Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You and your boyfriend make such a lovely couple.”
I blink at Mrs. Patterson, whose Pomeranian is currently yapping at its reflection in the studio mirrors. She’s dropped by to pick up the registration forms for her granddaughter’s summer dance camp, and apparently decided to deliver romantic commentary along with her payment.
“He’s not my—”
“The way he looks at you during practice.” She clutches her chest dramatically. “My Charles used to look at me like that. Before he discovered golf.”
“We’re not—”
“And so tall! You’ll have beautiful children.”
“Mrs. Patterson, we’re dance partners. That’s all.”
She pats my arm with the condescending patience of someone who’s been married for forty-three years and knows better than young people about everything. “Of course, dear. Whatever you say.”
The Pomeranian barks in what sounds suspiciously like agreement.
I watch her leave, forms tucked into her enormous handbag, and resist the urge to scream into the nearest practice pillow.
This is the third time this week.
Monday, it was Mr. Wilson from the hardware store, who asked if “that handsome fellow” was treating me right.
Tuesday, Bianca’s cousin spotted us grabbing coffee between lessons and sent approximately seventeen texts asking how long we’d “been keeping it secret.” And now Mrs. Patterson, with her Pomeranian and her knowing smile and her casual references to our future children.
We are not dating.
The words have become a mantra. A desperate, increasingly futile mantra that no one in Bellamy Cove seems capable of hearing.
“Rough morning?”
I turn. Mal is leaning against the doorframe, two coffees in hand, looking annoyingly amused.
He’s wearing charcoal slacks and a burgundy sweater that does sinful things to the broad expanse of his chest and his hair is doing that artfully disheveled thing that makes me want to either smooth it down or mess it up further.
Neither. Neither of those options.
“Mrs. Patterson thinks we’re getting married,” I say flatly.
“Ah.” He hands me one of the coffees. “Was it the children comment or the comparing-us-to-her-dead-husband thing?”
“Charles isn’t dead. He’s in Boca Raton.”
“Close enough.” He sips his coffee, eyes sparkling over the rim. “What did you tell her?”
“That you’re my dance partner. Not my boyfriend.”
“And?”
“And she patted my arm like I was a particularly confused toddler.”
His laugh is warm and rich—the kind of laugh that makes my stomach do an annoying little flip. “To be fair, we do spend an unusual amount of time together.”
“Because we’re training for a showcase.”
“We also had dinner at your cottage.”
“One dinner.”
“And there were those kisses.”
My face heats. “We agreed not to talk about that.”
“Did we?” He tilts his head, all innocence. “I don’t recall agreeing to anything.”
“I recall you agreeing very clearly.”
“Hmm.” He moves past me into the studio, close enough that I catch his spicy, smoky scent. “My memory must be faulty. All those years catching up with me.”
I frown. “All those years? You’re what, thirty-five?”
A pause. Just a heartbeat too long.
“Approximately,” he says.
Before I can press further, the door chimes and my next student arrives—sixteen-year-old Alexandra Martinez, who’s preparing for her quinceanera waltz and requires the kind of patient, repetitive instruction that leaves no room for personal conversation.
Mal retreats to the observation area, where he pulls out his phone and pretends to be absorbed in something other than watching me teach.
He’s not fooling anyone.
The problem, I realize somewhere around noon, is that everyone in Bellamy Cove has apparently decided my love life is community property.
I discover this when I stop by the Copper Kettle for lunch and find myself cornered by the café’s owner, Rita Jenkins, who is Bianca’s aunt and the town’s most efficient gossip distribution system.
“I heard about the gala,” she says, sliding my usual sandwich across the counter.
“What about the gala?”
“That you’re going.” Her eyebrows perform an elaborate dance of implication. “With a date.”
“I’m not—” I stop. “Wait, what gala?”
Rita stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “The Bellamy Cove Charity Gala? Annual fundraiser for the community center? Black tie, silent auction, dancing in the historic ballroom?” She pauses for effect. “Your studio is one of the sponsors.”
Oh no.
I’d completely forgotten. Every year, the Solis School of Dance sponsors the charity gala as part of our community outreach.
Every year, I attend alone, make polite conversation with potential clients, and leave exactly when the music switches from waltzes to whatever current pop hits the DJ considers appropriate.
