Chapter 21
Kaisa
The whooshing of my white noise machine is right next to my ear like an earmuff. When the sound alters, like someone’s pulling it further away from me, I stir.
“No.” I groan as I try to reach for the sound machine to bring the whooshing of air closer to me. It’s my security blanket. My friend. My source of comfort.
Am I pathetic? Yes. Still doesn’t explain why it sounds further away.
“Kaisa.”
Why is there a man’s voice in my sound machine?
“Kaisa.”
Then, a soft nudge against my shoulder.
“Wha?” I bolt upright in bed, my head spinning. There’s a thin line of light coming from the bathroom, so I can make out the shape of a man near me. I scream, a shriek, clutching my covers to my chest.
“Kaisa!” The man says, softly yet urgently. “It’s me. Ledger.”
My heart pounding, I throw my legs out of bed and lurch to a stand. The dizziness gets worse and I slouch back down on the bed. “What are you doing in here?”
“You slept in. I’m sorry. But you slept in and it’s six thirty and—”
I intake a breath so deep it would put an opera singer to shame. “Six thirty?”
I jump again from the bed, hold onto every piece of furniture I can as I make my way to the wall, and flip the light on. I’m in baby blue silk pajamas and the first thing I see is Ledger in his workout clothes— the way his eyes take me in.
“How did this…? How did you?” I run a hand through my hair wildly, dropping the covers I’d torn from my bed in a rush.
“Hey.” He shushes me. “It’s going to be okay. We have all day to get ready for the show.”
I wobble back over to the nightstand by my bed and yank my phone out of my charger. I paw at the screen, my eyes racing over missed calls and messages from at least a dozen people wondering where I am.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asks. “Do you feel sick?”
I sink onto the bed. “Migraine.” I massage my forehead. “I took some medicine last night and it must have knocked me out. I slept through my alarm.”
“Are you still in pain now?” He sits next to me and starts gently massaging my neck.
“Not as much.” I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe. I can’t believe this happened. Yeah, I felt quite ill last night, with the pulsating pain, the aura, and the threatening nausea.
But I can’t do this right now. I have to make the Showdown the best it can be. Wynn’s assistant confirmed what I’d feared and expected: He’s coming to the show tonight. I simply cannot have a migraine today.
Ledger nods. “That’s good, but I can tell you’re still not up to par.”
I breathe in and out. Ledger’s hands and fingers are firm on my neck. How is he such a good massage therapist right now? This is absolute heaven.
“How did you get in here?” The sound of my own voice is too loud in my head.
“Mr. Mynt let me in after I told him you weren’t responding to anyone. We’ve all been worried about you.”
I moisten my lips, reveling in the feeling of his strong hand gripping my neck with the perfect amount of strength. “This is helping.”
“Good.” He gently takes the phone from my hands and sets it on the nightstand, his smile kind. “Rest your eyes. It’s all going to be fine.”
“But the costumers and the set people…and…” I wrack my brain for more information. “And…you. We were supposed to work on our number this morning.”
He swallows and then smiles again. “We’ll squeeze it in later, no problem. Olga already fitted me—”
“She had you try on your costume?” I bite my lip. I was hoping to show it to him to soften the blow. It’s Cheeseville City.
“The pants are too tight.” His voice is full of shame.
I manage a laugh. “Did you blow out a stitch or two? I tried to tell them to make the legs bigger, but they didn’t believe me.”
“It wasn’t just a stitch or two. I’m flying open and free in the wind, if you know what I mean.”
I stifle a laugh. “Oh no. But Olga can repair it. She’s the fastest seamstress from the East.”
“Why don’t you lie down and rest a little longer? You’ve got time.”
“No, Farm Boy,” I whisper so I don’t disrupt my head too much. “I have to get up. I promise I’ll be okay.”
“Please take it easy, though. And let me help you.”
I nod and swallow hard, dizziness striking again. “Thanks.”
“Do you think you could eat something?”
“I’m not hungry, but I know if I don’t get some food in me, I’ll feel worse.”
