Page 8 of Beyond The Barre

He spotted Scarlett, still in her leotard, but the tutu had been removed. Disappointment rushed through him. She had looked so damn good in it. Even now, with bike pants and running shoes on, she looked hot. He paused to take her in, but she must have sensed him as she looked up.

“Hi. Come to help pack up?” She smiled at him, exhaustion showing on her face. It must have been a busy, long day for all the staff involved, as well as the children.

“I’m at your disposal. How can I help?”

Scarlett gave him plenty to do from dismantling the marquee to putting costumes in plastic hanging bags. They chatted easily as they worked, and he was again surprised by just how comfortable he was in her company.

“How are the plans for the bar coming along?” she asked.

Linc zipped up another costume bag. “Everything is running pretty smoothly. I’ve had it planned out for a while though, so there haven’t been any major surprises.”

“That’s good to hear. Do you still plan to open for New Year’s Eve?”

“I do. Not much else happens that night around here, so everyone is pretty excited about it.” Linc knew there was a lot riding on this. The bar would open with a bang, and he hoped nobody would be disappointed. He knew the beers would taste great. It was the other things, like the music and the food, that he couldn’t control, and that worried him. He liked being in control. Though Scarlett didn’t help him feel that way. As far as their relationship—or lack of it—went, she was definitely in charge.

He studied her face. It was artistically covered in stage makeup, which, although beautiful on her, didn’t compare to her natural, clear skin. She was a beauty, and he wondered if she realised just how gorgeous she was. Surely she had been told a thousand times by fans and boyfriends. Although she didn’t seem to be as egotistical as he would have expected a ballerina to be.

Like he himself sometimes was.

“Scarlett?” He stopped working and waited for her to look at him. When she did, their eyes met and held. “Would you come to the opening with me?”

“On New Year’s Eve?”

“Yes. As my… guest?” He had to move slowly with her. Move too fast and he was sure she would run and hide, never to be found again.

“Guest? So not a date?”

“Not if you don’t want it to be. And lots of people will be there. It will be a great night.”

He wished he could read her mind. He could almost see the cogs turning as she thought about his request.

She was getting to him, making him want to see what secret she kept so close to her chest, what pain she hid from the world. He was drawn to her in some primal, uncontrollable way. But there was nothing he could do to satiate that desire. Scarlett was complex. She played her cards close to her chest, and she hadn't asked him for a single thing. That put her in a special category all of her own, and that meant he couldn't treat her the way he treated others.

“You are persistent, aren't you?” she asked.

He shot her his most charming smile. “It's one of my many charming qualities.”

Finally, she nodded. “Okay.”

It was a simple answer, but he’d take it. “Great. Do you want me to pick you up?”

She shook her head. “No, you’ll be busy setting up. I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay.” He grinned and tried to suppress his excitement.

He couldn’t wait to show her his bar and have her sample his beers. If she’d only let him, maybe then she’d finally agree to take a chance on the man who didn’t normally want one.

CHAPTER 4

Christmas was a quiet affair for Scarlett. Although she had been invited to spend the day with all the dance teachers and their families, she had decided to spend it alone, just as she had spent so many in her childhood.

It wasn’t that her mother was negligent. She was encouraging and supportive of her only daughter, but once Scarlett had proven her maturity and that she could be left alone, her mother had created herself a new life. She had a full-time job, new friends—even a new husband.

Scarlett knew the cost of her dance lessons had been a major reason for this. Her mother had paid for three-hour lessons every day after school and eisteddfods on many weekends, not to mention the uniforms and cost of shoes. Scarlett pondered this as she made herself a chicken salad for lunch. Perhaps part of her drive to succeed had been so that her mother would pay her more attention. Would come to more of her events. Would tell her how proud she was.

She stabbed her fork into the dry salad. She’d been ten when her dance teacher had first sat her students down to have the food talk. She’d set a small silver scale on the table and showed them how to weigh out portions of food, right down to the handful of almonds they’d been instructed to eat as an afternoon snack.

A dancer had to be slender, she’d said. A dancer had to leap and soar as if they weighed nothing at all, and they couldn't very well do that with an extra ring of padding around their waist.

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