The Swan and The Sergeant - Alana Albertson Page 0,21

being so nice to me? Probably because she broke my heart and felt guilty. If it were any other woman, I would be certain she was flirting.

I studied the label, written in Russian letters. “Peba? What’s this crap?” I took a swig. It tasted like vinegar. “You don’t have a Corona? I guess Dima’s taste hasn’t changed.” But beer is beer. I took another sip and then sat on the sofa to pet Banjo.

“Peva. Yeah. It’s not the best, but Dimka loves it.”

Dimka? Hearing my old coach referred to like that was…well, creepy. Dima had been a twenty-two-year-old man when he’d started teaching us as kids. A ten-year age difference wasn’t a big deal now that Selena was a woman in her late twenties, but I couldn’t help but be disturbed by the way I thought Dima had groomed her to be his.

Selena took her own bottle and settled in next to me.

I inched my way over to the other end of the sofa and looked around the room. This place was incredible—must be worth at least a million dollars, probably more, hidden up in the hills. This could’ve been my home, my life, my sofa, my woman, but the fridge would be stocked with craft beers. At the time I gave up dancing, there was little hope for a career besides running a studio and spending all the revenue on competing. Now Selena and Dima were millionaires.

I wasn’t jealous; I hated competing and truly loved being a Marine. But I never thought for a second that I would be struggling to make ends meet, with little hope of ever buying a house in San Diego or Marin.

She took a long sip and then sighed. “Bret, I need to get this off my chest. So, I know it was ten years ago, but I just really want to say how sorry I am about what went down. It was the hardest decision—”

Not doing this. “Selena, don’t. It’s fine. It was forever ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”

She pursed her lips and looked at me. “Well, I do. There was so much going on and—”

I didn’t want to hear her excuses for walking out on me. Plus, for all I knew, she was miked, and this pathetic apology would play out on television. “I said it’s cool. Just forget it.”

She put her hand casually on my leg.

Heat pooled to my body. I imagined her hand sliding up my thigh.

Nope. She was so fucking hot. I was dying to fuck her, but I just couldn’t let myself go there.

I moved her hand off and stood up.

“Thanks for the beer, Sel. I really need to get some sleep.” I motioned to Banjo, and the dog jumped down.

She bit her lip, a dejected look on her face. “Oh, sure. I’ll show you the casita.”

“I’m just gonna grab my bag.” I opened the front door and went to my truck. I looked up to the dark blue, starry sky. I hadn’t signed up for this emotional drama. The producers were probably strumming up drama, and I wouldn’t allow it. There was no way I was going to play into some twisted love triangle. I didn’t believe for a second that Selena and Dima weren’t still hooking up.

I wanted to jump into this truck and head back down to my place and rip up the dance contract. But I was a man of my word and wouldn’t go back on my promise to Pierce.

I was now sure of one thing—being this close to Selena for the next fifteen weeks would require some serious self-control.

Selena

A loud rap at my bedroom door roused me from my dreams.

“Sel, we need to get a move on. Are you awake?”

Hearing Bret’s voice first thing in the morning was a welcome surprise. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“I’ll make coffee.”

Ah. That was sweet. I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes. Last night, I’d dreamt about Bret. Over the years, he’d been the star of many of my dreams. But this dream was different. We were dancing together, after all these years. He lacked Dima’s speed and technical skill, but Bret’s dancing had something that Dima’s didn’t—emotion. Real emotion, not the fake, flashy, showy moves Dima and I were known for. Bret had always danced from his heart.

Was that gone? Would he ever fall in love with dancing again? He swears he hated it, but I know he didn’t. He used to love it. When he