Chapter 7
“So, Constance,” Wade Russo said as he slung his arm around my best friend’s neck, “have you and Maggie ever, like…done it?”
I ducked into the stairwell across from the lockers and watched her face twist in disgust.
“Ew, gross!” she shouted, loud enough to turn heads. “No way!”
“But she’s gay, right? Like her brother—because they’re twins.” The way he drew out the word made my stomach drop. It hadn’t occurred to me I’d be dragged into my brother’s secret. I was popular. I had friends. But then again, so did Ben.
Constance shrugged, and I felt my heart crack. “I don’t know. I mean…she could be, I guess.” Her finger trailed lazily down Wade’s jersey-covered chest. “But I’m not.”
“Is that so? Because I was thinking of taking you to Homecoming, but if you’re into girls…”
Constance’s eyes widened. She’d been crushing on Wade Russo for as long as I could remember. “Homecoming?”
“I heard she got expelled,” Kaylee Cox chirped as she bounced up beside them, pom-poms in tow. “Both of them.”
Wade tucked a strand of hair behind Constance’s ear. “What do you have to say about that?”
She hesitated, her gaze darting down the hall. “I say good riddance. I hope she never comes back.”
“I hope Maggie Calhoun never comes back.”
Holden Shaw’s words knock the wind out of me as I step up to the dressing room door. I force a slow breath, eyes fixed on the peeling paint.
The day I watched my best friend betray me was one of the two worst days of my life, second only to losing my mom.
But this is different, I tell myself. This is Holden, and he’s a jackass.
I close my fingers around the knob and turn.
“There she is,” Artie says, his relaxed smile putting me at ease. Late fifties, with graying hair, round in the middle, he looks more like someone’s favorite uncle than some big director.
He grabs his glasses from the coffee table and slips them into his shirt pocket. “Holden was afraid he scared you off.”
Not for lack of trying.
My gaze slides to Holden, leaning against the kitchenette counter, his hands gripping the Formica edge behind him. He’s in jeans, those same weird tennis shoes from yesterday, and a faded navy tee that fits him like he was poured into it and left to set.
The closing door makes me flinch, and I pull my attention back to Artie. “I’m so sorry. I thought I had plenty of time, but there was a cow—a calf, actually—”
He waves it off. “No need to explain, dear. I’m just going to grab my things, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Don’t leave on our account,” Holden says, pulling a couple bottles of water out of the fridge. “We need to get started anyway.”
Artie lets out a quiet chuckle as he pushes off the sofa. “Oh, believe me, I’d stay if I could. I’d love to be a fly on the wall for you two today, but I’ve got a Zoom with Bearfield at nine.”
Holden makes a face. “Better you than me.”
“Yeah, well. Lawyers. Gotta love ’em.” He turns for the door. “Call me if you need anything. And let me know if it gets too hot. Think you can figure out the sound system?”
“Let’s hope not,” Holden says, and I hide a smile behind my hand.
Despite everything, it helps to know we’re on the same page about that stupid song.
Artie slides his laptop into a worn messenger bag and shoulders the strap, his gaze passing between us. “All right, I’m out of here. You kids play nice.”
My ears burn with embarrassment as Holden’s earlier comment echoes in my head. First day on the job, and not only was I late, but my student told my boss he doesn’t want me here.
You’re off to a banner start, Maggie.
“A cow, really?”
I look up in time to catch the tail end of Holden’s smirk and bristle all over again.
“A calf,” I correct. “And it was blocking the road.”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it.
“What?” I ask, the heat from my ears spreading to my neck. “You don’t believe me?”
“No. I mean, yes. Of course I believe you.” He’s grinning now. “I’m just…not in LA anymore.”
“Can we please get on with it? I feel like I’ve lived a whole lifetime since breakfast.”
“Sure, yeah. Here.” He tosses me one of the waters. “After you.”
On the dance floor, Holden fiddles with the sound system behind the bar while I prop open the door and a few windows.
