The Swan and The Sergeant - Alana Albertson Page 0,5

they could date a non-dancer, who usually had a hard time understanding the partner relationship and the travel demands.

How would I explain to a prospective boyfriend that I spend ten weeks twice a year training celebrities? In the show’s off-season, I spend every weekend in a hotel in different states or countries with Dima at some random competition. Add in my celebrity status, with cameras following me everywhere, and it was too much drama for most men to handle.

So, basically, it was hopeless.

A lump gathered in my throat. No nerves.

Larissa paused, a new glob of pink wax on the stick in her hand. “Well, you guys just look so good together. Watching you two dance is amazing. It’s too bad about all the rumors going around. It can’t be easy on a couple…right?”

Maybe that was why I couldn’t get a date. Everyone still thought I was involved with Dima. “We aren’t a couple. We just dance together.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Larissa cleaned up my other eyebrow. “Okay, honey, time for your bikini.”

I spread my legs.

THREE HOURS LATER, primed and plucked, I looked at my blotchy face in the mirror and debated putting on my makeup before leaving. Forget it—it would just sweat off in rehearsal. Though my natural hair color was a beautiful espresso brown, it currently was bleached blonde, which shined great onstage under the bright lights but in plain sunlight resembled straw. Dima forced me to dye it because he thought it would make a better contrast to his own dark hair.

I had no ability to express myself—I was a product.

I pulled my long brittle locks back into a tight ponytail, grabbed my oversized purse filled with my dance shoes, and exited the spa. Putting my sunglasses on, I headed over to the small ballroom to meet one of the producers.

“Selena Maria Martinez.”

The deep voice stopped me from taking another step. There was only one person who would use my middle name.

But it couldn’t be him.

Maybe I had fantasized so many times that he’d found me that I was now imagining his voice. Yup, that was it. I was totally losing it.

There was no way Bret Lord could be inches away from me.

Unless . . .

I slowly turned.

Oh my God!

Bret Lord stood in front of me.

He wore khaki pants and a white polo shirt that hugged his ripped chest. A few hairs peeked out of the neckline, teasing me. Surrounded by groomed dancers and Hollywood pretty boys, I hadn’t seen a real man’s chest in years.

For the past ten years, I’d dreamt of him but never could see his face.

My mind raced.

“Bret! What are you doing here?” I thought for a second that he was going to hug me, but he just crossed his arms, holding a shoebox, which seemed odd.

I was grateful that the sunglasses hid the guilt behind my eyes.

Ten years ago, he had been given orders to some base in North Carolina. I’d sent him a final letter during boot camp, ending our engagement.

Such a coward, I hadn’t even shown up at his graduation to tell him in person. I couldn’t bear to face him because I had already made my painful decision, and there was no way I could ever reverse it.

I’d never heard from him again. He’d vanished from my life. Not even a Facebook or Instagram account I could stalk. All I could do was occasionally scour the Internet, looking for the names of casualties in the military. I’d breathe easier after not seeing his name. For a while, at least.

He opened his mouth to reply, but I blurted out, “Are you still in the Marines?”

Bret’s blue eyes blinked hard. “Yes. I won’t retire for ten more years.”

“I can’t believe it’s really you.”

Finally, Bret stepped forward, one arm extended as if showing some affection was an obligation. I returned the gesture. The shoebox that Bret clutched forced space between us, like an invisible line. My cheeks stretched into a thin smile, one meant to lessen some of the pressure around us.

He released me, and I pushed up my sunglasses on my head so I could study him. Was this gorgeous man really the same scrawny teenage boy to whom I’d lost my virginity? His hair was cut short, his skin a deep brown that no tanning bed could achieve. The bottom of a U.S.M.C. tattoo was visible from his sleeve. Though Bret kept his distance, his minty scent filled the air. His lips curved into that lazy grin of his.

He was sexier than