Page 28 of Dancing in Lake Mistletoe

I glance down at him. “Seriously?”

He smirks. “I think you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be married.”

“Tell Willa to mind her own business.”

He laughs. “Now, I know you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be married.”

“Come on. Give us something,” Bran says, and I look over at him.

“You two are worse than Mom and Farah,” I snap before relenting. “Yes, I like her. And, no, I haven’t decided if I’m going to ask her out or not. She has rehearsals. I have a lot on my plate.”

“Ugh,” Bran groans. “You’re not using thebusy scheduleexcuse. That’s lame as hell. If you like her, you can make time.”

“It’s not an excuse. I have a seven-year-old, remember? She’s a twenty-four/seven job on top of my other jobs,” I remind him.

“And you have two built-in babysitters right here. Not to mention Lydia and Sela. Who, by the way, came straight in last night and called Hannah to tell her she saw you two head into the wine place after she and Isaac left for her apartment.”

Geezus. These women.

“All right. I don’t want to hear any backtracking when I call you guys up to watch Josie.”

Mindi

Isit on the edge of the bed, gritting my teeth as Dutch kneels in front of me, examining my ankle.

“You really don’t have to do this,” I say, trying not to wince as his rough hands gently probe the swollen flesh. “It’s just a little twist. I’ll be fine.”

I was rehearsing with Stuart’s understudy this afternoon when his grip slipped during a lift and I landed awkwardly. The guy’s been hard to work with all week. He’s a good dancer—really good—but we have no chemistry, and it shows. Chemistry is a critical factor when you’re dancing a duet. It’s like musicality—a difficult element to explain and an even harder one to teach, as many believe it can’t be learned, but instead has to be felt.And we definitely weren’t feeling it. Luckily, it happened in the rehearsal room, far from Soma’s keen eyes. At the time, she was onstage, working with Clara and the other children.

He glances up, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You sure about that? Because you were limping pretty badly when you came out of that door.”

I roll my eyes, even though, the truth is, I’m grateful.

I had finished rehearsal early, trying to shake off the pain and slip out unawares, but of course, I wasn’t quick enough to get out of the theater before Dutch noticed. He’d been backstage, working on the magic castle prop for the Land of Sweets, and he saw me hobble out after I changed. He spotted me wincing, and suddenly, there he was, offering to help. And now, here we are, in my suite at the Gingerbread Inn, with him playing doctor.

“I’m fine,” I insist, though the dull throb in my ankle tells a different story.

“Uh-huh,” he says, giving me a knowing look.

His touch is surprisingly gentle despite the size of his hands. He’s careful as he tilts my foot to the side, testing the range of motion. I try to stay still, but a sharp sting shoots up my leg, and I gasp before I can stop myself.

“Yeah, you’re totally fine,” Dutch says with a chuckle. He sits back on his heels and reaches for the ice pack he snagged from Alice. “I’ve seen enough injuries on job sites to know when someone’s pushing through the pain.”

He presses the ice gently against my ankle, and I let out a sigh of relief as the cold numbs the ache.

His eyes soften as he looks up at me, his expression more serious now. “You don’t need to push it.”

I bite my lip. He’s right, but I hate being sidelined.

“It’s not bad. Trust me, I’ve had much worse. I once danced an entire show with a broken metatarsal bone.”

“Okay, tough guy,” he says, “that sounds smart.”

It wasn’t. I knew ten minutes into the performance that my foot was broken, but I was too stubborn to succumb, and I paid for it afterward.

“I didn’t want to let anyone down,” I admit, my voice quieter than before. “I’d worked so hard for that role.”

His gaze gentles, and for a moment, I forget about the pain altogether.

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