Page 9 of The Comeback

Charlotte

As the group of five girls and two boys complete a pirouette and leap into the air, the energy in the room shifts, causing the hair at the base of my neck to rise. I glance behind me to see Weston Summers in the flesh. In my studio. Interesting.

I eye him up and down and return my attention to my students. He’s a good-looking man. There’s no denying that fact. But despite what Tara said, he’s not my type. I’m looking for a guy with a secure and stable future. Someone who gets off work at five o’clock and is at home at the dinner table at six o’clock.

God. That sounds like the 1950s. When did I start harboring a crush on Ward Cleaver?

“All right, guys, great class today.” I clap my hands, and they fall to the floor, landing in a dramatic heap. They take turns groaning about their feet, hips, arms, or whatever ailment they can come up with. Nine-year-olds. I shake my head and arch my eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Gotcha, Ms. Charlotte.” Lucas, the quasi leader of the group, hops up and grabs Eliza’s hand, hauling her off the ground. “Can’t wait for next week.”

“Yeah.” A couple of the other students pipe up.

“Good. You’d better be ready. We’re going to start dress rehearsals for the recital, so be prepared to bring your A-game.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They salute while giggling and run off the dance floor and into the dressing rooms.

What I wouldn’t give to be that carefree again. I spin on my heel, march over to Weston, and nod. “I’m Charlotte, the owner. How can I help you?”

“My name is Weston Summers.” He shoves out his hand. “Devin Grant told me about this place.”

When his hand covers mine, my breath catches as a jolt of awareness travels up my arm and straight to my toes. No. That was my imagination. It must have been static from the floor. I did too many pirouettes teaching the children. That’s it.

I jerk my hand back and rub it on my leggings. I’m a professional, and I’m not going to fangirl all over him. He doesn’t need to know I know who he is. Football players have the biggest egos on the planet. “Do you have a child that’s interested in learning dance?”

“No.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks as uncomfortable as a newborn colt skidding on a puddle of ice. He clears his throat. “Well…. Um…. Listen.” He inhales and straightens his shoulders. “Devin said he came here and learned better balance, and it helped him on the football field.”

When he sighs, I bite my bottom lip. There’s something about big, bad boys being uncomfortable that makes me giddy. It probably comes from growing up in a household of testosterone.

“Let me start over. I play football on the team with Devin. I was traded here from New York.” He frowns. “Are you familiar with football at all?”

Interesting. No one told him who I was. I cross my arms over my chest. “I’ve seen it played a time or two.”

“Several months ago, I had an Achille’s tendon injury. After healing from the surgery, I made huge strides in getting my speed back.” He shrugs. “At least most of it.”

“And you think ballet will help you with the rest?” My gaze settles on his lips. He has a gorgeous mouth with the perfect puffiness to the bottom one.

Why am I staring at his mouth? I jerk my attention back to his eyes.

“Not really. I don’t see how dancing can help me get the two steps I’ve lost back.” He rakes a hand through his hair. The muscles in his biceps and abs constrict with his movements. He might not have gotten his step back, but the rest of him is prime real estate.

Like I expected anything different. An enlightened football player is too much to ask for. “So, why are you here?”

He presses his lips together. “I figure why not try it? Devin said it helped him with balance. I guess it’s kind of like getting your horoscope read.”

I narrow my eyes and tilt my head. “Ballet is like getting your horoscope read?”

“Yeah, you know, it’s something you try when all else fails.”

Pompous ass. So, why am I struggling to stop staring at his mouth and abs? I’m certifiable. “I….” I snap my mouth shut as the kids file out of the dressing room and wave.

Once the building is silent, I return my attention to him. “I appreciate you’re frustrated with your lack of progress after your injury, but dance is a sport. Not an astrological reading.”

“It’s not a legitimate sport.”

Not a legitimate sport? A layer of red covers my vision until it’s difficult to see him past the irritation.

I’d like to see his bulky ass do a pirouette for five minutes and not hurl. Then I’d like to drive my knee into his groin. And kiss him–just to keep him off-balance. Not for any other reason.

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