Almost Ruined (Almost #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Sloan

“I’ll think about it,” I tell my best friend, Sheila, when she begs me to come back to Cherokee Falls for the millionth time since college.

I laugh at her “Hell yes!” cheer as I peek into the mail slot and see a single envelope.

When I pull it out and read the front, my body goes on high alert. After promising to call Sheila back later, I end the call before dropping my phone and keys into my bag.

I look around before turning the envelope over in my hand again. Something about the handwriting on the front seems familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen it.

To My Almost Valentine

I slide my finger under the seal and pull the single page free. I don’t know who it’s from, but my heart races as I read the words written in the same script.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

The past walks beside you

And smiles at you too.

Some words are remembered,

Some glances will stay,

They drift through the years

But don’t fade away.

Though no one has spoken,

And nothing is planned,

The one you still picture

May soon take your hand.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

My hand trembles as I pull the keys from my bag and unlock the door to my dance studio.

As soon as I’m inside, I relock the front door and walk straight to my office in the back, closing that door as well.

I’d usually leave the front door unlocked, but I’m still shaken after reading the letter.

I’m tempted to call my sister, Becky, since she’s a detective now.

But I don’t want to worry her over something that’s probably just a prank.

The truth is, I’m not easily shaken, so I don’t know why I’m having this reaction.

It has to be the familiarity of the handwriting without being able to place it.

Like some subconscious instinct is warning me to be wary of the writer.

I haven’t let anything startle me this much since college, and I’ve worked too hard the past five years to regain my confidence to let something as innocuous as an anonymous letter send me back to the anxious mess I’d been then.

I crumple the letter into a ball and toss it in the trash can next to my desk.

Then, I hear my sister’s voice in my head, telling me that if it’s not an innocent prank, the letter could be evidence.

So, I pull the balled up paper back out and flatten it on my desk before refolding it and sliding it back into the envelope.

I shove it in the top drawer with the rest of the envelopes containing things I’d rather forget.

I remove the sweats I’m wearing over my leotard and head to the back studio space.

Despite my eviction from this building pending, I’m still going to enjoy every minute of the time I have left here.

I don’t blame the owners for taking the offer they received.

Especially since they offered to sell the building to me if I could match it.

But I barely make enough to pay the rent and stay operational.

With no other studio spaces for rent in Thorngrove, I’ll have to close Sloan’s Sassy Studio and look for a job this time next month.

I’m going to miss dancing. It’s been my life since I was old enough to do my first pirouette.

While I love ballet, I chose not to join the Cherokee Falls Dance Company when I graduated from college.

I was more than ready to get away from that town and come home.

I opened my own studio where I can really enjoy the freedom of dancing in any style I choose, and I get to teach others to do the same.

“Damn it,” I mutter, thankful that I’m alone as I stumble through a routine that I shouldn’t have to think about.

Between the letter I received and the memories of the torture I endured in college, I’m too far in my head to let my body flow in the way that usually comes naturally.

When I miss the same step again, I give up and rush through a cool down before stomping back to my office.

I pull a bottle of water from the mini fridge and flop down in my desk chair.

I should be using this time to review the finances for the studio.

I need to make sure the final payments I’ll receive for classes this month will be enough to finalize my outstanding accounts before closing the doors.

But instead, I let my mind wander back to college and the nemesis I ran away from when I graduated.

Seven Years Earlier

“Heads up,” my friend, Sheila, whispers as we wait for our lattes at the coffee cart. “The Criminal Justice League is headed this way.”

It’s the nickname we’ve given to the asshole guys majoring in Criminal Justice.

You’d think that as future law enforcement officers, they’d be more gentlemanly.

But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

They are rude, obnoxious, and conceited.

Especially Dean Lancaster. I don’t know what I did to deserve his special brand of torture.

But he picked me as his target when we started college last year and hasn’t let a chance to bully me pass him by since.

I glance their way and instantly regret it when I see the smirk on Dean’s face as he and one of his friends break away from the group to strut across the quad toward us.

I hate to admit that my heart races every time he looks at me that way—and not just from the fear of his next attack.

I’d have to be blind not to see how sexy he is with his dark shaggy hair and wide shoulders.

His smile widens, like he can read my thoughts. It’s not a friendly smile. It’s sinister, and I know that whatever comes out of his mouth will make me hate myself for noticing how impossibly soft his lips look. Because his words are sure to be the opposite.

“Look, Mac.” Dean waves his hand toward Sheila and me dramatically. “It’s the Dancing Dollies.”

Riley MacMillan laughs as he steps up to the cart to order while Dean makes his way over to me. Riley is like the sidekick of the villain. He’s not nearly as cruel as Dean, but he has no problem laughing at my expense when his counterpart makes a fool out of me.

“Those tights are looking awfully tight, Sly,” Dean whispers in my ear before letting out a dark chuckle when I jump away from his proximity.

Damn it, I silently scold myself. I know better than to react to him. He’s like a shark smelling blood in the water. Now, he’s sure to be on the attack. Despite knowing it will only make it worse, I square my shoulders and turn to face him.

“My name is Sloan.” I force myself to look him in the eye as I spell my name. “S.L.O.A.N. Not Stallone. Not Sylvester. NOT Sly.”

Somehow, when he heard my name last year, he connected Sloan to Sylvester Stallone. He’s called me Sly ever since and I hate to admit how much I like it.

“You’re sassy today,” he says before snatching up my latte as soon as the barista calls my name. He holds it up like he’s offering me a toast. “I’ll save you from the risk of splitting the seam on your pants. See ya soon…Sly.”

I watch as he lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip before spitting it right back out. I laugh as I follow Sheila toward the musical arts building. Losing my unsweetened soy latte was worth it to see the look on Dean’s face.

“Just so you know…you won’t get sugar from me by stealing my coffee, Dick,” I shout over my shoulder.

I twist and turn in front of the mirror as soon as we step into our contemporary dance class, looking for the fat Dean was hinting at before letting out a sigh when I realize that my pants aren’t any tighter than normal. Dean just knows the right buttons to push.