Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
He had an edge in his tone which let me know he wouldn’t be easy to persuade otherwise. I sank into a seat at the breakfast bar and said nothing, watching him as he cooked.
Eventually, the silence got to me, and I asked about his career.
“I’m the COO of my family’s business,” he said.
“What do you do?”
“Meetings, mostly,” he responded, misinterpreting my question. “I never thought I’d end up stuck in conference rooms all day.”
“Well, business must be good. Your house is impressive.”
He set the plate of scrambled eggs before me. “Our house.”
“It’s a bizarre feeling, a stranger who’s so familiar with you.” I didn’t mean for it to be hurtful. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”
“It’s fine,” he said, a little too quickly.
I felt bad and picked up my fork. Perhaps eating his food might smooth things over.
“How are they?”
“Good. Thank you.” My stomach churned as I forced another bite.
I studied him as he poured a cup of coffee. He was the type of guy most women would covet. I couldn’t help but wonder why I felt no hint of possessiveness.
When I’d finished eating enough to satisfy him, he set my plate in the sink and motioned to the doorway. “Want to continue the tour?”
“Sure.”
We journeyed on to the home office. The gray walls and oversized black desk were surprisingly generic in the otherwise gorgeous home. It was meticulously clean as well, to the point I wondered if the surfaces were medical grade sterile.
“I hardly use it, so we didn’t want to waste money on a decorator.”
I nodded and tried not to look uncomfortable. The final room was the guest bedroom, which solved the question of where I had been sleeping.
It was slightly smaller than the primary but no less elegant. A five-by-seven framed picture of Ryan on the right side of the nightstand was ringed with prescription bottles.
“You’ve been staying here since you came home.” Once again, there was a hint of sadness in his voice.
“Oh,” was all I could muster.
He glanced at the clock. “The bathroom’s through there, and your clothes are in the closet.” He motioned to the doorway to the left of the bed. “Our appointment is not for a few more hours, so take as long as you need. Since I’m up, I’ve got some proposals I need to look over.”
I glanced around the unfamiliar room. The disorientation caused a weird sort of vertigo, and even though he was currently the only person I knew, the thought of him leaving gave me relief.
“Questions? Can I get you anything before I go?” When I shook my head, he nodded. “Okay. I’ll be in the office if you need me.”
“What if I forget again?”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll find you.” He smiled. “I always do.”
And then he was gone.
I sank down on the unmade bed and tried everything I could to recall something from the day before or the events that led up to the balcony. Doing that brought pain that was immediate and white-hot. I bolted from the bed, dashing toward the bathroom, and barely made it to the toilet in time as the eggs worked their way back up.
When it was over, I collapsed on the cold tile floor and spent a long time there, allowing my stomach to settle. Once it was safe, I pulled myself up onto my unsteady legs and cupped a handful of cold water from the sink to rinse the acid from my mouth. When I turned off the water, I noticed a doorway from the guest room led out onto the balcony.
And that door was ajar.
A dark thought flitted through my damaged mind. Here was this successful, gorgeous man who wanted to marry me, with whom I lived in an amazing house, and he seemed very much in love with me.
Why on Earth was I on the other side of that balcony railing?
1
THEN
LAUREL
The last member of the corps exited stage right and darted past as I waited for my cue.
This is it.
I looked down at my pointe shoes and rolled my ankles, testing the new ribbons for the third time. I’d be taking the biggest steps of my professional career in these, and I’d be damned if they slipped or came undone.
At twenty-six years old, I was finally a principal dancer in the Chicago Ballet Company.
The theater was almost full. It hardly ever sold out anymore, but all the decent seats were gone. On stage, Martin and Albina were in the final choreography of their pas de deux, a lovely piece where Albina’s lines were breathtaking. I would have watched to the end, but it was taking every fiber of my being to keep my nerves at bay.
The music finished, and the pair of dancers exited to thunderous applause. Both winded, they passed by and flashed brilliant smiles. I was in their elite club now.