Funny how life worked out.
Lettie watched her with crossed arms. “The good news is, unlike me, you’ve got time on your side, dear.Andprospects.”
Breathe in.Split. “Prospects?”
“A certain young town development director seemed quite taken with you yesterday.” Lettie dramatically bounced her hips like Ursula inThe Little Mermaid.
“Cade?” Rosalyn sputtered. Her grip slipped and she caught the fabric in a fresh hold. “We’re old friends.”
“He wants to be more, trust me.” Lettie moved toward the supply closet near the mirrored wall and slid out a box of exercise bands. “And no, I was never a psychic. I get asked that a lot, though, when I go to the French Quarter.” She straightened and stared at her scarf-layered, bejeweled reflection in the mirror with a frown. “I can’t imagine why.”
Rosalyn clamped her lips to keep from laughing as she came down from her inversion. “It’s a mystery, Lettie.” As for the idea of Cade truly being into her, well…the thought brought butterflies.
And a giant red flag.
Make that butterflies waving giant red flags.
Across the studio, Lettie shut the closet door. Rosalyn unzipped her bag and pulled out her warm-up tee.
“How long has that knee been bothering you?”
Rosalyn tugged the shirt over her head and checked her watch. Almost time for the six-o’clock class. “Is it that obvious I’m not one hundred percent?” She’d taken the bandage off, and thought she’d hidden her slight limp.
“It doesn’t take a psychic to see the difference in your work, darlin’.” Lettie gestured toward the silks knotted in the center of the room. “I know when one of my students is holding back. Even if you haven’t been my student for a few moon cycles.”
“A few.” Rosalyn grinned back, unwilling—unable?—to tell her the details about her fall. “Thanks for watching out, Lettie.”
“Always, my dear.” Lettie pursed her burgundy-painted lips. “There’s more to this story, though, isn’t there?” She squinted, her narrowed eyes reading Rosalyn like a novel.
Rosalyn stilled.
“You’ve lost something.”
Good grief, maybe she was psychic. Rosalyn nodded, unwilling to lie—not anymore than she already had to.
“Well, we don’t have to talk about it—now.” Lettie tossed Rosalyn an exercise band. “Want to help the kiddos stretch? Show them a move or two?”
Rosalyn caught the pink elastic and stared down at it. Kids could see through people even faster than Lettie. How could she project joy into a demonstration when she hadn’t felt any since her tumble?
Since before then, if she were honest. Since Saudi Arabia…
The rush of hot desert air swept over her memory and she clamped her eyes shut.
The spinning tent. The roar of the crowd. Her panic, tangible. The scratchy sheets of the hospital bed, the metal rails cold against her restrained arms. The panic in Blaine’s eyes as he relayed their limited options.
She wrenched her eyes open. “I, uh—” She inhaled, gulped. “I don’t think that would be?—”
The studio door opened, and a rush of pink leos and tiny bun-heads flooded the room. One of the girls, a little blonde wearing a white tutu, froze on her way to the barre and gaped up at Rosalyn. “Are youBarbie?”
Rosalyn choked back a cough, the child’s innocent assumption blessedly removing the coming wave of tears. “I’m not, actually.”
“You could totally be Ballerina Barbie.” A dark-haired girl with a braided bun chimed in, elbowing the red-headed kid next to her. She sported a temporary tattoo of a unicorn-cat on her arm. “Can we call you that?”
She smiled, giving in and realizing she didn’t mind at all. Maybe there was still joy to be found in the studio—vicariously through these kids, at least. “Whatever you want.”
“Sit by me, Barbie.” Little Blonde tugged at her hand.
The redhead grabbed Rosalyn’s other one. “No, me.”