Every year, various well-meaning townspeople try to set me up with their nephews, brothers, former college roommates, and in one memorable instance, a visiting goat farmer from Vermont.
“The gala is next Saturday,” Rita continues, clearly enjoying my dawning horror. “Bianca mentioned you’d probably be bringing that gorgeous man who’s been helping at your studio. The one with the jawline.”
“Bianca said that?”
“Bianca implied it. I extrapolated.”
“Of course you did.”
I pay for my sandwich and flee before Rita can extrapolate anything else.
The thing is, it’s not an unreasonable assumption.
I know this even as I’m fuming about it.
Mal and I do spend an unusual amount of time together.
We do look like a couple when we practice—all those holds and turns and moments where our bodies move in perfect synchronization.
And yes, there were those kisses, which we’ve been studiously not discussing but which linger in the air between us like smoke after a fire.
Plus there’s Nix, who has taken to lurking in the studio’s rafters and making increasingly pointed comments about “boss’s heart things” whenever Mal thinks I can’t hear.
But we’re not dating.
We’re... something. Something complicated and undefined and probably ill-advised. Something that involves leather bracelets with mysterious stones and imps who steal juice boxes and questions that still don’t have answers.
“I’ll answer what I can,” he’d said, that night in my office. “Some things I’m not free to discuss.”
We’d talked for a long time after that. About how he had found Nix half-starved in an alley three years ago, and how the imp had decided to attach himself permanently.
About how the bracelet was connected to something he called “a binding agreement,” though he’d gone vague when I pressed for details.
About his life before Bellamy Cove, which apparently involved a lot of traveling and very little staying in one place.
But the big questions—what he was, why he was here, what those ruby stones actually meant—remained frustratingly unanswered.
“Give me time,” he’d asked. “Trust me.”
And the terrifying thing was, I did.
“So,” Bianca says, appearing in my office doorway like a particularly smug apparition, “I hear you’re taking Mal to the gala.”
I set down my pen. “You started that rumor.”
“I may have mentioned the possibility.”
“To your aunt. Who then told—”
“Everyone.” Bianca grins unrepentantly. “It’s Bellamy Cove, Izzie. A butterfly farts in the park and everyone knows about it by lunch.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“That’s small-town life.” She perches on the edge of my desk, examining her nails with exaggerated casualness. “So are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Taking him to the gala.”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Why not? He’s gorgeous, he’s clearly into you, and you’ve been doing that whole ‘we’re just dance partners’ routine long enough that everyone’s bored of it.” She fixes me with a look. “Including you.”
I want to argue. I want to point out all the reasons why taking Mal to a public event would be a terrible idea—the questions it would raise, the expectations it would set, the complication it would add to an already complicated situation.
But she’s not wrong.
I am bored of the routine. I’m bored of correcting people, bored of pretending, and bored of maintaining walls that don’t seem to be keeping anything out anyway.
And the thought of walking into the gala with Mal on my arm, of having someone to dance with who actually knows how to dance, of spending an evening being looked at the way he looks at me...
Stop it. This is exactly how you get your heart broken.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell Bianca.
Her smile is triumphant. “That’s a yes.”
“It’s a maybe.”
“In Izzie-speak, that’s a yes.” She hops off my desk. “You should wear the red dress. The one with the thing.” She makes a vague gesture at her back.
“The open back?”
“That’s the one. Mal will swallow his tongue.”
“That’s not the goal.”
“Isn’t it, though?” She waggles her eyebrows and disappears before I can throw something at her.
I stare at the wall for a long moment.
The red dress.
I haven’t worn it since my last competition, three years ago. It’s been hanging in my closet like a ghost, a reminder of a life I thought I’d left behind.
But maybe that’s exactly why I should wear it…
I find Mal in the main studio after hours, practicing the routine by himself.
He’s moving through the steps with the kind of intense concentration I usually only see during our lessons. His reflection multiplies across the mirrors—a dozen Malachis, all equally focused, all equally beautiful.
Beautiful. I let myself think it, just this once.
He catches sight of me and pauses mid-turn. “Spying on me, Ms. Solis?”
“Making sure you’re not destroying my floor with those designer shoes.”
“They have very soft soles.”
“They’re Italian leather.”
“Soft Italian leather.” He extends a hand toward me. “Dance with me?”
