by Roxy Sloane
I know the rules, but still, she’s taunting me. It’s just the rock on her finger, I tell myself, sprinting now. A red flag to a bull. I always want what I can’t have, and Chloe is just that:
A challenge. A mystery.
But once I’ve figured out her secrets, then she’ll be just like the rest of them. Case closed. Client happy. Check cashed in the bank. I don’t need to fuck her to get her out of my system, I just need to do my job.
Determined, I head back to my place to shower and change, then go straight to the office. It’s Saturday, so there’s a line of yoga babes outside the studio waiting for class and I have to fight my way through a sea of tight pants and green smoothies.
“You take this one,” Molly greets me with a smirk—and a noxious-looking drink. “You look like you need it.”
“What I need is a hair of the dog,” I tell her, but I still take a swig—and spit the whole thing out on the pavement. “What the fuck?”
“It’s kale and chlorophyll.” Molly wrinkles her nose at my rudeness, but fuck, that was the most foul thing I’ve ever tasted. “Helps your skin. You should try it sometime.”
“I’ll stick with Jack and Jim, thanks all the same.”
I head inside and settle at my computer, clicking through to Chloe Archer’s file. It’s still too slim: just basic background, hometown, parents, school. She wasn’t rolling in it, but there aren’t any dark secrets lurking there, either. I called around to some neighbors, pretending I was an old school-friend of Chloe’s looking to track her down, and from what it sounds like, she hasn’t been back home in years. Packed off and shipped out to dance school in the city when she was fifteen, and never looked back.
Those years are easier: photos from performances, write-ups in the arts press. She was one to watch, they all agreed: “a promising talent” tipped for stardom. Sixteen, seventeen, taking on bigger roles. The photos I can find from them show her looking painfully slim, those brown eyes almost too big for her head as she gazes into the distance, lost in her work.
There’s video, too, so I click to watch. Rehearsal training, Chloe dressed in a black leotard, working with some dance instructor on the same steps, over and over again. She looks so different, I can’t believe it: so focused and controlled, it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
And as far as I can tell, it didn’t. No party pics posted on friends’ social media pages. No trips, or holidays. Nothing at all except ballet, and her slow climb to success. When she was seventeen, she made it to the corps de ballet for the Joffrey Ballet, rising through the ranks, and then—
Nothing.
She disappeared.
Not a trace of her in the system for two whole years, until she shows up in Boston, working as an assistant in a real estate office, like her previous life never existed.
I sit back, tapping a pen as I think. In my experience, there’s only one reason people disappear like that:
Because they don’t want to be found.
So what were you hiding from, Chloe Archer? And is it something that’s going to bring your perfect life as Mrs. Maxwell Mainwaring crashing to the ground?
7.
CHLOE
I wake up on Sunday morning tangled up in my sheets, my heart still racing from the most incredible dream. I was back in the courtyard at the party, hidden in the shadows with him.
His hands on me. His mouth on mine. I can still feel the silky sensation of my dress sliding off my body, and his firm touch easing my thighs apart.
And then he was touching me.
God, it felt so good. Slow and steady, just how I like it. His fingertips dipping into my wetness and circling my clit just right. My whole body is humming, and I wake up so close to the edge, it feels like the most natural thing in the world to slide my own hands down my body and pick up where he left me, aching for more.
Circling stronger, imagining he’s still here with me. My fingers slick with my own desire, the ache to be filled, just there . . .
What would it be like?
Would he hold me close, his body thrusting into me over and over as his wicked mouth whispered more filthy promises in my ear—or would the time for talking be done? No words, just action. Our bodies sliding, slick with sweat. His rough hands pinning me down. His lips feasting on every inch of skin. My bare breasts . . . my trembling nipples . . . my wet, aching pussy . . .
