“Then we’d better sit down.”
And as we settle onto the floor of my studio, backs against the mirrored wall, the evening light painting everything in shades of gold and shadow, I realize that I’m not afraid anymore.
I’m curious.
And for someone who’s spent her whole life avoiding chaos, that might be the most terrifying thing of all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You and your boyfriend make such a lovely couple.”
I blink at Mrs. Patterson, whose Pomeranian is currently yapping at its reflection in the studio mirrors. She’s dropped by to pick up the registration forms for her granddaughter’s summer dance camp, and apparently decided to deliver romantic commentary along with her payment.
“He’s not my?—”
“The way he looks at you during practice.” She clutches her chest dramatically. “My Charles used to look at me like that. Before he discovered golf.”
“We’re not?—”
“And so tall! You’ll have beautiful children.”
“Mrs. Patterson, we’re dance partners. That’s all.”
She pats my arm with the condescending patience of someone who’s been married for forty-three years and knows better than young people about everything. “Of course, dear. Whatever you say.”
The Pomeranian barks in what sounds suspiciously like agreement.
I watch her leave, forms tucked into her enormous handbag, and resist the urge to scream into the nearest practice pillow.
This is the third time this week.
Monday, it was Mr. Wilson from the hardware store, who asked if “that handsome fellow” was treating me right. Tuesday, Bianca’s cousin spotted us grabbing coffee between lessons and sent approximately seventeen texts asking how long we’d “been keeping it secret.” And now Mrs. Patterson, with her Pomeranian and her knowing smile and her casual references to our future children.
We are not dating.
The words have become a mantra. A desperate, increasingly futile mantra that no one in Bellamy Cove seems capable of hearing.
“Rough morning?”
I turn. Mal is leaning against the doorframe, two coffees in hand, looking annoyingly amused. He’s wearing charcoal slacks and a burgundy sweater that does sinful things to the broad expanse of his chest and his hair is doing that artfully disheveled thing that makes me want to either smooth it down or mess it up further.
Neither. Neither of those options.
“Mrs. Patterson thinks we’re getting married,” I say flatly.
“Ah.” He hands me one of the coffees. “Was it the children comment or the comparing-us-to-her-dead-husband thing?”
“Charles isn’t dead. He’s in Boca Raton.”
“Close enough.” He sips his coffee, eyes sparkling over the rim. “What did you tell her?”
“That you’re my dance partner. Not my boyfriend.”
“And?”
“And she patted my arm like I was a particularly confused toddler.”
His laugh is warm and rich—the kind of laugh that makes my stomach do an annoying little flip. “To be fair, we do spend an unusual amount of time together.”
