Page 70 of One Short Summer

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Gabe

After a few days,we’re finally settled into a new routine. We start our days with our bambini painting classes—they’re actually a lot more fun than I thought, now that I’ve gotten used to them—before Monica and I part ways. She stays at the academy to dance for a few hours while I go back home to write. Most evenings, we relax together before we fall into each other’s arms in a heap of lust and a need so strong, I’m not sure how I’m ever going to live without it.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be suffering from withdrawal.

I’ve had to adjust my writing time to fit this new schedule, but it’s well worth it. Helping my sister and also spending as much time as possible with Monica before she leaves next week has been pushed to the top of my priority list.

Now, I’m back at the academy after a successful writing session, ready to pick up Monica so we can go grocery shopping together.

Such a domestic task, and apparently, I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

Whenever we’re out, I feel people’s eyes on us. When we stop to talk to someone, their gazes flutter back and forth between us, checking where our hands are. More than once, I’ve witnessed someone’s lips turn into a thin line when they see them resting next to our respective bodies. Despite it all, no one’s said a word.

Thank goodness, or I might just explode.

My brain’s been busy enough going over Rose’s words all week, unable to take a breather from her observations.

I can only hope you’re smart enough to come to your senses, and do something about it before it’s too late.

Her words have been ringing in my head, making me wipe my hands off on my jeans as I walk down the corridor toward the dance room.

Thinking about Monica right now makes me slightly twitchy. I’m constantly distracted, often unaware of my surroundings, my mind fuzzy.

Rose is to blame. Fully and wholly.

I’m not the least bit surprised when I find several girls huddled together in front of the mirror room door, their noses pressed into the lower glass partition. They don’t even notice me, too engrossed in watching Monica dance.

When my gaze finds her in the middle of the room, it immediately zooms in on her body, her movements fluid as she leaps and spins through the air.

The sudden tug at my chest takes my breath away, the pressure intensifying with each second I watch her do what she does so well.

Compelling the crowds.

It’s an absolute privilege to be able to witness the sophistication she brings to the dance floor.

It’s brilliant.

Majestic.

It’s Monica, beautiful Monica. Through and through.

I’m not the only one noticing either. The girls are oohing and ahhing with every move she makes, and when the music—and therefore, Monica—slows down, the girls seem unable to keep their chatter in any longer.

“I want to be just like Miss Monica when I grow up. She’s the best dancer I’ve ever seen. She looks like a princess.”

Another girl giggles. “All she needs now is Prince Charming.”

Someone seems to call for the girls from the other side of the hallway because they suddenly sprint away in a hurry.

I’m not alone though.

When I turn my head to the side, Hudson’s standing next to me.

I’m not sure why, but neither one of us says a word as we stare at each other. Talk about weird family interactions this week.

A sudden change in music on the other side of the door makes me whip my head back around to Monica.

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