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I didn’t think it was possible to see Eve turn even redder. Her cheeks are as deep and rich a red as the tomatoes on sale in the next stall over.
“A-Ma, please,” she grumbles, shrinking away.
I chuckle. “Thank you, Mrs. Lee. That’s very nice of you to say.”
“Ah, good manner, too. I like that. Not like that Tom boy. Call so late at night. So rude.”
“That Tom boy?” I repeat slowly, looking to Eve. “Was that the guy who helped you in the other day?”
Eve nibbles on her bottom lip and swallows. “Yeah.”
I raise a curious eyebrow. “He calls you late at night, huh?”
She crosses her arms. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”
A sting of envy tugs at my gut. “I didn’t know you were seeing somebody.”
Mrs. Lee waves her hand dismissively. “Eve very single.”
“A-Ma!”
“As the kid say: single as a Pringle. I learn that yesterday.” The older woman tilts her chin up, appearing very proud of herself.
Eve all but slaps her forehead. “Okay, A-Ma. Let’s get going. You’re going to catch a cold.”
I break out into a laugh. “No, no, please. I want to hear more. Maybe I can treat you lovely ladies to lunch?”
Before her mother’s able to respond—I have a feeling she really wants to say yes—Eve hooks her arm around her mother and turns her away.
“No, thank you,” she says in a hurry as she guides her mother away. “We have to get going.”
Mrs. Lee manages to throw me a small wave before the two of them are out of sight completely, disappearing into the early morning farmer’s market crowd.
I’ll admit I’m a bit disappointed, but I’m not at all discouraged.
Eve’s always been too shy and sweet for her own good.
I need to find the line between delightfully persistent and annoyingly overbearing. Eve’s cracked once before. There’s no telling how long she’ll hold out against my charms again.
Besides, the view I get as she walks away in those skinny jeans is to die for.
Chapter Eight
Eve
I teach five hour-long classes, one every day of the work week after I’m done with my own. Since I have a couple years’ experience with a professional ballet company, Miss Helen was kind enough to leave me in charge of the juniors.
My Monday class is probably my favorite. They’re all ten years old and lovable. There aren’t a whole lot of them—eight kids in total—so I never have to run around to keep everyone in line. I’ve got them doing their warm-ups, an important part of any ballerina’s routine. It’s not as intensive as the sequences I undergo every morning, but it’s still more complicated than anything an amateur dancer undertakes.
There’s the twins Marsha and Allie, Jennifer with her hair pulled back so tight her face is stiff, Natasha and her splash of freckles, Kayla with her missing front teeth, and the inseparable Rachel and Georgia, who giggle and joke toward the back. They’re all dressed in matching black leotards over white tights, flesh-tone ballet shoes on their little feet.
And then there’s Alexander, the only boy in class.
I’m not allowed to have favorites. As a teacher, that’s just plain wrong.
But he’s totally my favorite.
I think it’s because I see a lot of myself in him. He’s quiet but hardworking. And our mutual love of ballet drives us to excel. He’s got bright blond hair that looks almost white beneath the dance studio lights, and light blue eyes with a tint of green that reminds me of a calm tropical ocean. His mother happened to mention he gets teased a lot at school, so maybe that’s why I’m so protective of him.
“Okay, everyone,” I call out to the children. “Get in position, please. Christmas recitals are coming up soon, so let’s rehearse a couple more times.”
Marsha and Allie raise their hands in unison. Standing side by side, it’s like I’m looking at a reflected image in a mirror.
It’s kind of freaky.
“Miss Eve?” they say together.
I smile even though their creepy twins from The Shining schtick sends a chill down my spine. “Yes, bunnies?”
“When are we going to dance with pointe shoes?” the twins ask.
Seriously. It’s like listening to a stereo.
“Soon, I promise. Maybe in the New Year.”
The girls collectively groan. I understand their frustration. I remember being their age and dreaming of getting up on my toes for the first time.
“We have to make sure your legs are nice and strong first,” I explain calmly. “Otherwise you might hurt yourself, and you wouldn’t be able to dance.”
I know how much it sucks.
I’m just about to head over to the CD player, a big clunky box of a thing sitting on a rolling trolley, when I hear the loud creak of the studio door swinging open.
“Who’s that?” asks Kayla, stounding absolutely amazed.
“Hey, kids,” Nate says cheerfully.
Rachel and Georgia skip over, looking up at him in awe. “Who’re you?”
