Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The following Thursday, after nearly a week of lazy days doing nothing much more than hanging out in a deck chair in Luna’s garden overlooking the lake, while reading a book and, depending on the time of day, either drinking coffee or wine, Wren couldn’t believe she’d fallen for her godmother’s old tricks.
Of course she wasn’t taking her out for coffee.
Instead, Wren was standing in one of the rooms of the newly constructed (out of funds raised from the festivals) community hall and slapped her hands on her hips.
“Luna, do you have any concept of the word no? It means that the other person isn’t interested.”
Her godmother looked at her, her bright blue eyes wide. “Darling, why wouldn’t you want to do your godmother a favor and teach dance to the town’s teenagers this summer? Didn’t I bankroll your dance lessons when you were the same age?”
Man, Luna was a master at emotional blackmail. “You’re trying to manipulate me into doing something I don’t want to do,” Wren retorted.
“Is it working?”
Luna waved a pamphlet in front of Wren’s nose, and she scowled.
Those were new. It was a bright and fun invitation for any interested teenagers between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, to be taught dance by one of the world’s premier choreographers—an exaggeration—and to show off their skills at the concert to be held on the last night of the Summerween festival.
“We’ve got fourteen kids signed up now, with more showing interest,” Luna cheerfully said, pressing the pamphlet against Wren’s chest.
She scowled at her godmother. “You’ve pushed me into a corner, Luna. If I say no, I’ll look like a bitch.”
“So, don’t say no,” Luna shrugged, unconcerned.
Wren scowled at her. “I can still say no, you know.” Right, she sounded like she was a teenager, back when she never won an argument with her godmother.
Had she ever? She thought back and couldn’t remember one occasion when she got her own way.
It did not give her much hope for wriggling out of teaching this dance class.
“Can we stop arguing, already?” Luna asked, tapping her foot. Today, she was in mayor-mode and wore a pantsuit in dark navy with a yellow T-shirt underneath. But Wren knew, from experience, that the more businesslike Luna appeared, the more outrageous she intended to be.
She glanced at her smartwatch. “Can you simply say yes? I’ve got a meeting shortly.”
“A meeting of the coven or a séance?” Wren asked, super sarcastically.
“A meeting with a festival sponsor, smarty-pants.”
Wren tapped her foot. “If I were to, theoretically, agree to teaching this dance class, how often and when?” she asked, knowing she was heading down a slippery slope.
“Two days a week, in the afternoon, from four to six,” Luna promptly responded. “It’s not a huge commitment, Wren.”
But she’d still have to spend a lot of time in the studio alone, preparing her lessons and working out a routine or two.
It was a bigger commitment than just a few hours a week.
Wren took in the space. The wall in front of her was covered with a huge mirror, and a ballet barre ran down the opposite wall.
She bounced on her toes; the floor had a decent spring.
There was a sound system in the corner, a good one at that.
“Did you design this room to be a dance studio, Luna?”
Luna lifted one shoulder. “This building was designed to serve many purposes at different times,” she blithely replied.
But few people would think to put in a mirror and a barre, to lay a decent floor.
Only the godmother of a dancer would think of such a thing.
As if someone had pulled the plug, irritation drained out of Wren.
Luna had paid for her dance lessons since she was a six-year-old dreaming of pointe shoes.
She’d encouraged Wren to apply to the Philadelphia High School of Performing Arts, had given her money to support herself while she auditioned for job after job in the competitive New York dance-and-performing-arts scenes.
She’d flown out to watch the filming of her first video for a well-known star, religiously followed her career, and commented enthusiastically on all her social media posts.
Luna was, and had always been, her biggest fan.
Wren was where she was now because of Luna. She owed her. But she still couldn’t commit to teaching dance class, even if it was on an informal basis. She needed to be able to walk away when it became overwhelming.
“What if I agree to teach one class where I teach them some basic moves?”
“And how will that help?” Luna asked.
“Kids today are smart, and there are thousands of routines on the internet. They can pick one and practice it themselves. I can offer them guidance, take questions, but not be responsible.”
“I don’t know if that’s going to work. After all, I’ve printed all these brochures.”
Did she ask her to? Wren walked over to the closest wall and banged her head against it. Luna, because she was Luna, laughed. The witch. Figuratively. And literally. If you could call someone who regularly missed coven meetings, didn’t go skyclad, and slid in and out of the lifestyle, a witch.
