Page 110 of After All This Time

I hang up, gripping the wheel harder as her words echo in my mind, flashing like warning signals. Because she's right, and I hate that she's right.

I'm not really sure how I got to the training room. One minute, I was in the car driving, my mind spinning with too many thoughts and zero answers. Next, I'm standing in a space alive with movement and energy, waiting for Betsy Bell to arrive.

The room buzzes with low chatter and the sound of rubber soles scuffing against the polished floor. Dancers move aroundme in their own worlds, all lean muscle and grace, stretching and bending like they didn't wake up with their entire universe tilted on its axis.

"Don't freak out," Logan's voice cuts through my haze. "Most of these people have been here for years."

"I'm so glad to see your face. I feel a little lost," I admit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

"You'll be fine. Betsy's cool. It only gets intense closer to Christmas when everyone's prepping for the tour. For now, it's just a bunch of people dancing their asses off and getting paid for it without the pressure."

"Is that what you did last year?"

"Yeah, it was awesome," he says, his grin widening. "I can't wait to tour this year though. Hopefully, you'll get on it too, although I don't think my mom will be that excited about losing two of her staff," he jokes, his laugh easy.

I freeze, the thought hitting me like a ton of bricks. "Shit, I can't do that to her."

Logan shakes his head, his expression softening as his hand finds my shoulder. "If she knew you'd pass up an opportunity like that, she'd fire you anyway. You'd have no choice but to go."

"Your parents are awesome."

"Yeah, I got lucky," he says simply, and before I can reply, the door dramatically bursts open, and all eyes whip toward the entrance as Betsy Bell strides in, commanding the air itself.

An older woman, dressed entirely in black, strides into the room with an air of authority. Her black pixie-cut hair is slicked back, and her lips are painted a bold, unapologetic red.

"Betsy?" I whisper to Logan, and he nods, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Hello, hello, hello, my darlings," she exclaims, her voice echoing throughout the room. "Apologies for my tardiness.My cat—God bless her diva soul—demanded an unreasonable amount of attention this morning. You know how it is."

Soft laughter ripples through the room as Betsy twirls and steps toward the sound system, which is playing a gentle classical piece.

"Everyone head to the barre. Demi-pliés and body bends. I want to see those knees bending like they have a mind of their own."

The next hour passes in a blur of jetés and pirouettes, and by the time we're finished, my muscles are screaming, but my heart is soaring.

The day continues with a grueling Pilates class designed to push us to our limits, followed by rehearsal for theRomeo and Juliettour. There are a few of us who aren't part of the final performance, but being included in the practice feels like a dream. Every lift, every turn, and every whispered correction from Betsy is a reminder of what's at stake—and what's possible.

The stage isn't even real. It's just tape on the floor, but I can already see it in my mind—the costumes, the lights, the applause.

I might not be in the final performance. I might only get five minutes—hell, five seconds—of actual stage time. But I want those seconds like I've never wanted anything before.

Chapter 44

Amelia

The scent of pizza hits me as soon as I open the front door, and after a day of dancing that felt like a full-body workout designed by a sadist, I'm ready to eat my body weight in food.

"Mills?"Tobias'svoice comes from somewhere down the hall.

"Kitchen!" I call back, already tearing into the box like it holds the cure for all my problems.

"What are you doing?" He chuckles, and I realize he's caught me standing on my tiptoes at the kitchen island, leaning over the pizza with my face practically inside the box, huffing cheese fumes like they're lines of cocaine.

"Smells so good," I mutter, turning my head to face him, and—oh, fuck me.

Gray sweats hang low on his hips, paired with a white T-shirt that clings to every muscle. His hands are stuffed casually into his pockets, but his smirk is anything butrelaxed.

The bastard knows exactly what he's doing, looking like a thirst trap that grew legs and walked straight out of my phone.

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