The Romance Dance: Castle Ridge Small Town Romance Read online

  “I don’t really need them.” Handing out business cards and brochures wasn’t as important. Reed and his feelings were important.

  “Did you see Reed?” Izzy’s curious tone prodded, asking more than the mere question.

  The angle of him hunched over the piano, despair in his body language, had sympathy pounding in Quinn’s head. “Yes.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “No.”

  “He was in the studio and you saw him, yet you didn’t talk to him?” Her friend took a sip of wine from her glass, considering Quinn over the rim. “I guess that’s not odd for Reed. My brother has a way of pushing people away.”

  Her muscles tightened, and she shifted in the opposite seat wanting to know him, yet knowing she shouldn’t ask because Reed would hate to learn they’d talked about him. Yet, the urge to know more pushed her. “Why does he turn people away?”

  His sister slouched. “I shouldn’t really share his secrets.”

  “I think it’s more sorrow than secrets.” She’d felt his anguish pouring out of his music.

  “Maybe you should’ve been a psychologist instead of a dancer.” Her friend raised her glass in a toast.

  “So there is something wrong.”

  Izzy set her glass down. Her sharp, green gaze assessed, resembling Reed’s in so many ways. “You care about him.”

  Quinn froze and held her breath. Reed’s sister had realized the truth. She cared about him, and she cared about his emotions. Except realizing her feelings didn’t mean she wanted to broadcast them. Plus, she cared about everybody. It was part of her nature. Just because Reed tugged at her heart didn’t mean he was special. She didn’t even know him very well. And she didn’t know the extent of his emotional scars.

  “Of course I care about him. Like I care about you and Dax and everyone else I’ve met in town.” She rushed through the sentence, trying to make her lie plausible.

  Her friend continued to study her. Quinn’s cheeks heated, flaring to the top of her head. She swallowed a big gulp of ice water trying to cool her skin.

  Izzy leaned forward eager to hear everything. “Are you attracted to my brother?”

  * * *

  “Thanks for coming to repair the oven so quickly.” Parker Williamson patted Reed on the back. He wore his normal suit and tie, appearing slick with perfect hair and white-toothed grin. “We just need to keep this equipment up and running through New Year’s Eve.”

  “Thank Izzy for begging me.” Glancing at his sister standing nearby, he let the sourness come out in his tone. If the lodge owner had called, he wouldn’t have helped. “Unlike you asking me to put a bid in on the kitchen remodel, Mr. Hotel.”

  Reed didn’t expect his high school friend to give him the job, but he’d expected a chance. He’d been making repairs and installing items in the lodge’s professional kitchen since he first started his business. A complete kitchen remodel would’ve been a challenge, and would’ve been great for his company’s resume.

  Parker’s gaze darted around, looking anywhere else. “I didn’t have a choice. The kitchen remodel is tied up with other contracts I’ve signed.”

  “Whatever.” He tilted over the stainless steel oven door and stuck his head inside to find the source of the problem.

  “Send me the invoice, and bill at your highest rate because of the short notice.” The hotel owner’s false breezy tone didn’t make Reed okay with the situation. “Talk to you both later.”

  “Parker’s been acting strange.” Izzy conspiratorial voice got closer.

  “Parker’s always been strange.” They’d been acquaintances in high school. Danielle’s older brother had been Parker’s best friend, until all of sudden they weren’t. Not that it was any of Reed’s business.

  “Speaking of strange…”

  But everything was Izzy’s business. He didn’t respond.

  “Quinn said something interesting last night.”

  He jerked and bumped his head on the inside of the oven. His mind tingled, wondering what she’d said, but he didn’t want to lead the queen of gossip on. Biting his tongue, he stayed silent.

  “Don’t you want to know what?” Izzy’s tone went higher, trying to hook him. She enjoyed when people begged her to share news.

  He wasn’t playing the game. Even if he really wanted to. “Not really.”

  “Even if it was about you?”

