Chapter Fourteen
Ivy
The clock strikes one.
If I thought a room full of tiny, pre-K dancers with bunched-up tights and cap-sleeve leotards was the most adorable sight I’d ever seen, I was wrong.
Very wrong. No, the most adorable sight I’ve ever seen is those tiny dancers surrounding a strong, rugged, and heartbreakingly gorgeous man wearing a tool belt as he works.
One might think Jace would feel uncomfortable amid all of these little ones, but again, they’d be wrong.
He’s the picture of ease, working with a confidence that tugs at my feminine heart.
Ever in his orbit, Emmy lingers nearby to assist the dancers younger than her.
She teaches them how to hold their hands so they look more like arches than claws.
Her dad is building a set in the corner of the room while they dance.
He’s careful not to get in their way and has even joined in on singing for them when Emmy has asked him to.
He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d do anything for her.
He’s been all rough edges and a stilted personality that fits like a scratchy new outfit since we first met, but with his daughter, he’s fully present, caring, and attentive.
Nothing is too silly. Nothing is too outlandish.
I think he’d wear one of our costumes if Emmy asked him. The love of a father is stunning.
Today, we’re holed up in the performance hall at the local high school for the first time, getting my students used to the stage.
It doubled as an opportunity for some of the sets to be built or delivered here instead of having to stage all of it at Wicked Good Farms. It’s also a weekend, so it’s easier to get into the theater and not get in the staff’s way until their show later this evening.
I’ve had to refrain from squealing at least six times this afternoon at the joy of it all, and that’s nothing compared to how often I’ve dreamed about pulling Jace into my makeshift office (also known as the left wing of the stage) and claiming his mouth with mine.
I’m not proud of the rogue thoughts, but my attraction to him is humming through my body and winding through my muscles.
Not even stretching could ease this tension.
“Where do you want me next, boss?” Jace’s smooth voice speaks behind me.
I shiver. A woman can only take so much of his manliness before she internally combusts.
I turn slightly, pretending that I’m focusing solely on my students, but in my peripheral vision, I see Jace leaning closer.
The momentum of the movement causes him to shuffle forward a few inches.
It’s enough to draw me straight into the radius of the heat and tension radiating off his frame.
He clears his throat as I make him wait, the gravelly sound of it like tiny rocks kicked along a stretch of pavement.
“Well, um . . . if you could just . . . the sets . . .” My train of thought fades, at risk of being completely lost the longer I look at him.
“You’re doing great with these kids, Ivy.”
The abrupt change in subject startles me, but his words both instantly comfort and frustrate me.
I’ve met men who thought what I do for a living is admirable but childish, and the few who have seen it as a worthwhile pursuit have been unbalanced.
That is probably localized to the men I’ve personally met and doesn’t represent all men as a whole (I would hope), but it’s been a long journey.
Moving from a world-class company back to my small hometown was hard.
It took everything in me not to quit, especially since I’ve counted on donations for years, not just to keep the studio open but to support these kids that I love to the best of my abilities.
“Thank you,” I reply to Jace quietly. “And thank you for helping my students.” I turn my attention to the little ones dancing about, the piano music on a track reverberating throughout the space.
“Starlight,” he mumbles, and then I’m toast. The kind of toast that’s golden and just waiting for butter. Now, I’m hungry. Jace continues, “It’s okay if you needed this too. Everyone needs help sometimes. I know my family has been there for me countless times.”
I hum, turning toward him. I know there’s more to the story with his ex, but seeing Emmy without a mother is heartbreaking. I can’t imagine anyone being okay with leaving her. I’m so glad his family stepped in.
“Daddy!” Emmy rushes over, her dark hair curling at the end of her bun. It’s starting to unravel. “Hi.”
Jace leans down to pick her up as if she weighs nothing.
Within seconds, she’s nestled in his arms and kissing him on the cheek.
As if they’ve practiced it a thousand times before, she turns to push her cheek against his and gives the scrunchiest (I made that word up) smile.
It’s adorable. In turn, Jace scrunches his nose and pulls her closer, his arms a big nest for his tiny bird, full of safety and warmth.
