Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Paige
The young man gives a sharp bow, a smirk on his lips as he stands and elegantly makes his way offstage.
A low laugh leaves me, and I clap along with half the room, many others engrossed in quiet conversation at their tables, so as not to overshadow the performers onstage. That seems to be the theme for tonight.
Prescott was right; he had no reason to hang out here for all that long.
There was a cocktail hour at the start of the event, and then a short speech as dinner was served.
There must have been around two hundred people in attendance, but a good 20 percent of those left after finishing their meals—and pulling envelopes with checks tucked inside from their coat pockets, if Prescott’s whisper was correct. I’m sure it was.
I’ve never actually been in a room full of people like this before. It was a bit intimidating at first, the side glances and fake smiles, but everyone is kind enough, and the table we were assigned is full of people who Prescott seems to know, so my nerves settled easily.
But no one seems to be paying all that much attention to the early teens who take the stage, one after another. I, on the other hand, have watched every single performance, recording and taking so many pictures that my phone died.
“See?” Prescott’s gravelly whisper reaches my ears. “I knew you would love this. And much more than anyone else, it seems.” He looks to the black screen of my phone with a grin.
I shrug, still smiling. “Nothing new. I’m the worst when it comes to remembering to charge it. I’m just glad it lasted as long as it did.”
He chuckles, looking around. “Well, it looks like we outlasted the majority.”
I peek around, noting there are only a few people left at each table. “I didn’t even notice.”
“I know.” I can hear humor in his tone and when I look over, he adds, “Your whole face is lit up right now. It’s quite endearing. You could watch this kind of thing all night, couldn’t you?”
I lift a shoulder, then bump mine against his. “It’s basically what I’ve always wanted, give or take a detail or two.”
“Well, there is a lot more where this came from.”
“Sure…if I turn my grandfather down.”
“Ah, but I work for your grandfather and look at me.” He holds his hands out, smiling all boyish-like.
I nod, pulling my lips in. “Yeah, I guess that is technically true.” I don’t say it’s not the same, but I think he would understand what I meant if I did.
“So all you have to do is say the word, and I’ll happily take you. We could eat free meals at places like this a few times a week. Good meals, great performances.”
“You haven’t watched a single routine.”
“No, but I did watch you watch a couple.” He grins and a low chuckle leaves me.
“Well, you missed out. These kids are fantastic.”
He agrees, lifting his glass to take a sip of the wine that was poured with dinner.
I guess I’m not sophisticated enough because warm red wine tastes like a shot of brandy to me—fermented and just…foul.
“I can’t spot talent so easily, being a numbers guy like your grandfather, but I imagine they are good.
” Prescott nods, looking to the stage as a young girl takes a seat behind a piano, the last performer of the night.
“They’re classically trained, and their yearly tuition costs as much as a new car. ”
I turn toward him. “So the students who apply for this academy, they’re all advanced?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods. “Typically, these kids are homeschooled. The arts are their life, some might say job. They spend five to eight hours a day in a studio for years, hoping to get into schools like this one.” He motions to the DeLuca Elite Dance Academy trophy case, set up just off to the side of the stage.
A small frown forms before I can stop it, and his eyes narrow curiously.
“What is it?” he wonders, whirling the liquid in his glass and taking a small sniff.
“I…well, I guess I just assumed they were applying for scholarships so they could be afforded the opportunity to be classically trained.”
He stares off to the side a moment, considering and coming to the correct conclusion. “Because we’re raising money for scholarships.”
I nod but quickly rush out, “I’m not saying everyone who is raised that way, where their days work the way you mentioned, can automatically afford a prestigious school, which I assume this is.”
“I understand, and to be fair, I would say most of these families can afford the school’s tuition.
The students are, admittedly, children of busy, working parents, retired professionals, or just wealthy families all around.
A good 20 percent are probably even clients of ours.
” He’s thoughtful for a moment before facing me, a small smile on his face.
“I bet you would have some great ideas that could really help expand the reach your grandfather has.”
I withdraw a bit, the idea that Grant’s company could possibly benefit from what I could potentially offer always one that makes me nervous. Mostly because I’m just not so sure that’s true. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do,” he says, so certain that I can’t help but look his way. His smile is soft as he says, “You bring something new and different to the table that R.L. doesn’t have, Paige.”
