One is a Promise(58)

“Did you miss my voice?” I set it on speaker, on the floor, and bend at the waist, warming up to work on a new routine.

“Is everything okay?”

I melt at the worry rumbling through the phone. “Brakes are shot on my car. Can I get a ride to and from work tonight?”

His relieved exhale makes me smile. Stretching my arms over my head, I study my form in the mirror.

“Yes, of course. I’ll send my driver.” He pauses, breathing softly through the silence. “Is that all?”

Not even close. I want to talk to him. Share my feelings, my thoughts, my desires. I want to empty my cup.

Lowering to the floor, I arch in the Cow Stretch to warm up my tummy muscles. “What are you doing today?”

“Running a multi-million-dollar empire.”

“What’s that involve? Snapping fingers and counting dead presidents?”

“Dead presidents?”

“Money.” I roll into a neck-stretching back bend. “You know, Jackson, Grant, Benjamin—”

“Benjamin Franklin wasn’t a president.”

“Then why is he on the hundred-dollar bill?”

The phone vibrates with his chuckle. “What are you doing today?”

“I’m practicing a new belly dance routine. Wanna hear the song?”

“I’d love to.”

A smile lifts my cheeks. “Hang on.”

I leap over the phone on the floor and power on the sound system. Keeping the volume low enough to hear him, I move back to the phone. A moment later, Criminal by Britney Spears streams through the speakers.

“Talk me through the movements,” he says. “So I can visual it.”

Warm energy fizzes through my veins. “The dance begins with just my hips.” I move them, watching my reflection in the mirror. “I’m sweeping through soft figure-eight motions.”

He listens without interruption as I speak through every twitch, head toss, and hip thrust.

I love his interest in my dancing. He might be moody and layered with mixed signals, but there’s something underneath it all, something behind the stuffy suits that calls to me, awakens me, makes my heart flutter like a baby bird.

The first and last time I felt anything like this, it was instantaneous and explosive, spinning and colliding and welding Cole and I together under the force of our own gravity.

With Trace, it’s different. More like seeds. Two hearty seeds that weather drought and neglect and tribulation, all the while sprouting roots—roots that grow toward each other, building a foundation, stretching, and blooming, not two but one single stalk, straight through the cracks in a hostile landscape.

We’ll either grow into something beautiful.

Or we won’t.

The song winds to a close, and his voice echoes behind me, in stereo. “Play it again. I want to watch this time.”

I spin and find him leaning in the doorway, his phone and a set of keys dangling from his hand.

Today’s suit is navy, with a light blue shirt and black tie. His tailored slacks fit so well my gaze is drawn to them, to the way they cup and mold to his groin. He’s so insanely, incredibly sexy and masculine it takes a great deal of effort to look away.

I wish I’d worn something nicer or at least brushed my hair. That’s what he does to me. Makes me want to tear through my closet, try on ten outfits, take a shower, put on makeup, hairspray and tease and hairspray some more. Because at some point in the last four months, this man helped me move past a broken promise and gave me a reason to try again.

I feel him watching me, and when I look up, my heartbeat ricochets in my chest. With his chin tilted down and hands resting in his pockets, his gaze roams along my bare legs, traces my hips, pauses on my chest. My nipples harden, my breasts unbound beneath the loose crop top. I think he likes what I’m wearing, given the way his lips part to accommodate the rush of his breath.

His attention drops to my hand—my naked finger—and his jaw flexes. “You took off the ring.”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat, feeling awkward. “Did you break the speed limit getting here?”

He continues to stare at my hand, a turbulence of emotions descending upon his features. Then he blinks, smooths out his expression, and lifts his head. “I drive a fast car.”

I don’t know what to make of his reaction to the ring, so I slip around him and step outside, shielding my eyes against the setting sun.

Parked behind the Midget is a sexy luxury sports car with charcoal metallic paint. Fat tires give it a wide stance, and the convertible top, black leather interior, and rear bumper spoiler all scream, Pay attention to me. It looks pricey, and I bet the inside smells like him—rich, dark, manly. I can totally see him driving…whatever it is.