It’s cooler than it was yesterday, but not by much.
I can already feel the heat creeping back in.
Worst case, we could move this to my family’s air-conditioned barn—but that’s worst case. For now, he can sweat it out.
“Need some help?” I ask, planting myself dead center, my boot tapping impatiently on the hardwood.
“No, thanks,” he calls over his shoulder. “Bluetooth wasn’t connecting, but I think I finally got it.”
“Because I downloaded the song if you need it.”
“Nope. I’m good.”
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I pull it out to find a text from Constance.
Dropping Loretta off at the hall at 4. Mom said she’d pick her up if you want to grab a drink?
My thumbs hover over the screen. Is she for real?
Please? she says. I could really use one
I blow air out my cheeks. Ben’s studying for finals. I said I’d make dinner. Or at least try to make dinner. Come over. I have bourbon
Her reply is instant. You cook now? In high school the only thing you could make was Pop-Tarts
I don’t respond, and a second text pops up.
What if I bring pizza?
Deal
“Prepare for the assault,” Holden says, and I pocket my phone.
The first notes drift through the speakers, and this part I don’t hate. It’s even a little familiar. But then the lyrics kick in, and I want to pour acid in my ears. Take the bull by the horns? I’d expect something up-tempo, but it’s slow, like a ballad, and completely misses the point.
Yesterday’s Son isn’t about chasing buckles. It’s about survival. Tripp rides because he has to, hauling his daughter from town to town until CPS—Katie—steps in.
Rodeo isn’t the dream. It’s a means to an end.
“Okay.” I extend a hand to Holden. “Let’s see what you got.”
My gaze lingers on those long, tanned fingers as they close around mine, stronger and rougher than I expected from a manicured A-lister.
It trails up his arm, catches on the bicep peeking from his sleeve, and stalls at his throat, at a swallow that won’t go down.
He’s nervous. And I realize how hard this must be for him.
“Please don’t laugh,” he says, and I feel myself soften.
“I won’t.”
His right hand comes around my side and settles mid back. Then, taking a small but purposeful step to the left, he aligns himself with my shoulder.
“I think I was better before Helga, if you want to know the truth. She was so fixated on the mechanics of dancing. I don’t know. It’s like I lost the point of it.”
“I get it.” Because the point here is intimacy, and Holden’s a mile away.
“Quick, quick, slow, slow, right?”
“Yes, but…” I take a step forward, closing the gap between us. “Lower your hand to the base of my back.”
He does, and the feel of him pressed against me does funny things to my stomach.
My breath hitches. “Yes, that’s…perfect.”
“Helga’s head would explode if she were here right now.”
Or her ovaries.
“Helga’s a proper dance instructor,” I say as I slowly begin to walk backward. “But that isn’t what you need for your scene. At this point in the book, Tripp has fallen in love with Katie. He doesn’t just want to dance with her. He wants to hold her.”
“So he can tell her how he feels,” Holden adds. “He figures she’s less likely to bolt if his arms are around her in the middle of a crowded dance floor.”
“But what he doesn’t know is that Katie has no intention of bolting.”
She can’t. Because everything about him is keeping her there. Not just his arms but his proximity, the feel of his heart thudding against her chest, the warm, intoxicating scent that’s just found her nose…
Wow, Maggie. Get a grip.
“I thought you said you hadn’t read the script. Wait.” I shake my head. “Of course, you read it. You’ve already filmed most of it.”
“I said I hadn’t read all of it. Not the rewrites, anyway. But when Artie told me he was doing the movie, I read the book.”
“So Artie had you in mind for this part all along?” I ask, trying not to sound as surprised as I feel, because I still don’t see it. “I guess having your name attached doesn’t hurt ticket sales.”
“It doesn’t,” Holden says. “But Artie didn’t ask me to play Tripp. I asked him to consider it.”
“Really? What about Gabrielle? I assumed you were both doing this as a favor.” I grimace. “I don’t mean that like it sounds. Obviously, I love the book, and Artie seems great—it’s just not often you hear about indie films with two big-name leads.”
