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 am I 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 new 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 visualize 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