Page 13 of Chasing I Do
It also included an apology from Gage. Not for Kyle, or his family, or anything that he wasn’t a part of. That wasn’t his place. He just apologized for his behavior yesterday.
It had been a long time since he’d seen her, and while he’d managed to put most of his emotions behind him, after writing that letter—all eleven drafts—the curiosity of what could have been was still strong enough to give him pause.
There was no point in picking up where they left off, especially because when they left off she was about to marry his brother. But there was nothing wrong with taking a moment to enjoy the view. And what a view it was.
Denim clad cheeks, the perfect palm full, attached to a pair of mile-long legs that, at one time, had been a regular co-star in his fantasies. Shit, what was he thinking?
They’d played a pretty significant role in last night’s dream—only they weren’t encased in anything but his sheets—making for one hell of a tense and uncomfortable morning. Reason number one for canceling his lunch meeting and driving out to Belle Mont House. No matter how dangerous seeing her again could be, now that he’d seen her, he couldn’t walk away.
Reason two was sealed in an envelope, burning a hole in his jacket pocket.
Then there was reason three. That look on her face when he’d walked away yesterday. Confused, scared, resigned.
He’d seen her wear that sad as fuck smile before, but he’d never been the cause of it. Until now. And that didn’t sit right. Watching her put on a brave smile in the face of devastation had always called out to every protective instinct he owned, but being the devastating force felt like a sword to the gut.
Gage couldn’t be the guy to light up that smile, but he refused to be another person in her life to cast more shadows.
Letter in hand, he walked up the wide steps of the old Victorian and took the letter out of his pocket. He stuck it in the slot, but immediately pulled it back out and straightened.
“It’s a piece of paper that could change her life,” he said, calling himself all kinds of pussy. “A win-win, asshole, so just drop the offer in the slot and be done with it.”
Only, when he stuck it in the front door, his fingers refused to let go. Why? Because, like the bonehead he was, Gage didn’t want to be done with it. From the beginning, his relationship with Darcy had been a series of unfinished business. And if he slid that letter through the slot, it would be reopening that door—and everything that came with it.
He’d long ago given up on the idea of them, and he didn’t need to tempt fate by opening the door that had been hell to seal.
“Are you looking to get married?”
The letter slipped out of his fingers and Gage spun around. “Holy shi—”
He caught himself before he let a blue streak of adult words run loose, because standing in front of him was no adult. Nope, light brown pigtails, pink tutu, freckles—and a frosting mustache that spoke of a recent sugar fix.
He hadn’t spent enough time around kids to even guess at her age, but this stealth ballerina was travel-sized enough to have him censoring his words.
“‘Cuz, if you’re looking to get married, we’re closed.” With a cute shrug, she pointed over his shoulder to the antique Closed sign on the door behind him.
Gage peered down through the glass panes of the ornate door to the envelope sitting on the marble entry, casually laying between the water bill and an ad for a free carpet cleaning, and his stomach rolled. He tried the door. Locked.
He tried it harder—still locked.
Shit.
“Do you get paid to sneak up on customers?” he asked, wondering if he could slip his arm in the slot and get the envelope back. Because now that he didn’t have a choice, he knew he’d made the wrong one.
“My mommy says I’m light on my feet,” she said, swaying from side to side. “It’s what makes me a good dancer.”
To prove her point, she put her hands over her head and did some kind of complicated turn with a few feet-stomping actions in there. Gage thought maybe it was ballet with some tap thrown in. But what the hell did he know about dance?
“Nice.” Eyes back on the envelope, he knelt down and pushed the mail flap open. His hands were so big he couldn’t even squeeze them past the knuckles. It was like the Hulk trying to get the last Pringle.
Tiny stood behind him, watching over his shoulder, her hot cake breath on the back of his neck making his palms sweat.
“You know what else makes a good dancer?” There was no point in answering, the girl was already talking again. “Glitter.”
A tiny hand flew in front of his face, then did some sort of shimmering movement, which, the girl was right—the early summer sun glistened off her pink sparkly fingernails. Her teeny, tiny, could-fit-inside-the-mail-slot fingers.
Gage straightened, then smiled. Tiny smiled back.
“You’re a ballerina, aren’t you? Yeah, I could tell. I saw this documentary on ballerinas a few years back. They were dressed like you, minus the sparkles though. Real athletes, those women. And they talked about being light on their feet—”