Yes, he would know just how to touch me. And when he finally claimed me and drove himself deep inside, it would hard and fast. No break, no mercy. He would push my body to the limit and oh, how I’d beg for more. No man’s ever touched me like that. No man’s ever taken that kind of control. Demanding surrender, with a firm grip and a hard stroke. The kind of domination that makes me flush just to think of it, the sweet shame of wanting what I can’t ever put in words.
But he wouldn’t need me to ask. He’d give it to me, over and over until I couldn’t take it anymore, but still, he wouldn’t stop. Not even when I would beg for release, no, he wouldn’t let me go. He would be relentless, his body surging into mine, owning me completely until finally, I break—
I come with a shudder, the pleasure rippling through my body in a swift, strong wave.
Oh my God, that was good.
My climax ebbs away and I stretch, gasping. I feel delicious, and I’ve still got my favorite day of the week still ahead of me. First, the community dance class I teach every weekend, then meeting Max for lunch, and—
I sit up with a jolt, the haze of my orgasm finally slipping away.
It wasn’t Max I was imagining in the privacy of my dreams. It was Jase. Just the way he promised.
“You’ll think about me, and you’ll come your sweet brains out, every time.”
I turn and bury my head in my pillows, letting out a muffled scream. Thanks a lot, imagination. I was going to put the sexy Brit out of my mind for good, but instead, I just cheated with him. Kind of. Almost.
Argh!
I roll out of bed and force myself into the shower, running it ice-cold to chase away the last hot, wicked images from my dream. Amanda is already working in the kitchen—or rather, her science lab—and I have to fumble past pots and jars of creams and liquids to grab an apple from the refrigerator.
“Thanks again for lending a hand yesterday,” she says, wearing a pair of bright-yellow rubber gloves. “We sold out of the skin cream, I told you, you’re a walking ad for it.”
“Anything to help.” It was fun manning the stall at the farmer’s market, and a welcome distraction.
“We were so busy I didn’t even ask how the gala went.” Amanda looks up, pausing her mixing. “Were you Cinderella? Did Prince Charming sweep you off your feet again?”
“Not exactly . . .” I crunch my apple. “Sienna was there.”
“Ouch. I’m sorry.” Amanda knows just how Sienna likes to get under my skin. “I’m telling you, she’s just jealous.”
“Of me? Please. What does she have to be jealous about?”
Amanda laughs. “How about you’re young, pretty, and with the family rock on your finger—you’re the center of attention now.”
I shake my head. “It’s not like that. If anything, I’m the one trying to live up to her. Max keeps saying I need to learn more from her, he wants us to hang out more.”
Amanda screws up her face. “That’s just weird.”
“No,” I sigh. “I get it. She’s the perfect socialite, and that kind of stuff is important to them. I need to make the effort.”
Amanda doesn’t look convinced. “Whatever you say, babe. Hey, you should get going if you don’t want to be late.”
I check the time and start for the door. “Crap, you’re right. See you later!”
*
Two subway trains and ten blocks later, I make it to Miss Kay’s dance school just in time. “Sorry, sorry,” I apologize, hurrying into the second-floor studio and shedding my jacket. “Welcome everyone, let’s get warmed up!”
I cue up a bouncy p
op song on the iPod deck and the class of five- to ten-year-olds starts wriggling and jumping around. They’re from a dozen different neighborhoods, dressed up in tutus and leotards and even some leopard-print leggings, but as the music starts and we all get into the beat, everyone is smiling and having a good time.
It’s a long way from the Joffrey School of Ballet. Miss Kay’s school is tucked away in the South End of Boston, above a dry cleaner’s and an Italian butcher’s shop. She runs two dozen classes out of the bare-brick studios, everything from salsa to tap to teaching nervous couples how to spin around on their first wedding dance. And every Sunday morning, I take the floor at the front of the room to lead my community ballet sessions, where I lead the kids through the positions, plies, and arabesque dance moves that used to form the foundation of my whole life.
“OK, let’s line up at the barre!” I clap my hands when warm-up is over. “Today, we’re going to see how many of those positions you can remember.”