“So, why don’t you get dressed and I’ll go get you some portable breakfast and we’ll meet downstairs?”
“I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.” The weight of this day is front and center in my mind.
“No need to rush. Please take care of yourself.”
I look into his big, Fazer chocolate eyes. “I’ll see you soon.”
Eleven minutes later, I push my way through the ballroom doors. It’s havoc in here, with various employees of the resort, the show, and everything in between hard at work.
Pavel approaches me, his athlete dance partner at his elbow, and does a slow clap. “Nice of you to show up.”
I ignore them and head straight to Mr. Mynt’s assistant. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t feeling well last night and—”
She waves me away. “It’s all good. Are you feeling any better?”
If I nod or move my head at all, the answer to that will be a big, fat no, so I hold my head stock still. “I’m feeling okay.”
She debriefs me on what I missed: Some of the food for the event has already been trucked in and a catering team is scheduled to arrive at noon. The costumers, tech people, and sound engineers are deep in their work.
Soon, Ledger comes in, bringing me my breakfast. “It’s not a Finnish Christmas Star, but hopefully it’ll do.”
I take the Styrofoam cup and paper bag that smells suspiciously like bacon, cheese and bagels. “Thank you,” I say, meeting his gaze.
I’m still not over the fact that he was in my room this morning. He had to wake me up. But I can’t dwell on my humiliation or my feelings for him. I have a show to run tonight.
I shove half of the breakfast sandwich down my throat as soon as I’m able—it’s exactly the amount of carbs and protein I need to power through.
Thankfully, by nine, my head has cleared enough that I don’t swim in nausea with every movement.
It’s a good thing because we have a group dance run-through.
I’m pleased to see that Ledger wasn’t exaggerating when he said he’d been watching that video and practicing our short portions of the group dance.
“You’ve come really far,” I tell him.
He just smiles in his “aw shucks” way, which makes my heart beat more rapidly and stronger. For him.
I love his “aw shucks” ways. I love all his ways.
Spending so much time with him this past week has made one thing clear: There’s a lot more to him than meets the eye. And I’m not ready to say goodbye.
When noon rolls around, Ledger and I manage to rehearse around the workers putting everything together for the show—the props, the light trees, the speakers—for a few minutes.
Finally, after I run into a set guy for the second time, I groan in frustration. “Remember that one time when we rehearsed in your suite?”
“Of course.” Ledger’s eyes glint with mischief. “How could I forget anything about that night?”
I swallow, my throat growing dry at the memories. “Can we go up there again? The ballroom’s a madhouse.”
As if on cue, a costume tech accidentally dumps a box of costume pieces all over the floor near our feet.
He grins. “Absolutely. We can go up there now.” Instead of heading for the door, he first jogs over to the tech and bends to pick up the scattered, gold lamé pieces.
My heart twists in two as I head up to the top floor with him.
It’s hard to be in such close quarters with the man, and even harder now that we can’t seem to bridge this divide between us.
Time is running out, and instead of drawing closer together like I’d hoped we would, we’re being pulled further and further apart.
Once inside the suite with the warm timbers across the ceiling and muted finishings in sage and pumpkin, I threaten myself: No imagining him sleeping in here.
I can usually separate myself from the touching as “dance touching.” Dance touching doesn’t mean anything. Except it totally means something when Ledger is involved.
Thank goodness for muscle memory—my wandering brain can still do the steps even when my heart is breaking.
Because I sense his hesitation, like he’s trying to be kind to me, but he somehow knows my feelings for him are stronger than what he feels for me.
And it’s killing me.
“You’re sure quiet,” he remarks, eyeing me carefully, as we run through the steps.
“We’re past the point of my counting everything out for you. It’s time to think about performance quality now.”
“I can’t,” he insists. “I’m still worried about stepping on your toes.”
“You won’t,” I give him an encouraging smile. “But even if you do, it’ll be okay.” And then I feel my smile drop away. Because after tonight, Ledger and I will go back to our separate lives, hundreds of miles apart.