  His lungs whooshed with air, dropping his heart straight to his midsection. His head beat like kettle drums. Quinn had talked about him? Good or bad? And did he really want to know? He tried to imagine what she might say. The only thing he could think of was how she regretted their almost-kiss.

  He poked his head out of the oven. Although if he left it inside and turned it on, he wouldn’t ever need to learn what she thought. “What?”

  Izzy studied him as if trying to read his mind, unnerving him. She’d always had a way of reading people and usually being right. Standing, he fiddled in the toolbox, pretending to search for a tool, trying to play it cool, probably looking like a fool.

  The rhyming words jarred. The words could be used for lyrics in a song. A sad love song. His mind jolted. He hadn’t been able to think of lyrics in forever, his guilty mind unable to string two musical words together.

  Now he heard music in his mind and words imprinted on his brain. Rhyming words, lyrical words. Words for a song about love.

  His ribcage squeezed tight when Quinn’s image flashed before him. He closed his eyes and reopened them to find his sister watching him with a narrowed, shrewd gaze. He hated when she analyzed people, especially him. She’d done it as a kid and had told him he should play more piano and ski less. She’d been right.

  He lifted a wrench and throttled the handle. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

  Her lips slipped into a slow, satisfied smile annoying him. “Quinn said she was attracted to my brother.”

  His heart jumped back into his chest with an increased tempo, then it slowed into the tune of the sad love song he’d been creating in his mind. “Which one?”

  “What?”

  “Which brother?” He clenched the wrench tighter. “You do have two brothers, you know.”

  “I know, but…” Izzy’s brow scrunched. “Quinn hasn’t met Dax. He never came last night.”

  Typical Dax. Only thinking about himself and his interests. Didn’t he realize Quinn had probably been waiting for him as she’d been waiting for his first call? Reed curled his lips in distaste.

  “Why would you think she’d be interested in Dax?” Izzy didn’t dismiss the idea outright. She didn’t know about their water leak meeting, or about the Cyrano moment.

  Reed’s shoulders slumped and he wanted to kick himself. He never should’ve continued the window conversation pretending to be his brother. “Probably because Dax asked Quinn out and she said yes.”

  His sister’s mouth dropped open. She appeared disappointed, as if she wanted Quinn to like him. This conversation resembled middle-schoolers talking about who was crushing on whom. Except this wasn’t some teenage crush. This was something more. He firmed his lips in rejection. Probably only lust. He was a man.

  With his sister’s words ringing in his head, he worked later that day in the dance studio, attaching the wooden poles to the wall. Aware of another presence, Quinn’s presence, he turned his head.

  She floated into the studio from the back, wearing tights and a long sweatshirt. She studied him similar to how his sister had done earlier. “I heard you playing the piano last night.”

  He stilled and his throat strangled at her statement. His gaze flew to her face. The slight smile kicked in his gut. She knew one of his secrets.

  As if the piano had been dropped on his head, he was stunned. He didn’t know how to react or what to say. He wasn’t ready to tell her about his other life, his pre-accident life, where he’d traveled the world playing concerts in front of hundreds of people. How in his downtime he’d composed music and written
lyrics. When he’d lived life to the fullest.

  She stared, expecting a response.

  “I’m sorry. I know the piano is special to you.” His tone was stilted and formal. He picked up the long wooden pole for the ballet barre, wanting to stab himself to get out of this conversation.

  “At least you weren’t kicking it.” Her tease ruffled his pride, because he held instruments to the highest respect.

  He straightened his shoulders and clenched his hands around the pole. “I do know how to play.”

  “I’d say you could do more than just play.” She sounded breathless with anticipation, expecting him to tell more.

  Share more of himself and more of his secrets.

  He slammed the end of the pole on the ground. He couldn’t do that. He should never have sat at the piano, never given in to temptation. Lesson learned. He wouldn’t be tempted again. Not by the piano and not by her. “I guess.”