I should say no. I should maintain the careful distance I’ve been cultivating, the professional boundaries that have been eroding steadily since the first time he walked through my door.
Instead, I kick off my flats and cross the floor to him.
His hand finds my waist like it belongs there. Mine settles on his shoulder. We slip into a hold with the ease of partners who’ve practiced this a hundred times.
“Music?” I ask.
“Do we need it?”
We don’t. We never really have. There’s a rhythm between us that exists independently of any external beat—some internal music that only plays when we’re together.
We start moving. A slow waltz, improvised, nothing like the competition routine. Just movement for the sake of movement, connection for the sake of connection.
“I hear there’s a gala,” he says, after we’ve completed several rotations.
“News travels fast.”
“Nix told me. Apparently he overheard Bianca talking to the mailman.”
“Nix eavesdrops on the mailman?”
“Nix eavesdrops on everyone. He considers it his civic duty.”
I snort. “Of course he does.”
We dance in silence for another moment. The evening light is fading, turning the mirrors gold, and there’s something almost dreamlike about the way we’re moving—slow and close and completely out of time.
“Are you going?” he asks. “To the gala?”
“I have to. The studio is one of the sponsors.”
“Ah.”
Another turn. Another step. His hand tightens slightly on my waist.
“I could—” I start.
“Would you—” he says at the same time.
We both stop and laugh awkwardly.
“You first,” I manage.
“No, please.” He dips me slightly, catching me off guard. “Ladies first.”
I’m upside down, looking up at his face, completely at his mercy. The red sparks in his eyes catch the fading light.
“I was going to ask if you wanted to come,” I say, slightly breathless. “To the gala. With me.”
A beat. Two.
Then his face transforms into something I’ve never seen before—surprise, yes, but also something almost painfully hopeful.
“You’re asking me on a date?”
“I’m asking you to accompany me to a social obligation.” I’m still upside down. Blood is rushing to my head. “That happens to involve dancing. And formal wear. And potentially a silent auction.”
“Sounds like a date to me.”
“It’s not—”
He pulls me upright so quickly I stumble into his chest. His arms wrap around me, steadying, and suddenly we’re closer than we’ve been since the kiss.
“Isadora.” His voice is low, rough. “Are you asking me on a date?”
I look at his face. At the hope there, barely concealed beneath the usual charm. At the vulnerability he’s letting me see for the first time.
Trust me, he’d asked.
And I do. God help me, I do.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m asking you on a date.”
Something flickers at the edge of my vision—a flash of red light, there and gone. I look down at his wrist, at the leather bracelet, and watch as a third stone shifts from black to glowing ruby.
Three stones now. Three rubies out of seven.
“Mal.” I grab his wrist, examining the bracelet. “What just happened?”
He’s gone very still. His eyes are fixed on the stones, on the new ruby that pulses faintly with inner light.
“The third invitation,” he says quietly.
“Third? What—” I stop. Think back. The first time I asked him to dance with me for the showcase. The dinner at my cottage. And now this.
Three invitations. Three rubies.
“Are you expecting four more?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately. His thumb traces over the stones with an expression I can’t read.
“Mal.”
The studio is very quiet. Outside, I can hear the distant sound of traffic, the everyday noises of Bellamy Cove going about its evening. Inside, everything has stopped.
“It’s a long story.”
“We have time.”
“Do we?” He glances at the windows, at the darkness gathering beyond. “It’s late. You have an early class tomorrow.”
“Mal—”
“I’ll tell you everything.” His hand comes up to cup my face, and the touch is so gentle it makes my chest ache. “After the gala. I promise.”
“Why not now?”
“Because right now, I want to enjoy this.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “You asked me on a date, Isadora. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for that?”
“How long?”
“Since the moment I walked into your beginner class.” He’s smiling now, that crooked smile that makes my heart do stupid things. “Dance with me again?”
I should insist on answers. I should demand explanations. I should maintain the careful, controlled approach that’s gotten me this far.
But the third stone is still glowing on his wrist, and his eyes are soft, and just this once, I don’t want to be careful.
“Fine,” I say. “But you’re leading.”
His smile widens, and we start to move again, two figures turning slowly in the fading light.
Whatever this is. Whatever he is. I’m in it now. God help us both.