the wheel for a minute and thought, Right. Right, then. Right. And then, since that didn’t seem to be getting him anywhere, he got out of the car and headed for the building’s entrance.

  An enormous, graceful white structure, and an old one for the young country that was New Zealand. Surrounded by palms and fern trees, and about as far from a rugby ground as it was possible to get. He pulled the door open and walked past a notice board pinned with reminders, down an echoing hallway, past a quiet room full of concentrating teenagers behind easels, and nothing much else. The building was nearly empty, and so still, except that there was music coming from somewhere. Piano music, tinkling away like the last dying notes of summer.