They scurry over and take their places.
“Now, who can show me what first position looks like?”
Hands wave in the air, and then they’re moving their feet into the stance. “Good job, you guys!” I praise them as I move down the line, nudging stray arms and feet into place. “You look amazing. Now what about second position?”
I take them through the sequence, making sure to spend time with every student: giving everyone a word of encouragement, or some kind of compliment. It’s a world away from the ballet classes I used to attend. Back then, we were all fighting for perfection, and if you didn’t measure up, then you could bet everyone would know about it. We were locked in a constant audition: for better parts, for a place in the performing company, for solo roles, and the competition never ended. All it took was one critical word or look, and it felt like the end of the world. I must have stayed late every night, practicing until I was perfect, so I wouldn’t draw the disdain of my instructor. So I could be perfect, the way I desperately wanted to be.
Yes, I loved ballet, but it was easy for that love to get buried under competition and fear. The constant feeling like I wasn’t good enough—that nothing I ever did would measure up. That kind of pressure can drive you to the breaking point.
And boy, did I break.
Now, I make sure that every kid in the room can feel good about themselves, cheering them on as they clumsily move through the basic steps. Before I know it, it’s almost time for the end of the session.
“OK, you know what time it is . . .” I switch the music over and find some Beyoncé.
“Dance party!” the kids cry, and then it’s a free-for-all: everyone bouncing around and dancing wildly to the music, their faces lit up with the happiness that only moving like this can bring. By the time their parents arrive to pick them up, everyone’s worn out and happy from the day.
“Thanks so much, Chloe,” one of the moms says, as her two girls pull on their jackets. “They always have such a great time.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
“Another satisfied customer. Don’t tell me I need to give you a raise.” Miss Kay herself enters just as everyone’s leaving. She’s in her fifties now, but still as elegant as a picture—in a ballet cardigan and flowing wrap-around skirt, with her blonde hair twisted up. I’ve known her since I was a kid, when she lived in my hometown. She was the one who first saw my talent—and encouraged me to apply to real ballet schools—and she’s been my mentor ever since. “Soon you’ll be charging a whole ten dollars for class.”
We both laugh. Kay has tried to pay me a dozen times for my teaching, but I refuse to take more than my subway fare. It feels good to share my skills with the kids, and besides, I owe her more than I could ever repay.
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you into teaching a more advanced class?” Kay lingers as I tidy the studio. “There are a few intermediates I think could really benefit from an experienced dancer.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I’m slammed at work. And you know I’m not the right person to push anyone to the next level.”
She sighs, but gives me an understanding smile. “I figured, but it’s always worth asking.”
“I wish I could,” I add, sorry to be letting her down, after everything, but Kay waves my concern away.
“Don’t worry, it was just a thought. Of course you should be focusing on your new career! I’m just happy you’ve found time for these classes. I know the kids adore you.”
“I love them, too. Thank you for suggesting it.”
She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “One step at a time.”
We share a quiet smile. It may not seem that way, but even teaching this class is a big deal for me. There was a time when I never thought I’d ever be able to step foot in a studio again, let alone pull on a pair of battered pink ballet slippers, but Miss Kay changed all of that. She’s the one who saved me—pulled me out of the wreckage of my life, and made me believe I was worth something, after all. My dreams may have died, but that didn’t mean my life was over.
I just had to find new dreams.
“Hey babe.” Max appears in the doorway, right on time to pick me up. Even though it’s the weekend, he looks smart and preppy in a button-down and navy pants. “Miss Kay, it’s lovely to see you. You’re looking beautiful as ever,” he adds with a charming smile.
“Hello, Maxwell,” Kay replies, turning to straighten up some chairs.
“How was class?” he asks, coming to kiss me.
“It was great. We learned some Beyoncé moves.”
He laughs. “You’re so sweet to help out. I bet it’s the highlight of their week.”
I laugh. “That might be pushing it.” I pick up my purse. “See you next week, Kay.”