“Theoretically, when would I start?” she asked, her head still against the wall.
“Tomorrow at four,” Luna replied.
“I’ll agree to do one class tomorrow at four.” That meant she was going to spend tomorrow prepping. She’d last attended a beginner’s class when she was a beginner, over twenty years ago. What did she know about teaching newbies?
“YouTube, darling?” Luna suggested.
Argh! She hated it when Luna read her mind. Wren resumed beating her forehead.
The door creaked open, and then came a slight rap. Wren, thinking it was someone looking for Luna, stayed where she was. She was having a crisis here; she simply wanted to wallow in it for a few minutes more.
“You’re the new doctor in town, aren’t you?” Luna said, husky delight in her voice.
Wren shot off the wall and glanced over her shoulder. Dane stood in the doorway, a pamphlet in his hand, looking scrumptious in navy chino shorts, leather flip-flops, and a white, button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled back showing off his truly yummy forearms.
“I’m a doctor, but I’m not the new doctor in town,” Dane said. Wren wondered how many times he had been asked the same question since he’d arrived? Old Dr. Morris was in his seventies, and everyone knew that the town needed a new, young doctor. And Luna had him in her sights. The poor guy.
She shuffled on her feet, feeling guilty because she’d put him there.
“Hey, Wren.” His eyes locked on hers, and the corner of his mouth tilted in a half-smile that made her breath hitch. So … hell.
Nothing had changed. The past days hadn’t dulled a thing. Her attraction was still scorching, still stubbornly strong. Dammit. “I’m a surgeon specializing in trauma,” he added, addressing Luna. “Being a family doctor is not a skill set I possess.”
Luna wafted over to him, holding out her hand. “Pfft, a doctor is a doctor,” she replied airily. “I’m Luna Merriweather, Mayor.”
Dane took her hand. “Dane Trafford,” he replied. “Trauma surgeon.”
Wren’s lips twitched at him digging in his heels. He could try, but once Luna had an idea in her head, not even a meteor could dislodge it. As her own capitulation proved.
Dane held Luna’s assessing stare. “Do not even think about considering me to take over the local doctor’s practice. That’s not going to happen,” he told her, his tone firm.
Luna blinked, caught off-guard. When last did someone call her out and ever-so-gently put her in place?
A decade ago? Two? Maybe Wren had underestimated the Hot Doc …
surgeon. Maybe he was a lot tougher and more steadfast than she’d thought.
Then again, she’d looked up what they did on the internet—because she was curious and not because she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Okay, maybe it was a little of the former and a lot of the latter.
Anyway, she’d done a little research into what field-trauma surgeons did and, to her, his job looked like a mix of miracle worker and stubborn mule.
They ran, as he’d said, into chaos, assessing the injuries of crowds in a heartbeat.
In natural disasters, trauma doctors worked in collapsed buildings, tent hospitals, school gyms turned into emergency rooms, or literally on the roadside if that was the only flat surface available.
They handled crush injuries, penetration injuries that caused massive bleeding, burns, broken limbs …
all the awful things she didn’t let herself think about too long.
And while the world shook, flooded, burned, and misbehaved around them, they stayed steady, barking instructions, operating, and saving lives.
As someone online stated, it was raw, relentless work—part medicine, part MacGyver, mostly pure grit.
His eyes met hers. Were they suddenly a warmer blue, holding a hint of amusement? His mouth quirked up. “You caved, right?” While he looked and sounded amused, he didn’t sound condescending.
She nodded. “Sort of.” She shrugged. “I’m teaching one class tomorrow at four.”
The amused skepticism on Dane’s face said it all—he’d sussed out that she was stalling. The thing was, she did owe her godmother. She wouldn’t be at this point in her career, respected and reasonably well known, requested often, without Luna backing her dream.
But she couldn’t cave—not yet. She needed space to think, to figure out whether the dance class would become another weight she didn’t need and couldn’t handle. She was supposed to be taking a proper break from dance, to see if she could live without it…
Though God only knew what else she might do. Could do.
Dane looked down at the pamphlet in his hand. “About that… I don’t know if you know that I have, somehow, garnered a few guys who join me in the park to exercise.” He sounded confused by the concept, and Wren smiled. Few people in H-Town were shy about putting their best foot forward.