Red sequins. She squinted. Maybe.Flick.
Cade’s smile as he’d grinned at her through the studio window.
She swallowed.Flick.
Funny how being home somehow turned her right back into the schoolgirl she’d always been—telling herself she wasn’t crushing on her number one rival, Cade Landry. Back then, Amber would’ve disowned her from their group. Well…not that it mattered. Cade never gave her the time of day unless he was trying to beat her.
And being in this particular room—the one where Rosalyn used to sit in front of the full-length mirror and check for runs in her ballet tights—brought back the overwhelming feeling of imperfection. Of being notquiteenough for Mom to be proud of. For having traded her tutu for silks, her bun for glittery braids.
You mean, you’re really going to run away and join the circus?Mom’s reaction to Rosalyn announcing she’d been accepted into her dream aerial college her junior year at Harvard.
Rosalyn swallowed, the images on her phone blurring. Ironic that Mom tried to talk her into joining Cade’s circus. Mom acted proud, but it felt so…obligating. Like maybe she had no choice and was on board because it was the proper thing to do.
If she had been proud, wouldn’t Rosalyn’s trophies and medals still be on display? Wouldn’t she have saved some of her old competition costumes and local newspaper clippings, the way most parents saved baby blankets and cheerleading trophies?
But when Rosalyn had come home from Harvard that first time her freshman year, her mom had removed all the embarrassing pieces, leaving behind only freshly painted baseboards and a clean slate.
Rosalyn’s phone buzzed with an incoming call, and she jerked, her head rolling against the pillow. She clutched the phone to her cheek and braced before checking the number, hoping she was wrong despite every instinct shouting she wasn’t.
She risked a peek.
Blaine.
Ugh. She silenced the call, then tossed the phone to her nightstand and pulled the fluffy white duvet over her head. Heart racing, she tried to pray, but the words froze on her lips. It was her fault—she couldn’t exactly expect God to bail her out of her own bad decisions, could she?
Did good intentions count?
Her fingers twitched with the urge to return the call to her manager. To see if Blaine finally had good news—thenews she’d been waiting for.
But if he didn’t, well—she didn’t want to talk to him, tell him she was performing without him for the first time since her injury. Besides, she didn’t owe him anything—he’d lied to her.Hewas the reason she had to stay alert, had to get an escort to walk her to her car parked one block away in her own hometown.
And to think mere weeks ago, she thought he’d saved her.
Had she brought danger to her parents’ doorstep?
Frustrated, she threw back the duvet and stared at the ceiling fan whirring overhead. The metal chain clacked in the created draft, white noise that had finally lulled her to sleep sometime after one a.m. Some big star she’d turned out to be. She was a grown woman, back in her parents’ house, fighting insomnia, nursing an injury, and carrying a pack of secrets no one could discover.
Or else.
A knock sounded on her door and she nearly fell out of the bed.
“Honey? You awake?”
She gulped. Only Mom—still a little scary, in a different way.
Rosalyn untangled from the blanket and opened the door, willing her heartbeat to slow. Mom was already dressed for the day in pressed slacks and a silk blouse, lipstick securely in place and a mildly concerned frown pinching her brow.
“I’m up.” Barely, but she couldn’t let her mother know how tired she was or she’d be pumped full of vitamin smoothies and herbal tea before she’d even brushed her teeth. Rosalyn stifled a yawn. “Was online shopping for a leo for the Cajun Circus.”
Mom gasped. “So you’re going to do it?” Her delighted smile hid the age lines attempting to peek through her designer makeup. “That’s wonderful news!”
She mutely nodded. Would Mom still smile at Rosalyn that way if she knew what happened in Saudi Arabia? Knew what Blaine had done?
Knew Rosalyn’s secret?
“How’s your knee?” Mom’s gaze dropped expectantly to Rosalyn’s leg, still clad in pink knit pajama pants, and frowned. “Would you like a heating pad?”
Rosalyn shrugged. “It’s okay. A little sore from practice yesterday, but manageable.”
