“No secrets,” he says. “No brawls. No manipulations. But we both want the same thing.” His gaze drifts down and up my body in an I-own-you-you’re-mine way that trembles my legs. “And we both intend to win.”
Everything’s been so nonchalant today I feel sideswiped by this. But they warned me it wouldn’t be easy, and even without the warning, I know better. This is Cole and Trace. They’re not going to just sit back and let this play out on its own.
Does that change my resolve to stay and finish this? Definitely not. We’re in this together.
“What’s behind the door?” I ask.
“Enter your passcode.” Cole points at the keypad, his expression indecipherable.
When I punch in the code, he opens the door.
My hand flies to my mouth as I gasp. I don’t know what I expected, but polished wood floors, mirrored walls, and custom-built ballet bars wasn’t it.
“When did you build this?” I take a hesitant step into a dance studio that’s five times larger than my last one.
Cole lingers on the threshold and rests his hands in his pockets, his voice quiet. “I started the construction two years ago.”
“Two years ago?” I whirl toward Cole, my screech echoing through the dance studio. “How is that possible? You were on the run and—”
“Hiding.” He steps into the room and approaches the wall of windows, staring out at the sunset glistening across the lake. “When my cover was blown, this is the first place I came. It was the safest place to regroup and plan a counterattack.”
“Did you know he was in Missouri two years ago?” I ask Trace.
He leans against the wall in the hallway, his head tilted down, and a frown in his brow. “I recently found out about it.”
I turn back to Cole. “You said you couldn’t return to the States until you knew I was safe.”
“The woman,” he says, “the traitor, didn’t know about this house. Nothing here connected me to you or St. Louis. That said, I didn’t stay long. Others in my unit used to come here, and I didn’t know who I could trust.”
“How long were you here?”
“Three months.”
“You severed contact with me, and for three months, you were only a few hours away?” My chest constricts as that sinks in. “You didn’t check in on me during that time?”
“I couldn’t risk it.” His voice is so quiet, so thick with heartache it’s difficult to hear him. “I stayed here longer than I should have.” He glances around the room and returns to the view beyond the windows.
That’s when it hits me. He was balls-deep in a mission, hiding from the enemy he infiltrated, and he stayed here to build me a dance studio.
A knot forms in my throat as I take in the space with new eyes. It’s a beautiful, sun-drenched, open studio, at least a thousand square feet, with twelve-foot-tall seamless windows, stunning lake views, exposed brick walls, hardwood floors, and high ceilings. There’s a lounge area with a leather couch, a built-in stereo system, and a dancing pole in the back corner. The ballet bars wrap the entire room, including the windowed wall. I could actually stretch on them while staring out over the lake, and I bet those windows reflect like mirrors when it’s dark outside. Incredible.
“I started the remodeling two years ago,” Cole says, “but I didn’t finish it until five weeks ago.”
“You came here when I…” I press a hand against my breastbone and lower my voice. “When I kicked you out?”
“Yeah. I moved my belongings here.” He nods at the door at the far end of the room. “There’s a dressing room through there.”
As I head that way, I catch Trace’s eyes in the hall. He maintains a relaxed lean against the wall, an ankle crossed over the other, drinking his scotch. I’m still not used to seeing him in jeans and t-shirts, but he pulls off the casual look like everything else—with irresistible confidence and intimidation.
When I open the door to the dressing room, I’m once again stunned into breathlessness. Not only is it larger than the biggest room in my old house, it’s stocked with every accessory a dancer could ever want. Ballroom dresses, dance shoes, leotards, tutus, glittery bras, belly dance costumes—the inventory is endless. A large vanity sits in the corner, facing full-length mirrors framed in globed lights.
My pulse thumps wildly as I run my fingers over taffeta, silk, and rhinestone beading. “How did you—?”
“I bought out the floor room of a dance store in St. Louis,” Cole says behind me.
This is too much. I accused him of cheating, kicked him out of my house, and he built me another dance studio.
Tears sneak up, surging through my throat, drenching my eyes, and choking my voice. “I don’t deserve this.”
“Fuck if you don’t.” He strides toward me and sweeps me up in a hug that lifts my feet off the floor. “I want to give you the world.” He buries his face in my neck. “Dammit, Danni. Please don’t cry.”
“I can’t help it.” I half-sob, half-laugh, and wrap my arms and legs around his muscled body. “Thank you so much, Cole.”
Maybe he does know the way to my heart. Material possessions mean very little to me, but this is more than that. Dancing is my passion, my life, and he’s given me the means to embrace that while I’m here.
“I can’t believe you built this when I didn’t even know the house existed.” I lower my toes to the floor and crane my neck toward the doorway, unable to see Trace around the corner. “There was a chance I’d never come here.”
“When I left for the last mission…” He touches my face, his thumb stroking across my cheek. “I knew it would be my last assignment. I had every intention of bringing you here after I retired.”
I reach up and hold his handsome face in my hands, savoring the scratch of whiskers against my palms. Looking into his eyes, I tell him without words how grateful I am and how much I love him.
His expression softens, and his mouth parts. As his head dips lower, and lower, my pulse kicks up. He’s going to kiss me, and I want that with an ache that burns through my veins.
But at the last second, he pulls back.
My breath rushes out. “That was cruel.”
“You have no idea.” His lips thin in a pained grimace, and he grips the back of his neck. “Go explore your dance studio before I fuck you against the sparkly…” He squints at a rack of sequined body tights. “Whatever those are.”
I shake my head, smiling, and exit the dressing room.
Trace moved to the couch in the studio, his tumbler of scotch empty and sitting on the floor beside his bare feet.
“Well?” He curves up a brow. “Am I out of the running?”
“What do you think?”
“I think…” Cole trails behind me, eyes on Trace. “If you head to St. Louis right now, you’ll be home before bedtime.”
“You have the rest of your miserable life to be a dickhead.” Trace stretches an arm across the back of the couch. “Why not take tonight off?”
Stifling my smile, I head toward the panel for the stereo. “I just want you guys to know that someone finds your insults entertaining. Not me. But someone.”
The sound of their soft laughter releases my grin. I pull up the playlist on the digital screen beside the stereo.