“Don’t start,” he warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Because it’s not happening,” Brandon reminded her.
“You keep saying that.”
Matt bounced a look between his dad and Stella, brows pulled in confusion. “What’s not happening? What’re you talking about?”
“Nothing,” Brandon immediately answered.
Stella turned her attention, and her sweet smile, on Matt. “I told your dad he should bring you to my studio for ballet training. To help with your balance and coordination with football.”
Matt’s attention continued to volley between Brandon and Stella. “Oh. Really? You guys talked about it?” Matt glanced at his dad. “What did you say?”
Stella shot a warning glare at Brandon. “Several of your teammates are doing it. And”—she held up a finger to cut Brandon off—“it is helping them. Just ask.”
“It’s not happening,” Brandon stated.
“I believe I was asking Matt,” Stella argued.
“But he’s a minor, so I’m answering for him.” Brandon settled his arm on his son’s shoulder and pushed their cart down the aisle.
“You can’t do that,” she called after him.
“Just did,” he called back.
She was silent a moment, and Brandon thought, for just a second, he’d won another round. Then she spoke and Brandon reminded himself there was no winning with Stella Davenport.
“I’m going to break you, West,” she warned just as he and Matt reached the end of the aisle. “You can’t keep ignoring me.”
Brandon shot one last glance at her before disappearing down the next aisle. Hands on hips. Lips set in a firm line. Feet braced apart. Yeah, she was a force to be reckoned with. He also knew she was right. He wouldn’t be able to ignore her forever, because a woman like that was impossible to ignore.
Beside him, Matt was grinning like someone had stuck a hanger in his mouth. “What?” Brandon practically growled.
“I like her,” Matt answered with a noticeable bounce to his step.
Five
Stella placed her hands on her student’s hips and held them still. She moved behind the girl so the two of them were facing the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
“When you tondu, your hips need to stay level.” Stella pointed to the girl’s skirt. “Watch the line of your skirt right here. This needs to stay straight and not lift when you move your leg. Try again.”
The girl, eleven-year-old Elizabeth Dale, was in Stella’s intermediate beginner class. She’d started ballet at eight, which was typically older than most girls. Stella had started dancing at three and by Elizabeth’s age she’d been in advanced classes and on pointe for two years. But Elizabeth was a sweet girl and had determination, a factor that was just as important as experience. Stella had held the girl after class to work on a few techniques.
She stepped back from her student, and when she did, she caught a quick glimpse of two men. One was Elizabeth’s father, who was a single parent after his divorce three years ago.
And the other man was Brandon, leaning against the jamb of the open doorway that led from the dance room to the observation room.
And damn if her heart didn’t skip up to her throat at the sight of him. All tall and casual with the way he was just leaning there, as though waiting for the bus. Arms crossed over his thick chest. A black polo with West Custom Homes stitched across his left pec stretched tightly over his wide shoulders, as though the shirt was borderline too small. Tight at the shoulder, yet loose at the waist, because he was all trim and in crazy good shape.
His gaze followed her across the room, his expression unreadable.
She cleared her throat and broke eye contact with him, but she could still feel his gaze on her.
How did he do that?
Stella led Elizabeth to a photo on the wall. It was a black-and-white snapshot of Stella onstage, lights illuminating her from behind, casting a soft halo of white around her body. Her hair slicked back in a tight bun, she wore a light blue dress with spaghetti straps and a skirt with multiple layers of gauzy material that had floated around her like silk.
The familiar lump rose in her throat as she remembered that performance like it had happened last week.
“Is that really you?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes,” Stella said, gazing at the photo of her in the middle of an arabesque. Her left foot was up on pointe, her right leg extended behind her, stretched above her waistline, much higher than a human leg should be able to go. Her left arm was in front of her, pointed toward the audience and her right was extended to the side.
As though remembering, the pain in her knee turned up a notch, reminding her that she could no longer do things like that. Her body had been too abused, pushed too hard to achieve things the human body wasn’t designed to do.
“How long did it take you to be able to do that?” Elizabeth asked.
That performance had been two years before her initial knee surgery. “A long time,” Stella said in a thick voice, already feeling the emotion of what she’d lost weigh her down. What she wouldn’t give to have all that back. The freedom and exhilaration of moving across the stage, being one with the music, feeling the lights warm her skin and the fluidity and flow of the movements. As natural as breathing.
She swallowed, hard, trying to push it down. One would think she’d have become a master at keeping the feelings back. At quelling the disappointment she’d had in herself, that she hadn’t been able to push through her physical therapy and come back.
Stella had known when to throw up her white flag even though her artistic director had told her to give it more time. She’d been able to feel her body giving, protesting and slowly breaking down from years of abuse and always pushing to be better, more flexible, and never stop.
“I’ve gotta go. My dad’s waiting,” Elizabeth stated, pulling Stella from her thoughts.
“Of course.” She smiled at the girl. “Just practice what we went over in class today and I’ll see you next week.”
The girl glided across the floor, light on her toes, the way dancers moved with effortless grace. Stella absently rubbed her knee when Elizabeth’s father muttered an “Excuse me” from behind Brandon, obviously trying to get through the narrow doorway. Brandon, who was taller and wider, and probably five to six years younger than the girl’s dad, glanced down at the man. He didn’t move right away, instead casting a glance in Stella’s direction as though he didn’t want to give the man access to her.
And why would he have a problem with that? He couldn’t possibly be jealous, could he? No, that was ridiculous. Brandon did not strike her as a jealous guy, and he had no reason to be envious of the other man.
As much as the thought of Brandon displaying even the tiniest bit of jealousy on her behalf gave her shivers, she knew it wasn’t possible.
After a second of pause, Brandon moved aside and Elizabeth’s father entered the room. He patted his daughter on the shoulder, then reached Stella’s side.