Page 17 of Show Off

Because he knows I did something. It’s my origin story, right? “I was taking ballet at the time.” Mostly for the tutu, and only because I begged. “By then I’d learned that when little girls dance, everyone smiles and shuts up. There’s no yelling, no fighting, no awkward questions. It’s just…joy.”

“Joy.” It rolls off his tongue like an unknown word. “Okay.”

“You know where the story’s going.” Because of course I busted out my best dance moves. “I’m twirling and pirouetting my little heart out on that red carpet. I’ve never danced so hard in my life.”

“And your family?”

“Mom and Dad stood there for a second, mugging for the cameras. Then they used the distraction to slip inside.” Kind of a dick parenting move, in hindsight. “My siblings hung back with the nanny, everyone watching and clapping and forgetting all the mean things they’d said.”

I might’ve danced all night if Dean hadn’t dragged me off the red carpet.

“Wow.” Dal stares with a look I can’t read. “That’s one way to do it.”

The judgment in his voice makes me prickle. “You’ve got a better way?”

“You were six. You did your best.”

I fold my arms, staring him down. “How do you think your way would play out, exactly?”

“My way?”

“Being blunt.”An asshole, I mean, and I think he hears it. That’s not an insult in Dal’s world. “If Dad had turned around and told that reporter to stuff it. If Dean did, or Lauren—how do you think that would have gone?”

He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. This ismystory to tell. “They’d slaughter us in the media. They’d call Dean a spoiled brat, or Lauren a little bitch.” We heard worse, more times than I could count. “Dad already had a rep for being difficult. He’d had trouble lining up investors on his last project. You know what happened that night?”

“What?” He’s back to being rapt.

“All the TV networks ran the same clip. My father beaming, holding Mom’s hand, while their little girl danced, and their other five kids stood clapping.” That smiling photo—plus a dozen more like it—graced magazine covers for weeks. “So yes, Dal—I realized then I had a role to play. A job to do for my family.”

“Jesus.” He sets down his wine and stares. “I don’t know whether to shake you or hug you or bake you au gratin potatoes with Gruyére and bacon.”

“Those are my options?”

His mouth quirks. “You had something else in mind?”

Do I say it? “I’d take that belly rub.”

He laughs and the tension breaks. Or not.

Because he’s watching me now, like he’s stroking his hand down my stomach. His fingers twitch as his eyes skirt the two-inch gap between the top of my shorts and the hem of my tank. Dal doesn’t speak. He might not be breathing. The room’s only sound is the tick of the clock on my mantle. A family heirloom, a gift from my mom that terrible day, when I learned the truth that changed the course of my life.

“Lana.” Dal clears his throat. “I should go.”

“Okay.” Neither of us moves.

I glance at his glass and see he’s emptied his wine. “Want a refill?”

“No.”

“More chocolate?”

His dark eyes drag down my legs. “No.”

“Finger fries?”

He doesn’t smile. Just stares with those inky-dark eyes. “No,” he says softly, slowly. “That’s not what I want.”

I lick my lips and his eyes trail my mouth. “What do you want?”

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