of the other dance instructors who had students performing in tonight’s ballet, Mia referred to the delusional stage moms as idealists. Because unless sweet Madison Rosellino miraculously developed a decent amount of rhythm and learned to keep her finger out of her nose during performances, the sweet and quiet girl would probably never make it to Juilliard.
Her eye gave an involuntary twitch at the memory of her own mother, who was so similar to the Mrs. Rosellinos of the world. Mia took a sip of her now diluted drink, trying to wash away the reminder of the well-meaning but overbearing woman who had pushed her only child into competitive cheer rather than classical dance. Rhonda Palinski had wanted all eyes on Mia and had forcefully maneuvered her daughter onto the football fields, where the stages were bigger, the lights were brighter and the crowds were rowdier.
Her phone vibrated on the smooth-finished walnut bar beside her glass. She saw a group text message from her friends Maxine Cooper and Kylie Gregson. She loved them and knew they wanted an update on how the Labor Day performance had gone, but she couldn’t bear to put on the brave face and pretend she wasn’t hosting a pity party for one in an empty hotel bar. She grabbed a handful of fancy nuts out of a silver bowl. At least she gave in to her self-commiserations only in first-class establishments.
Mia loved and hated nights like tonight. She loved the music and she loved the dancing and she loved watching her young students and their contemporaries get to display the talents that they had worked so hard on during summer rehearsals. She truly didn’t even mind the overbearing parents who expected their first-graders to be ballet prodigies and became annoyed when Mia didn’t push the kids harder.
But the thing she hated was the fact that she could no longer be the one on stage dancing. Thinking such a miserable thought made her feel like a jealous old has-been, an emotion she despised even more.
She rubbed her sore knee through the black satin fabric of her slim-fitting pants, and then took another sip, willing the throbbing to go away. One of her prescribed pills might help with the physical pain, but nothing could diminish the emotional trauma of having her dancing career cut short by a golf club–wielding stalker who couldn’t take no for an answer.
Nope. She wouldn’t go there. It was one thing to wish things had worked out differently. It was quite another to sit here and relive the scariest moment of her life. She pushed her drink away and decided to go upstairs to her suite, order several desserts from room service and scroll through the pay-per-view channel looking for an interesting movie that could take her mind off what could have been.
Keeping a low profile meant she didn’t get to travel the country as much as she once had as an NFL cheerleader, so Mia normally took advantage of these quick forays into what her neighbors termed the “Big City” and made the most of the plush hotel accommodations.
She’d grown up as middle class as they came, with most of her single mom’s child support checks going toward cheer camps and extra lessons. And while Mia was careful with her income as the owner of the Snowflake Dance Academy in the small town of Sugar Falls, Idaho, she wasn’t opposed to little splurges a couple of times a year—especially if they provided a quick, but safe, escape from the boring reality of her quiet existence.
And that was why she tried to ignore the text message that just flashed on her screen.
You’re a great dance teacher. We’re sure everything went perfectly. Don’t go back to your room and sulk. Go out and live it up. We dare you!
Yep. Her best friends knew her, all right. Which meant they also knew she had no intention of accepting their ridiculous dare.
As she lifted a hand to signal the bartender to bring her check, a man walked into the lounge, his quick steps purposeful. Mia instinctively turned in the opposite direction, away from the stranger, and hoped that the guy was simply meeting someone in the nearly vacant bar. Ever since that incident with Nick Galveston, she had been careful not to draw any unwanted attention to herself and normally didn’t hang out in cocktail lounges where traveling businessmen or lonely males might take any sort of interest in a young woman sitting alone at the bar.
She pulled her handbag closer to her. Why had she even stopped off here on her way back to her room? It wasn’t as if she was a big drinker or looking for companionship. But after seeing the girl who played Aurora receive a huge bouquet of flowers right before the curtain closed and knowing that she would never experience that thrill again, Mia wanted something stronger than chocolate lava cake with peanut butter ganache to drown out her sorrows.
Unfortunately, the newcomer bypassed several of the empty tables and headed directly toward the small bar, near where she was sitting. He was handsome in that clean-cut all-American-boy way. However, in her experience, most men who looked like that were anything but pure and innocent.
She tried to keep her gaze averted, not wanting to risk making eye contact with him. But the large mirror across the room allowed her to take in his appearance. He wasn’t overly large—just under six feet—and his suit was well tailored, but his silk designer tie was undone and hanging loosely around his neck. He didn’t even look in her direction as he pulled out the leather upholstered bar stool a couple of feet away. His brown hair was close cropped and his face was set in a serious scowl. If he hadn’t been dressed so well, she would’ve assumed he was in the military.
“I’ll take a Glenlivet, neat, please,” he said to the bartender. When the man still didn’t acknowledge her in any way, she relaxed her shoulders and attempted a covert glance down at his shoes.
She was no expert, but her friend Kylie had just ordered those same handcrafted Italian leather shoes online for her new husband. So Mia knew they cost more than the monthly rent on her small dance studio. Nope. The guy definitely wasn’t military because there was no way he would be able to afford to dress or drink that well on an enlisted man’s salary.
Her ears picked up the tinny sound of Harry Chapin singing about cats in cradles. The noise was in direct contrast to the piano and it took her a second to realize the song was a ringtone. His ringtone.
Whoa. This guy must have some serious daddy issues.
He fumbled, pulling his phone out of his pocket before silencing it and setting it on the bar. It immediately rang again and he whispered a curse before jabbing his finger at the screen. He had nice hands. Strong and capable-looking hands. Hands that would feel wonderful on...
“GP? Hello?” The hearty male voice coming out of the small speaker interrupted her wayward thoughts and caused the man next to her to practically jump off his leather stool in surprise. “Are you there, GP? Can you hear me?”
The skilled-looking fingers she’d just been lusting over must have pushed the wrong button, accepting rather than ignoring the call.
“Stupid damn phone,” he said as he lifted the offending gadget off the bar and put it to his ear.
“No, Dad,” he continued. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Mia took a sip of the drink she’d pushed away merely minutes ago, finding herself fascinated by the father-son drama unfolding right next to her. “You can’t change my mind,” she heard. Pause. “No, do not have them call me.” Pause. “Listen, we will just have to agree to disagree. Have a safe flight home.”
GP, or whatever his name was, looked as if he wanted to throw his now disconnected phone through the large window facing the quiet downtown street. The bartender brought the man’s drink and Mia signaled for her own check. Damn it. She should’ve left when he was on his call. She didn’t do angry confrontations.
“Sorry,”