When she squirms, he puts her down while I try to will my brain to never forget that image for as long as I live.
“Catch ya later!” she yells, running back to the rest of the students and dancing with all her might, as if that little hint of affection gave her another boost of energy.
“Well, it’s clear that your family—those of them that I’ve met—really loves you.”
“They do,” he agrees with a nod. “But so does your family.”
“You haven’t met my family,” I say with a laugh.
“Oh, but I have.”
“What? When?”
“Yesterday, as I was walking by the inn. Your parents and grandmother popped out of the inn like a jack-in-the-box when I walked by. Blocked my way on the sidewalk.”
Mortified, I hang my head. I can only imagine what my grandmother probably said to him.
My parents . . . I’m not as worried about them embarrassing me.
Sure, they were likely to be incredibly enthusiastic, but I know they wouldn’t intentionally say anything that I wouldn’t want them to say.
My grandmother, however, would have used any and every chance to rattle Jace just for the fun of it. She’s similar to Gladys in that way.
“And exactly how much did my Gram comment on your . . .” I wave my hand in the direction of his general frame, not wanting to say the words, namely, his notable attractiveness, his physique, or even—objectively—his top-tier level of hotness.
I’m a dancer. I’ve seen the male figure quite a bit in my life—in tights, at that.
So, I can convincingly say that while Jace’s frame is bulkier than the dancers I’ve been around most of my life, he’s all muscle, clean lines, and strength.
Yes, he’s huge. But his frame wasn’t formed by bodybuilding.
He’s not a gym bro. He’s a punching-the-lights-out-of-punching-bags-and-building-furniture-by-hand kind of guy.
And it’s clearly a workout regimen that works.
I come to, realizing that I’ve gotten lost in listing Jace’s excellent physical attributes while standing right next to him. I’ve officially been thinking way too long about how much I like looking at him.
When my vision clears, his expression is stoic. The only indication that he’s enjoying this conversation is in the slight lift of his posture, the flex of his biceps as he crosses his arms, and the amusement flickering like a lit candle in his gaze.
“Your grandmother might’ve mentioned my height. I believe the words ‘gun show’ were utilized more than once.”
I laugh and cover my mouth in embarrassment at the volume as the kids stop their motions for a minute before resuming their squeals and play. “Oh no, she didn’t!” I draw out the words in horror.
At this, a grin tugs up one side of his mouth, that infamous dimple I remember on his cheek making its first appearance since the days of old. I feel a silent gasp overtake me. There really should be a warning that comes with that dimple. Everyone within a five-foot radius: Look out!
“I mean, she’s not wrong.”
“Jace!” I push his arm, but he doesn’t budge in the least. A microscope would be needed to detect any hint of movement. Goodness, the man really is a mountain. “Did you just admit to your attractiveness?”
“No, I stated a fact.” He shrugs, pulling a hammer from his tool belt. He turns to face me and slowly walks backward. Pointing the hammer at me playfully, his shoulders lift again. “But you just did.”
Heat floods my face, and I can’t help but smile so widely that my mouth hurts. The moment is a glimpse of our easy banter all those years ago. Every day, it seems I see a little more of the man I first met. And I love it.
“Miss Jones.” I hear a flustered voice behind me.
When I turn, Arthur of the Music and Arts Committee is walking my way. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Collins,” I call out. As unfortunate as it is, that really is his last name.
Arthur takes one look at my students dancing and moving freely.
He huffs. While our townspeople are known for their kindness, there are a few who feel the need to keep things incredibly orderly and have certain expectations as to what art can be.
“I don’t understand what’s happening here,” he says with a frown.
“I thought you would be rehearsing for the performance.”
I paste on a smile and trust it looks genuine.
“Oh, but we are. Unrestricted movement and encouragement to move through play ensure that children feel empowered to continue to move their bodies in a way that would benefit them. We’re about to begin our number, but until then, they’re exploring self-expression and the freedom found in dance.
” Hoping that sounded important enough, I laugh as one of my students does the chicken dance.
It’s not ballet in the least, but it’s entertaining.
“I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” Arthur says with a notable degree of skepticism.
“Yes, thank you. Can I help you with something, though?”