  She sashayed toward him, her hips moving up and down in a hypnotic rhythm. “The song you played was beautiful. Haunting. Magical.” Her magic was more powerful. She wound a spell around him. “What was it?”

  The tune wouldn’t leave his mind; it teased and taunted him every minute of the day. In the past, when he’d been composing, this was how it had always been. He’d need to put pen to paper and transcribe the chords from his brain. If he tried to ignore the sounds, the chords would jangle and jumble and crescendo until he heard nothing else. If he didn’t write the tune down, his head would explode.

  But he wasn’t writing music. Sure, there’d been melodies pulsing with increasing amplification in his brain. Last night without realizing, he’d combined notes in an original way. His hands trembled and his grip around the pole slackened. His entire body wavered. Would he be able to write music again? A full composition? Did he even want to?

  “What was the song?” Her reminder brought him out of his head and into the studio.

  “Nothing.” He positioned the pole on the brackets he’d screwed into the wall. “Something I was fiddling with.”

  Something new. And because of the fact he heard notes combining in his head made it something wonderful, and terrifying. The conflicting mixture made him sick. His stomach roiled and churned. He wasn’t only hearing music in his head, it was new music, his music. His to compose and play. The roiling exploded shaking through his limbs. What if the new music teased him and left him again?

  “Can you play it for me now?” She placed her delicate fingers on his arm, creating tension in the muscle.

  He dropped the pole into position and took a step away, letting her hand fall from him. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  She twirled around, taking in the studio. “We’re almost ready.”

  “I’ve got a punch list of items to complete.” He snatched the upper brackets. The metal clanged together. He didn’t play piano for people anymore. He’d say he didn’t play period, except she’d heard him, and he still clamored to tickle the ivories.

  Maybe when she was gone or upstairs with both doors closed he could chance a second sitting. The sickness twisted in his stomach from his wavering. Did he or did he not want to play? The indecision paralyzed.

  “Pretty please.” She twirled and pliéd with the request. “For me?”

  Her words tugged. Tugged him toward the piano and wanting to play. He wanted to please her. What if he froze? What if he couldn’t remember the tune, or even how to move his hands? What if she stared at his scarred fingers and was disgusted? Sure, she’d seen his ugly hands before, but playing piano the scarred skin would be a focus.

  He dropped the metal brackets back into his toolbox. “I’ve got another job to get to.”

  “It’s after five.”

  His panicked gaze flew to the clock showing the lateness of the day, switched to the piano, and to the door. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I should go.”

  “No.” She touched his arm, and he focused on her long, slender fingers. “Please play.”

  Every muscle and tendon and ligament stiffened. He wasn’t ready to share his music knowing she was listening. He needed a distraction, something that would guarantee she wouldn’t ask him to play again. Only one thing came to mind. Something he didn’t want to do almost as much. Almost.

  “Dance with me instead.”

  Her eyes lit and her smile grew. At least he’d pleased her in another way. “You want to dance?”

  “If I’m going to be featured in the showcase I’ll need lots of practice.” Or torture.

  He’d be in her arms, knowing she planned to date his brother. So close and yet so far. Really far. The original score beat in his brain with his thoughts. More lyrics to harass him. At least she’d forget about her request for him to play.

  She clicked on a slow waltz instrumental. Stepping toward him, she positioned his hand on her waist and placed her hand on his shoulder. His fingers quivered. Their opposite hands held and his palm went instantly clammy. She’d be so grossed out by his nerves she wouldn’t want to dance with him.

  Giving him a few instructions, they took their first steps in silence. He knew the dance. Dragging his limp foot was agonizing.

  “Everything okay?” She sounded tentative.

  “Just dandy.” He stumbled, coming in late on the step. His body tensed and scorched. He never should have suggested dancing.

  “Don’t think about the steps. Let the music move you like it does when you’re playing piano.” Her suggestion buzzed through his veins, making him hyper-aware.

  They both moved to music in different ways. They both appreciated music.