“Hey,” he bends down so his forehead is near mine while continuing to dance through the routine. “Are you okay?”
His chocolatey eyes sear through me and I wonder, in a flit of thought, if I can tell him what I’m feeling.
No. I can’t.
“It’s a stressful day,” I say, hoping he buys my answer that’s true, but not the whole truth.
“How’s your head?”
“Better.”
He moves back so he can appraise me. “What can I do to help you?”
The lift is coming, so I stop talking while we execute it. He’s smooth and gentle with me. I feel like I’m flying.
When the dance is over, he repeats his question about what he can do to help.
“Nothing,” I say. “We just have to make it through the performance and then I’ll be happy.”
His mouth bunches up and then, “You’ll be glad when it’s over?”
“Won’t you be?” I take a swig of Merry Berry Mynt sparkling water. The stuff is everywhere and it’s kind of growing on me.
“Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
He scrubs his face. “Because you’ll go back to LA and I’ll go to Indiana for Christmas and then it’s back to the grind in San Antonio.”
“I thought you liked the grind.”
“I do.” He blows out a breath, his hands on his hips. “But—“ He frowns.
My heart blips down to my stomach. There’s so much I’d like for him to say, so much I want to confess, but I can’t do this right now.
I’m in charge of a show that’s beginning in less than six hours.
I allow myself a moment to stare into his eyes—to will him to know the truth I can’t speak right now.
Because I won’t make the same mistake I made in season one.
I’ve spent the last two years suffering from the consequences of being off my game for my last performance with Kale Hobbs.
Two mismatched dance partners later and now my career feels unsteady.
No contract with the show yet. No promises that I won’t become a forgotten has-been when this is all said and done.
I try to offer a breezy smile. “Let’s start again. Four and one—”
We dance, and the way he leads me, is…well, it’s commanding. And hot. He guides me with a possessive force I haven’t yet felt from him. His partnering skills have vastly improved. Or maybe it’s something else, because now his eyes are blazing—his hands possessive and persuasive.
“What’s gotten into you, Farm Boy?” I tease.
“I’m really not okay with parting ways, Kaisa.” His hand is firm at my hip as he leads me through another set of slow, tight Hockey Sticks—creating a curved traveling path.
“You’ll go see your family and play your game on Thursday Night Football, and then maybe we can…reach out and say hi,” I say.
“No.” His hand splays against my back with a sense of urgency. “I’m going to miss….dancing with you.”
I shake my head, allowing muscle memory to take over completely as my mind races.
“Me too.” We perform an open break and then he guides me in a spiral turn.
He catches my eye briefly as I spot turn. “When are you going back home to LA?”
“My flight leaves in the morning.”
“And what are you doing Christmas Eve?”
I shrug. “There are a couple of parties I’ll probably go to.” Honestly, though, I’m guessing I’ll skip them and stay home. Video chat with my family. Go to bed early.
“I don’t want you to be alone on Christmas Eve.”
“Is that what this concern is?” I adjust his hold on my back, and we move our hips in unison to the slow beat of the music. “You feel guilty you’ll be with family for the holidays and I won’t?”
“I know the reason you’re not in Finland right now is this performance.”
“And? So what? I’m used to not being home for Christmas.”
“Exactly. And that’s too bad. Why don’t you come home with me? I can show you around the farm.”
I don’t answer him until we’re finished running through the number. “I—” I knead my shoulder. “You can’t invite me to Christmas.”
“Why not?”
“We have to maintain professionalism. You can’t just say, ‘Come home for Christmas with me. Meet my family. Meet my cows and my plants and stuff.’” I throw up my hands.
I’m smiling but hoping he doesn’t notice the ache inside me that says You know you’d love to go meet his cows.
You’d love to do anything as long as it’s with him.
“I understand.” His mouth twitches. “And it’s winter. There are no plants right now.”
“Oh.” I shake my head. “Whatever.” I trail off.
I catch his gaze, and he’s positively bursting to speak.