Page 86 of 1 Last Shot

“Goodnight,” I whisper. Then, before I can second guess it, I push onto my toes and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

He’s smiling before he can tamp down on it. His gaze darts over my shoulder, I’m assuming at my parents, but he no longer has that deer-in-the-headlights look.

He has thathappylook.

26

KANE

Walking into Isabella's ballet studio is no less jarring than I expected it to be—especially when every eye turns to me and goes wide. Clearly, there's a huge difference between my massive, scowling, tattooed presence and the thin, delicate, porcelain dancers flitting around the studio. There has never been someonemoreout of place in this building.

Once again, I swallow the feeling that I don't belong—in this environment, around these people, withIsabella. I force it deep down before it can swallow me whole and convince me to turn around and leave her to her perfect life.

But then…

I catch sight of her. She's spinning in circles, her toned legs flexing as she stands on the tips of her ballet shoes, and she's clearly lost in the movement. I watch her spin once, twice, three times, before slowing and coming out of it with a flourish of her hands, a small smile sitting contentedly on her delicate pink lips.

Just as she's coming to a stop, she spots me. And stumbles out of the spin when our eyes meet.

"That was sloppy, Izzy," an older woman nearby says. "Do it again. There's nothing wrong with your foot, it's all in your head."

I tamp down on my smile when Isabella's gaze jerks toward the woman, a blush flaming over her cheeks. And when she looks back at me, questioningly, I lift my chin in a silent message ofgo again, I'll wait for you.

She hardens her jaw and turns back to the dancefloor with a determined glint in her eyes. I move over to the waiting area so I can sit and watch her, never once taking my eyes off her.

This time around, her moves are flawless. Or, they look flawless to me. I don't know anything about ballet, but I know Isabella. And I can tell how she feels about the dance based on the expressions on her face: nervous, focused, pleased, and my favorite:pride. It's plastered all over her face when she finishes the final spin, without stumbling this time.

"Very good," the woman says. "Now grab Henry and start the next number."

The entire time they work through the routine, I can't take my eyes off of Isabella. The guy might as well be invisible, because I can't look away from the vision that is Isabella dancing. She's so in touch with her body, so lost in the movements, that I can't imagine how anyone couldnotstare at her when she's dancing. And I know I'm not the only one when the dance ends, and the old woman gives a grunt of approval.

"Nice work, Isabella," she says stiffly. "Henry, I need you to run the dance a little bit more. Isabella still seems like she's leading you too much. But we'll work on it again next time. For now, class is over."

"Thank you, Mrs. Martin," Isabella says. Henry just scowls. "Do you mind if I stay after a little bit to work? I'm still not confident during that sequence in the second half."

The woman doesn't seem shocked at Isabella's request. She must be used to her dancers working overtime, because she immediately waves an approval at the request and turns to retrieve her purse. Henry also takes the dismissal and moves toward the locker room.

Isabella begins to walk toward me. Her gait is confident, despite the slight blush on her cheeks.

"I’m so sorry I’m late,” she breathes. “We ran late, and I couldn’t even stop to text you. Do you mind if I practice for a little bit longer? I wasn't planning on dancing after class, but that section in the middle is driving me crazy. I should only need another fifteen minutes."

"Take as much time as you need," I tell her. "I'll wait."

As I settle back into my chair, Isabella starts to dance. And even though it vaguely registers that people are packing up around us and leaving the studio, my eyes are glued to her. Because watching her dance is mesmerizing no matter what's going on around me.

She sinks into the dance, visibly lost in the music now playing from her phone. Her movements are graceful and effortless and perfect, and I don't know shit about ballet butfuckif it's not obvious that Isabella was born to do this.

I'm not sure how long I watch her for, but when she eventually finishes a spin with a relieved exhale, I'm snapped back to the moment. She looks tired, but pleased. And I know I'm right when she looks at me with a small smile on her lips and says, "That's the first time I've been able to get through that without stopping at least once."

It takes me a moment to open my mouth and actually say something. And even then, all that comes out is, "Fuck, princess. You’re breathtaking. No wonder everyone pushed you to dance."

Something flashes in her eyes, but I can’t make sense of it until she says quietly, "Still think dancing isn't the best part of me?"

Thatcatches my attention. She seemed affected by something similar I said before this, so clearly, being seen as more than just a dancer is important to her.

It takes no effort to give her that.

I stand from my seat and slowly approach her, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and completely helpless to fight the urge moving me forward. Her eyes never leave mine.

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