  She used her leading hand to indicate their direction. “Speaking of music, I’d love to dance to the piece you played. Do you know who wrote it?”

  So much for her forgetting. “No.”

  “The melody reminded me of a piece played by the New York Symphony.” Her gaze burrowed, shafting deep into his soul. She was digging for information. “I can’t forget the piece, and don’t remember who composed it.”

  He grunted, pretending to not understand the real question.

  “It’s funny, almost coincidental. The song I remember was as haunting as what you played.”

  The comparison struck a clanging chord. She probably thought they were similar, because they’d been composed by the same man. He stumbled again. He couldn’t allow her to get any closer, to dig any deeper, to discover more. Discover his past.

  Chapter Six

  “Don’t know.” And by Reed’s tone, he didn’t care.

  Quinn’s bullshit meter went off the charts. Maybe he cared too much. He certainly didn’t want to discuss the song. Interesting. She needed to try a different tack.

  She guided him into a quarter turn, maneuvering with steps and questions. “Where did you learn to play the piano?” This wasn’t only curiosity on her part, she wanted to know more about him.

  As a people person, she’d always loved to learn everything about everyone. It helped her imagine doing something different as she practiced her fiftieth plié or stretched her legs to breaking point. Although, she admitted to herself, this man made her more curious than anyone ever.

  “Where did you learn to dance?” His question was choreographed in the perfect counter-move. He didn’t want to answer questions.

  “I started dancing as a toddler and loved it. My mom said I had a natural ability.” Her mom had been a professional ballet dancer who always ended up in the chorus. She’d wanted more for her daughter, especially after Quinn’s father left them when she was two.

  “You are a natural dancer.”

  “I enrolled at a full-time ballet school when I was ten.” A chill chased up her spine. She’d been a child, unaware of the commitment she’d made. Her mother knew exactly what documents she’d signed. “I hated it.”

  The long hours, the dormitory quarters, the sparse food. And the competition. The girls had fought for first position, fought for the best roles in the dance recitals. They’d short-sheet
ed beds so you’d get to sleep late. They’d tattle if you overate. They’d purposely tried to get you in trouble.

  For Quinn it was being in a family of one. She’d wanted to become friends with her schoolmates and fellow dancers. She’d wanted to learn about their backgrounds and hobbies. Not that any of them had time for hobbies. Loneliness drifted through her, but didn’t linger. The emptiness didn’t feel so empty.

  “Why did you hate ballet school?” He slid his foot along the floor, knowing the next step.

  “I rarely saw my mother.” Her lungs hitched. The woman only visited on show days to critique her performance, always finding it lacking. “Once in New York, I never saw my grandparents, who lived in Castle Ridge.” The hitch in her lungs grew stronger, as if she was out of breath. She wasn’t. She was in perfect physical condition. “I sold the house to a broker. That’s where the piano came from.” And my back up financial reserves.

  “I understand now why the piano is special to you.” Reed’s voice hummed with emotion. He must’ve connected to the piano, too.

  “My grandmother played. She tried to teach me. I couldn’t sit still long enough.”

  “You were meant to be a dancer.”

  She knew she had the body type and the grace. She loved the joy of dancing. Being a professional dancer had wreaked havoc on her muscles and tendons. And on her nerves. The daily double or triple workouts. The strict diet. The competition’s mind games.

  She’d been strong and determined, but she wasn’t mean, which is what it took to make it in the competitive ballet world. She sighed. “That’s what my mother told me.”

  She swallowed the bitter thought like she’d swallowed the diuretics. She had been a good dancer, and yet she’d begun dreading getting up in the morning. Nausea had built throughout the day leading to a performance. On stage, she’d plastered a smile on her face. She didn’t hate performing, she hated the pressure from the choreographer and other dancers, hated she was being judged, hated she always had to watch her back. “Did your mother want you to build things?”

  His arm jerked, pulling her closer. His broad chest rubbed against her and his body warmed her to her toes.