“Casting Gabi for Katie was my idea. I knew she was free, and yeah, two big names are better than one. But if anyone is doing this film a favor, it’s her.” He glances down at the floor, at our feet that have stopped moving. “Gabi’s an asset,” he says thickly. “Me? Not so much.”
I hate how discouraged he sounds, but the truth is, Tripp McCoy is about as far from a California surfer as it gets. Especially one who can’t dance.
Still…
“You’re going to nail this scene,” I say, and vow to make it happen. “My future as Dance Instructor to the Stars depends on it.”
Holden’s shoulders loosen the tiniest bit, and I think he might actually believe me.
“So what about you?” he asks. “Were you Team Gabi or Team Sydney?”
I blink. “Team who?”
“Sydney Sweeney. She was the fan-base favorite. Cute, blonde. Bit of a PR risk.”
“Who was the favorite for Tripp?”
“I don’t think there was one.”
“I pictured Callum Kerr when I read it.”
“Callum? Isn’t that Scottish?”
Touché.
“Yeah, but he looks good in a hat.” I adjust my stance and tighten my grip on his hand. “Ready?”
“Ready,” he says, then whispers to himself, “Quick, quick, slow, slow.” Determination settles on his face. “Left foot, right?”
“Left foot.”
But despite his concentration, or maybe because of it, he brings his right foot down squarely on my toe.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I did that. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, smiling through the sting. “Good thing I wore boots today.” Good thing you didn’t. “Try it again, this time with your other left foot.”
He starts with the correct foot this time, and we begin to move. His steps are jerky and stiff, but he’s doing it—until he blanks on the count and tries to glance between us at his feet. I bite my lip to suppress a grin. The only things visible between us right now are my boobs.
“Eyes up here, Twinkletoes. Tripp and Katie are close but not that close.”
Holden swipes the sweat from his forehead, his jaw tight. “I lost my place. I don’t want to get your toe again.”
“Dancing this close lets me anticipate you. As long as you start with your left foot, I’ll stay out of your way.”
“Left foot, left foot, left foot,” he whisper-chants. “All right. Take three.”
He moves in, arms closing around me, and that scent of his—some maddening mix of spice and smoke—hits me all at once. My pulse stutters, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy mouthing the cadence to himself.
“Hey,” I say gently, drawing him out of his trance. “It’s just dancing. You’ll get the hang of it.”
We begin again, but after two clumsy whirls around the dance floor, the wheels start to come off.
“I don’t think I’m getting the hang of it.” A deep frown creases his forehead. “This is so damn frustrating.”
By the fourth revolution, it’s my frustration kicking in—not at Holden, but at myself. He’s right. He’s not getting the hang of it. If anything, he’s getting worse, and I don’t have the foggiest idea how to help him. Dancing comes so naturally to me. I don’t have to think about it.
How do I teach someone who does?
The song ends for what feels like the hundredth time, and Holden pulls away, turning to run a hand through his damp hair. “It’s fucking hot in here. I can’t concentrate.”
“Let’s take a break.” It’s only been a few hours, but it feels like days.
“I don’t need a break. I don’t have time for a break.”
I grit my teeth at his tone. “Make time, then, because I’m taking one.”
“If you must.” He grabs his phone from his back pocket and silences the music before it can loop again.
I drain my water, then hold the empty bottle against my neck like it might actually cool me off. My gaze veers to Holden, sweat seeping through his shirt. He’s not wrong. It’s hot as Hades in here now. But I guess I’m used to it. Wearing shorts helps.
I don’t blame him for feeling discouraged.
I know what it’s like to be on the verge of something that just isn’t working.
For me, it’s usually a scene I can’t get right on the page.
Unlike dancing, writing doesn’t come naturally to me.
But I trust that I’ll get there. Eventually, whether I like them or not, the words will come.
Holden doesn’t have that confidence. And despite my promise to him, he might be right.