Page 124 of Igniting Sparks
Fromhim.
“Braden,” I whisper, tracing my finger over his flowing penmanship.
Prettiest damn handwriting I’ve ever seen on a man, although I guess it makes sense, considering his art background.
I rip open the envelope and pull out a comic book created by the man himself. The cover is a wooden stage with a beautiful dancer twirling on one side, her blonde hair piled on her head, her blue eyes reflecting a sea of calm purpose.
“The Dance Dynamo.” I laugh at the dancer’s likeness to my own, but the tears soon follow as I flip to the first page.
Because it isn’t a likeness—it’s my story. Braden has turned me from a tired, timid dancer into a superhero, a woman who weaves stories through movement and light.
In it, I battle the shadows, but my biggest demon is self-doubt. On the last page, I conquer her, once and for all.
A handwritten note slips into my lap, and now I’m bawling.
“On the days when you forget how amazing you are, this is my way of reminding you. Xoxo, Braden.”
I read the comic ten times, and every time, I feel better. Stronger.
As if Braden were here with me, urging me on in his gentle manner.
“You always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.” I stare at the ceiling, a genuine smile crossing my face. “Thank you.”
That’s it. I’m calling him and demanding he come out here to see me.
A quick glance at the clock shows it’s after one in New York, but that’s okay. So what if I wake him? He needs to know how much this meant to me.
Besides, it’s Braden—my gorgeous, gentle man. He’ll understand.
The first call goes to voicemail, so I hang up and dial again.
Same thing happens.
But I’m determined to speak to him, even if he’s groggy and growly.
Like a charm, on the third time, he picks up.
I hear noise in the background—the clinking of bottles, the hum of music, the sound of boots scraping against the floor.
“Braden? Braden?” I repeat his name into the phone, but he doesn’t say a word. It’s then I realize he didn’t actually answer the phone—his ass did.
I hear a female voice, but I can’t make out the words. Then I hear Braden’s laugh in response to her obviously witty comment.
With a resigned sigh, I end the call as a sinister realization scratches its way into my brain.
It’s Friday night. Braden is out. He’s having a good time, and I don’t want to know with whom.
A chill wracks my body as I finish my glass of wine and desperately try to stop the emotional spiral.
Time for another mirror chat.
I search my reflection and draw a deep breath.
I can do this.
“Look,” I tell the tired blonde in the mirror, “you can’t be upset if Braden has moved on. That’s what you wanted for him, right? Okay, you didn’t, but you knew he would. It’s Braden Hammond. The man is perfect.”
I hold up the comic to the glass. “But he thinks you’re damn special, too. So much so that he made you into a superhero, and he wouldn’t do that for just anyone. Now, you’re going to take a shower and go to sleep, and in the morning, you’re going to prove that Braden was correct to believe in you. You’re going to knock ’em dead, kid.”
