Page 43 of Close Match
His eyes narrow in contemplation. “Dealing with clients, running events…” His voice trails off as I shake my head back and forth.
“No.” I take a deep breath and let it out. Just as I’m about to tell him, the waiter arrives with our appetizer. Tipping my head back, I smile brilliantly. “Thank you.”
The waiter stumbles backward. “Umm, you’re welcome?”
The food sits between us untouched. “Linnie, what do you actually do for a living?” Ev asks me quietly.
Reaching into my bag, I pull out my cell. Pulling up my Wikipedia page, I take a deep breath. I turn my phone around to slide it across the table. He tags it and starts to read. A choked gurgle escapes.
“I haven’t been entirely truthful about what I do either. I think,” I whisper, as his eyes shoot up to meet mine, “you might understand why.”
His fingers slowly scroll the article. A lance of pain crosses his face when he murmurs, “Brielle, not Elle.”
“Everett, not Rhett,” I reply back. His head snaps up; chastisement and pain chase across his face. “You couldn’t have found her, nor she you. Not back in those days.”
“It would have been almost impossible,” he acknowledges. I relax slightly. “But if I’d known about you, I damn sure would have tried.”
The prick of tears in the back of my eyes burn.
He twists his arm under mine. Clasping my forearm, he grips tightly. “Linnie.” We sit in silence for a few moments until the waiter comes back to ask if there’s a problem with our food.
Grinning at each other, we pull apart and begin to dive in.
* * *
We’rein the middle of our main course when Ev asks, “What do you need for an extended stay?”
I chew the bite of my sandwich before answering him thoughtfully. “I have to look into renting some studio space of some sort. I can’t let myself get out of shape.”
Ev snickers. “Because I can see you’re out of shape now. What did you say you ran? Five miles yesterday on top of all the walking we did?”
“I’ve not been eating like normal,” I protest.
“So, what you’re saying is we can’t make this kind of meal a regular occurrence.”
I look at the plate of goodness in front of me. “Sadly, but no. This isn’t what I normally consume when I’m working, though I do give myself some leeway when I’m not on the stage. I normally weight five pounds less?” I estimate.
He frowns. “That’s too tiny.”
“Now I know how Mom and Char fell for you.” His eyebrows raise. “Charm.”
His laughter booms out.
“I’m considered both tall and large for a dancer,” I tell him. Now that I can talk openly, it’s such a relief. “When I did a stint in the New York City Ballet…”
Ev holds up the hand not filled with his sandwich. “I didn’t get that far reading. You were in the ballet?”
I grin. “Yep. I towered over the other dancers in the corps when I wasen pointe.”
“So, what kind of dance can you do?”
“Probably the better question is what can’t I do.” Leaning back against the red leather booth, I begin to rattle off a list. After a few minutes, I add, “I have to keep my skills sharp. There’s always someone younger, prettier, more talented who wants the same roles I do.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s true.”
We each take a bite of our food before Ev says oddly, “You were a gift.”
