“Same terms we agreed on last time?” I unfold the pages.
“Read it.”
His detached tone makes my skin crawl. Be patient with him, Danni.
From the drawer in the coffee table, I remove a pen. Then I quickly scan the document and make a few changes. Instead of working five days a week, I’ll work seven. Instead of the obscene salary I proposed last time, I want a reasonable wage for a dancer.
“There.” I hand it back to him. “Those are the new terms.”
He glances at the modifications without emotion and returns the papers to his pocket. “You’ll start tomorrow.”
No argument. No reaction. I hate the distance between us. “Tell me about your dinner date.”
Pinning his lips, he heads toward the exit.
Dammit, I said the wrong thing. “Don’t go. We can—”
“Goodnight, Danni.”
He opens the door and steps onto the porch.
When I came back to St. Louis, I didn’t expect him to welcome me with open arms. But this…this is worse than a cold shoulder. It’s a kick in the teeth. He’s going out of his way to reject me without actually saying the words. If he didn’t feel anything for me, he’d tell me to leave him the hell alone.
It’s like he’s trying to prove he can’t and won’t be effected by me, as if having feelings for me is a flaw.
“Trace?” I stand on the porch, hugging my waist and shivering against the chill.
He slows his strides along the sidewalk and stops, tilting his head without looking back.
I raise my voice. “If you still love me, even after I broke your heart, that’s not a weakness. It’s bravery.”
His chest rises and falls. Then he climbs into the back of the sedan and leaves.
With a fluttery stomach and adrenaline-charged blood, I show up at the casino the next afternoon. An hour before my shift. I’m so excited to dance on that stage I can’t sit still, can’t breathe, can’t think straight. More than that, I’m twisted inside out at the prospect of seeing Trace.
The dressing room is exactly how I left it. Other than the cleaning crew’s routine vacuuming and dusting, it hasn’t been disturbed in over a year. Costumes, makeup, glitter, hair products—everything is exactly where I left it.
Dressed to dance and buzzing with jitters, I walk into Bissara an hour later. The restaurant staff isn’t surprised to see me. They must’ve been notified of my employment. Familiar faces. New faces. Everyone is eager to have a dancer on the stage again.
Trace isn’t here, but cameras peer down from tiny black globes amid the mosaic art work on the ceiling. Maybe he’s watching.
I cue up my set list on the sound system, flip on the stage lights, and climb atop the eight-foot-wide circular platform. Half the tables in the restaurant sit empty, but they’ll fill up by dinnertime. Those who are already seated stare at me expectantly.
Standing at the center of the stage, I wait for the tempo of Whenever, Wherever by Shakira to build. Then I move. Abs, ribcage, hips—the energy gathers in my core and ripples outward to my head and limbs. God, I missed this.
A silver lace half-circle skirt hangs low on my hips, with extra draped panels attached to a mini underskirt. Crystals, beaded appliques, and fringe on the matching bra shimmy and sparkle with my movements.
I love all forms of dance, but belly dance is the core of my passion. I shake and sway for the next two hours, scanning the growing crowd for the one who holds my future captive.
When his towering shadow finally emerges in the entrance, my hips falter and my breath stutters. Those trance-inducing eyes narrow on me to the exclusion of all else, but his hand… His hand rests on the lower back of the black-haired woman from last night.
Jealousy hits me like a vicious slap across the face. I can’t hear the music over the ringing in my ears.
This is what it feels like—the helplessness, the agony of watching someone I love with another person. To think he endured this every time he saw me with Cole.
He guides the woman to the table closest to the stage, and they settle in, side by side, watching me dance as the server takes their orders. His date doesn’t even glance at the menu.
She must come here often.
With him.
Bringing her here while I’m dancing, putting her right in front of my face… He’s punishing me. Except that’s not his style. His discipline comes in the form of a red ass, not a cruel revenge game.
Something feels off, and dammit, it’s hard to dance with the force of his cryptic gaze pressing against my senses. As the song ends, I steel my spine. I’m not backing down. As much as I want to run out of the restaurant, I’m going to continue to dance. If he wants to crush me, he’ll have to try harder.