One is a Promise(88)

He’s deliciously nude, the line of his spine cutting a groove between toned shoulders and a trim waist. I feather my fingers down that valley and follow the curved rise of his muscled ass.

Sweet lord in heaven, he has a great ass. Hard and round, it sits high and clenches tight, forming deep cleavage I love to play with. I consider slipping a finger into that shadowed dip, but he needs his rest. It’s only six in the morning, and we didn’t fall asleep until a couple of hours ago, thanks to my late shift at Bissara and his insatiable appetite afterward.

His breathing stumbles out of rhythm, and he cracks open an eye.

“You’re awake?” His timbre rasps with groggy surprise.

I’m as shocked as he is. I never wake before him.

“Shh.” I trail kisses over his shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

His lips bounce between a smile and a frown, and he creeps a hand toward my face, sliding his fingers across my cheek. A moment later, his eyes close and his touch falls slack.

I watch him sleep for a while, intent on drifting off with him. But that doesn’t happen. I’m wide awake and restless with the urge to drink coffee with the sunrise.

Slipping quietly out of bed, I pull on yoga pants, fuzzy slippers, and an oversized hoodie. After a pit stop at the bathroom, I make coffee and carry a steaming mug to the sitting area in the backyard.

St. Louis weather in October is unpredictable. The ground is warm from yesterday’s heat wave. But this morning, the air is cold and cloudy, creating a ghost-gray fog low to the ground. So much for watching the sunrise.

I settle on the outdoor loveseat, relishing the ambiance of the mist crawling in around me. I feel like I’m enrobed in a cloud of mystery, in some faraway land, waiting for my Viking to lumber out and steal a kiss. And spank me.

A chuckle rises up, and I shake my head. Oh man, I have it bad.

I spin the engagement band on my finger. If he had it his way, we would’ve married immediately, but he respects my desire for a big wedding.

No, not a big wedding.

An over-the-top first dance.

Now that I’ve seen his hotter-than-Johnny-Castle dance moves, I can’t not choreograph a routine that will put us in the history books of best-ever wedding receptions. But choreography takes time. So does all the practice I’ll be putting him through. I’m thinking a Spring wedding.

Until then, we need to figure out living arrangements. He wants me to move into the penthouse, and I refuse to sell my house.

I still officially run a dance company, even if I’m not teaching anymore. Who knows? I might go back to that someday.

He says he’ll buy me a new studio anywhere I want, and therein lies my hesitation. I have a studio, built with the bare hands of a man who loved me with his dying breath. I can’t let it go.

Trace isn’t thrilled with the idea of moving into my tiny bungalow with its green claustrophobic tub. But he’s here every night without a single complaint. Maybe I’ll just let my house sit empty and move into the penthouse. That’s what I should do.

With a decided breath, I finish off the coffee and wade through the murky mist toward the back door. As I reach the driveway, the hum of an idling car engine slows my steps. It sounds close. Really close. Weird.

I turn my feet in the direction of the street—a street I can’t see because visibility is shit in this fog.

Walking toward the side of the house, I pass the Midget. Trace’s driver dropped us off after work early this morning, so there shouldn’t be any other cars in the driveway. Except I’m certain I see a yellow one parked at the end. A taxi cab?

My head tips, and the muscles in my neck strain as I squint through the haze. Why is a taxi in my driveway?

The car door slams shut, and a dark figure emerges from the mist with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The silhouette walks like a man, the outline of shoulders and biceps unquestionably masculine. And familiar.

My heart pounds in my ears, and my palms grow damp.

He looks like Cole. Thinner. Slightly longer hair. His gait a little more cautious.

It’s a mirage. The density of the fog is playing tricks on me.

But his eyes… Dark, warm, unforgettable Cole eyes.

The tremble begins in my chin and ripples inward, railroading me. I’m seeing things. It’s the only explanation for the sudden need to empty my stomach.

Ten feet away, he drops his bag and stares at me out of a gaunt Cole face. “Danni.”

The mug falls from my hand and shatters on the driveway. I’m shaking, swaying, panting sandpaper breaths from a chest too tight to heave. I can’t rationalize this. It isn’t real. It can’t be real.

I reach for him, and my legs don’t work right, lurching me forward and throwing me off balance as a low keening sound claws from my throat.