“Not next week,” Max interrupts. “I have that investor trip, remember? We’re taking them out sailing for the day.”
I pause. “You didn’t say I needed to come.”
“Of course you do.” Max looks puzzled. “You’ll be charming all the wives while I get another round of funding out of the men.”
My heart sinks. “I’m sorry, but I can’t miss class. And you know I get seasick,” I remind him. “I don’t know how charming I can be trying not to lose my lunch.” I smile, but Max just looks annoyed.
“You can take pills for that. Sorry babe, but this is important.”
There’s a sound—Kay clearing her throat. Max glances over, then smiles again. “We’ll figure something out, don’t worry.”
“OK,” I say quietly, but as we head downstairs to his car, I can’t help wondering why Max scheduled the trip for that day, knowing I had my class to teach.
“Hungry?” he asks, as we get in.
“Always.”
He laughs. “That’s my girl.” He rests one hand on my knee as he drives, and in no time at all, we’re pulling up to the valet at his favorite French restaurant. They know us here on sight, and quickly usher us to a table on the patio.
“What did you want to do this afternoon?” I ask, breaking off a piece of bread. I take a breath and try to relax. “I’m glad we get some time together. It feels like we haven’t had a moment alone since the engagement.”
But then Max gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry, babe. I told my buddy Brock I would make up a tennis four with him. Sienna’s tight with his wife, you know how they babble on.”
I try to control my disappointment. “You said we would have the whole day.”
“And we will, just not today.” Max squeezes my hand. “Anyway, I’m sure you have a ton to do, getting started with the wedding. Have you talked to Nona yet?”
“About what?”
“Her plans.” Max looks back at me, and furrows his brow. “You didn’t call her?”
I slowly shake my head. “Why, was I supposed to?”
Max’s jaw tightens. “I told you, she’s back in town, she’ll have been expecting your call to plan the wedding. Great, now she thinks you’re snubbing her. I’ll need to set up a dinne
r ASAP.” He pulls out his phone and starts checking his calendar.
“I didn’t realize I was doing anything wrong,” I say in a small voice.
He gives me a quick smile. “I’m sure she’ll forgive you. You didn’t know any better, that’s all. I’ll call and tell her you’re panicking about all the plans and need her expert advice. She likes being needed.”
I sip my water, trying to keep up. “About the wedding,” I start slowly. “I was thinking it would be nice to do something small. Maybe on the beach next summer. You know I hate crowds.”
“Uh huh.” Max is tapping out a text now.
“Max?”
“Sure, whatever you want.” He finishes and puts his phone on the table, face-up. Max flashes me an adoring smile. “You know I just want you to be happy, baby.”
“I know.” I smile back. “But maybe a little more warning about your plans would be nice?”
“Cross my heart.” Max kisses my hand. “I’ll have my secretary add you to my calendar.”
8.
CHLOE
After lunch, Max heads to the tennis club for his game, so I have time to kill. I’ve been rushing between work and his family events all week and haven’t had time to myself, so I decide to walk over to my favorite bookstore. It’s a bright fall day, warm enough to carry my jacket, and as I step inside the dusty store filled with stacks of old books, my tension starts to melt away.
So, Max’s family is piling on fast. It’s an adjustment, that’s all, after spending so long alone. They love him—and soon, they’ll love me too. I just have to figure out all these unspoken rules so I don’t accidentally screw up anymore.
I’m deep in thought, browsing the shelves, when I turn a corner and come face to face with the last person I expect to see here.
Jase Banner.
What the hell?
“You.” I can feel the heat already rushing to my cheeks, remembering my dream—and how I felt so good after. “Are you stalking me?”
“How do I know you’re not the one following me, love?” Jase teases. He’s in a pair of jogging pants and a navy T-shirt that clings to his muscular torso in sweaty patches, like he just got finished with a workout. “You could be one of those bunny boilers, tracking my every move.”
