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“Why don’t you tell me about dance?” he asked.
I laughed. “What about it? The history? The modern movement? Teaching two-year-olds?”
“You,” he said, leaning forward, slicing away the rest of the world with the sharpness of his focus. “Tell me about dance and you. About Houston.”
“I was a part of the ballet company there,” I said. “For three years.”
“Did you like it?”
“Like it?” I smiled and then laughed. “I loved it. It was everything I had worked for since I was four. The artistic director was a genius, and fair-minded. The company had its drama but for the most part we believed in what we were doing. And the city loved us. It was a dream.”
“And now you teach two-year-olds.” I stiffened at his tone but chose to laugh it off. It might seem like I’d fallen down in the world, but this was a choice. Everything that led me to this moment and place in my life had been a choice.
And teaching dance was a choice I’d made at a young age. A greater calling than being on the stage. A passion far brighter than my star had been.
“Let’s not forget my seniors samba class.”
“How could I?” His smile took away the sting. “And is that what you want?” he asked, all joking aside. “To teach?”
“It’s all I want,” I said, surprised that I was telling him this. I hadn’t expressed this to my mother, or even Phillip, afraid that they would laugh at me or think I was lying to save face. But Carter just leaned in, his eyes alive with interest, and I found myself unleashing my plans, my dreams. “I love it. Even more than I love dancing myself and when…well, hopefully, in a few years I can get the money together, and I plan to start an academy.”
“The Zoe Madison School of Dance?”
“Something like that. A permanent building. I’ve got my eye on one off St. Louis Street, a nice storefront with lots of space and it’s central, right by bus stops and the highway. I can do all types of classes for all ages. Scholarship programs and maybe even ties to local gymnastic groups. I want it to be a dance community, for anyone interested in being a part of it. I can—” I stopped, my tongue suddenly too big for my mouth. I felt my cheeks incinerate with high heat. “Sorry,” I mumbled, echoing his words. “I get carried away.”
His smile was like booze—too much of it and I’d be drunk.
“Your passion is exciting,” he said and cleared his throat, glancing down at the tablecloth. “Infectious.”
He opened his mouth as if to ask something else, but shut it, second-guessing himself.
“What?” I laughed.
“I don’t want to pry—”
I tipped back my head and howled. “We’re fake-dating, Carter. Ask what you want, I won’t guarantee an answer, but let’s not make this more complicated than it needs to be.”
“Fine. Why did you leave?” he asked. “Houston, I mean. You’re young. You obviously loved it. Why come back here?”
I blinked at him. “I’m pregnant.”
“Yeah, but I’m sure other ballerinas have had babies and kept dancing. And Houston has a bigger market for an academy like the one you dream about.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I was alone in that city. My mother, my real friends, the ones I could count on to help, were all here.”
“The father…?” He trailed off then held up his hand. “I know. None of my business.”
I smiled, toying with my water glass.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re the only person in my life who seems to respect that concept.”
“Well, reporters can be relentless.”
“Reporters have nothing on my mom.”
Now he blinked. “You haven’t told your mother?”
My anger spiked and I pushed away my glass. “I don’t understand why this is so hard for people to get. The first person I’m going to tell is my baby. It’s our lives. I mean, am I crazy? Isn’t that what makes sense?”
He didn’t answer for a long time.
“It is crazy,” I muttered.
“I think it’s laudable,” he said and cleared his throat, fiddled with his tie. Carter was cute when he was uncomfortable. “Respectful. Of your child, of that relationship. It says a lot about you.”
“That I’m crazy.”
“Oh, you’re crazy,” he said with a laugh, and somehow it didn’t seem like such a bad thing when he said it that way. “But not for this.”
My body buzzed. My hormones did a long slow rumba through my veins.
“No one has said that,” I murmured.
And I wished, so badly, that they would. And now, here was this man I didn’t want to like—reaching into my head.
This dating business wasn’t going the way I thought it would. I thought a fake date would be business-like, that we’d talk about the weather or professional sports. Good God, I didn’t want to bond with the man.
“Tell me something,” I said.