I smile at my lap. “I appreciate that, but I’d be lying if I said I agreed.”
Prescott smiles softly before glancing over my shoulder, then down at his shiny watch.
“Looks like the place is clearing out.” He tips his head, studying me a moment.
“I live alone with no one to talk to but my doorman and he’s a grumpy old man.
” I laugh lightly, and Prescott’s lips curve higher.
“I’d rather not go home to the quiet if I don’t have to, so if you’re up for it, we could stop for a drink before I take you back to your dorm? ”
My rejection is at the tip of my tongue when he adds, “You can ask me for all the dirt on your grandpa, if you’d like.”
“Is there dirt to be discussed?” My brows jump excitedly.
He chuckles, adjusting the buttons on his suit jacket as he stands. “Of course not.”
I shake my head, staring at him a moment.
It would be nice to have someone on the inside of my grandfather’s life. Maybe there are some things he can help me understand to try to make all of this a little easier.
The weight of my failing studio has been twice as heavy lately, and Prescott’s offer only looks all the better for it. And it’s like he said: It’s still early, and one drink won’t hurt.
So when Prescott offers me his hand, I take it.
Chase
It’s just one night. Just a casual thing. It doesn’t mean anything.
I repeat the words like a mantra, gripping on to them like they might actually save me here. Like they may keep me from doing something stupid.
I know better. I know what happens when I sit back and pretend something doesn’t matter—when I let myself believe that if I don’t touch it, don’t claim it, I can’t lose it.
But that’s a lie.
Because I’ve lost before.
I’ve stood right where I am now, convincing myself I didn’t care, that it wasn’t worth the risk—only to wake up and realize I let something slip away that I’ll never get back.
I know the feeling of regret. I know the taste of it, bitter on my tongue, the way it rots in my gut, a slow, creeping sickness that never really goes away.
But what I know of the acidic emotion was never like this.
I thought I’d felt the heaviest of regret, but nothing has ever sunk its teeth into me like this.
Nothing has ever made me feel like my whole fucking chest is caving in at the thought of someone else taking what should be mine.
Because this isn’t just some mistake I can look back on and feel guilty about.
This isn’t just a girl I should have treated better or a friend I shouldn’t have let down.
This is her.
And I can’t lose her.
But do I even have her to lose? I haven’t said anything. Haven’t made it clear. Maybe she’s just been waiting for me to do something, and I didn’t. Maybe that’s why she said yes.
It makes no fucking sense but I feel it, deep in my bones. This sort of rightness when she’s near. There’s no stress or worry about all the fucked-up things in my life. It’s just her and me. She makes me feel normal. Better.
Worth something.
When I’m with her, my mind doesn’t race with a million thoughts I can’t even make out. There is no pressure or fear. Only calm that settles like fresh mountain air, allowing me to just…breathe.
She is my air.
I swallow, my legs restless, my pulse an unsteady rhythm in my veins as I stare at the entrance to the parking lot in front of her building like a fucking creep. My fingers twitch at my sides, the urge to move clawing at me.
She’s probably laughing at something he said right now.
That laugh. Her laugh.
The soft one she does when something actually gets to her, when she’s in it instead of just being polite. I hear it in my head, clear as day.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes it worse.
Because now I see it, the way she tilts her head when intrigued.
The way her eyes shine a brighter baby blue when something surprises her, when she’s caught up in a moment and doesn’t even realize how fucking beautiful she looks.
The way she bites her lip, trying not to let her little smile break free ’cause then you’d know she’s feeling what you are and she’s not sure you want that—that airy, almost flirty sensation.
And Prescott.
Leaning in.
Saying something low and effortless, something smart and charming that makes her tilt her head toward him.
That makes her reach out and nudge him just for an excuse to feel him under her fingertips.
That makes her look at him the way she looks at me.
A sharp, burning pressure builds behind my ribs, pressing into my lungs, making it impossible to fucking breathe.
She wouldn’t.
She wouldn’t.
But what if she is?
No, she’s not like that.
But what if I’m the one who’s been wrong this whole time and there’s nothing stopping her?