Just not a romance novel.
* * *
Maybe she’d agreed too quickly. But the small-town boy and the aerialist had a ring to it, didn’t it? Hard not to let the idea linger a little, the more they rode around town together. Unfortunately, staying to explore the idea wasn’t an option.
Her life didn’t have very many of those at the moment.
Cade parked on Bayou Boulevard, and nostalgia slammed Rosalyn harder than that pothole. “My old dance studio!”
The charming little brick building didn’t look like it’d taken a big hit from Hurricane Anastasia, save for a missing awning. Unless it’d been one of the lucky ones already repaired. She rushed past Cade and pulled on the handle of the heavy wooden door. It swung open with the same extended creak it always had, and she shot Cade an excited look over her shoulder.
Cade peered through the beveled window. “Are they open?”
“The door sure is.” Rosalyn stepped inside, eyes struggling to adjust to the shadows. “Come on. Madame Paulette won’t care.”
“Sheriff Rubart might,” Cade muttered. But he followed anyway, his presence behind her providing warmth that had nothing to do with her sunbaked skin.
The studio, though encased in silence, pulsed with life and memory. Shafts of sunlight shone through the wall of narrow vertical windows, sending tiny dust fairies dancing through the beams. The hardwood floor had been redone since she’d left and now offered a polished gleam.
Rosalyn drew a deep breath of the familiar air, filling her entire diaphragm like Madame Paulette had taught her. As if on autopilot, she gravitated toward the wooden barre lining the far wall of mirrors and rested her hand on the polished wood. Her feet slid into first position, then second, and she lifted on her toes.
Cade shoved his hands in his pockets, staying on the perimeter of the room. She felt his eyes on her, which she didn’t mind at all. Until her secret tapped the edges of her memory, a permanent sidekick these days. She lowered herself back to the floor.
“I didn’t know you took ballet.” Cade paused in front of a wall of framed photos, showing various group classes over the decades. He pointed to one of the pictures. “Blue tutu?”
“That’s me.” Rosalyn left the barre to join him, memories practically leaping in grand jetes from the frames. “Once a week for years, until I discovered aerial in the sixth grade.”
Cade tilted his head, his hands back in his pockets. “But there’s not an aerial studio in Magnolia Bay.”
“Trust me, I know.”
“So how did you train?” Cade genuinely seemed interested in the answer.
“See that hook up there?” She pointed toward the metal claw still protruding from the structural beam in the center of the high ceiling. “That’s there because of me.”
His gaze drifted upward. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Mom drove me to New Orleans for classes.” Reluctantly. “Until I got my license and took myself. But even after I quit ballet, Lettie allowed me to hang a practice rig in here for my silks, so I could train more often.”
Cade’s eyes met hers once again. “Lettie?”
“Madame Paulette. Only select people can call her that and live to tell about it.” Rosalyn smirked. “I’m certain you’re not one of them.”
Cade’s gaze roamed back to the photos. “I bet you were a star pupil.”
“I actually wasn’t that great.” She tapped the framed image of herself, snaggle-toothed and bun-headed. “Can’t you tell?”
“I don’t believe it.” He clicked his tongue. “You’re annoyingly good at anything you try, remember?”
“Oh, come on.” She squared off with him, her heart jumping with another jolt of pleasure. Why had their rivalry in high school never been this fun?
Probably because of Amber’s voice always in her head back then, reminding her that men were bad news.
Though in hindsight, maybe her jaded friend hadn’t been all wrong.
Cade faced her, his sculpted chin lifted in challenge. “Name one thing—other than this alleged ballet attempt—that you’re not good at.”
“I can’t cook. But I like trying new vegetarian recipes.”
