Page 11 of Dancing on Air

He’d pissed his parents off when he’d signed up for the military. To be honest, he’d needed the time away from them to grow into his own person. He couldn’t continue to be their puppet. Being in the army had allowed him to escape the clutches of his controlling and manipulating parents. And it had forced him to grow up. Finally.

But he’d gone through a lot in those years. He’d lost several of his friends to friendly fire, ending his military career. He hadn’t been the one that pulled the trigger, but there wasn’t a day that went by when he didn’t wish things would have taken a different turn. The guilt ate at him constantly.

Still, the smooth dance moves were bred into him, and retuning to the trade after coming home was like breathing. Both his parents had performed on the stage at early ages and had gone on to star in countless performances.

At some point, they’d started their own business, Sharper Image. It was now one of the top New York choreography companies. They worked solely with the Broadway Art Center, one of New York’s best ballet companies and schools.

In the past ten years, Sharper Image had produced more than a dozen number-one hits. Several were still showing on Broadway and at the BAC center itself.

Which is what had brought him to the BAC today. He was there to help his friend Julie King to pick some hopefuls for the coming season, and to keep an eye out for a few dancers for a new private project that he was thinking of creating. Someday, he hoped that he’d be producing it onstage.

If he could convince his parents to back him financially, that is. Until then, he was stuck working for them once more. He was currently working on two projects—a small summer project and the traditional Nutcracker production for the holidays, both of which he could produce in his sleep. However, with the larger production, he was working side by side with his parents and another staff member to make sure everyone and everything was perfect.

He was hopeful about the project he was writing himself. It would be his first project and one that was very dear to his heart. But he felt as if he had to prove himself since his return.

He was standing against the back wall of the dance studio when the pretty redhead glided into the room. She looked eager, excited, so much so that he smiled. Had he ever thought about dance like that before? When he’d been a kid, attending classes was a requirement. Like learning reading or math.

At one point in his early career, he’d enjoyed it, or at least had enjoyed the attention it got him. In his teen years, thanks to his family celebrity status, he’d had a line of dancers ready and willing for private… practices.

After the redhead dumped her bag along the wall with the rest of the students, she started pulling off her leg warmers and putting on her toe shoes.

He watched her every move as she stretched, and she was so much smoother than any other dancer there.

Then he noticed the man she’d walked in with. He was tall, blond, and obviously too old for the redhead, whom he had gauged to be eighteen or nineteen. The man with her was easily thirty.

Brother? Possibly.

He lost sight of her briefly while everyone warmed up.

Julie King, one of the head teachers, called the room to attention and started telling the dancers where on the floor to stand. He listened and waited.

“Cora Thomas,” Julie said, pointing to a spot in the second row.

The redhead gracefully rushed over and took her spot. The way she moved and held herself left no doubt she’d been dancing all her life.

Then her emerald green eyes flashed over and landed on him for a split second. There was both fire and ice behind that gaze. The fire and will to go the distance and the ice to remain calm while doing so. This, this was his lead, his Ella.

He didn’t even need to see her dance. Still, he hung around and watched as the thirty-odd dancers went through the same motions for a few moments.

Yes, Cora Thomas would be perfect for his Ella.

While they danced, he scanned through the pamphlet he’d been given. Every dancer in the room had a sheet—a headshot sat on top along with all of their accomplishments.

He found Cora’s near the back. Her headshot was black and white and obviously from a few years back.

Cora Thomas. Eighteen. Five-foot-seven. Ninety-eight pounds. Attended the Ballet Art School in Columbus, Ohio, since age eight. Before that, a smaller school he’d never heard of. She’d gotten the lead role in a few smaller shows throughout the years, which meant she could cut it on the stage.

He set the packet down and watched her and only her for the next hour.

When the dancers were removing their toe shoes and putting their legwarmers back on, he moved over to talk to the man Cora had entered the room with.

The guy was sitting along the wall with a handful of other parents or family members in folding chairs provided for them.

“Is this your first time here?” he asked the man as he took the empty seat next to him.

The man chuckled. “It’s that easy to tell?”

Max smiled. “Max.” He held out his hand, then motioned. “Which one is yours?”