(Dirty Dancing 03) -Melody Gracen - Third Position

The Dirty Dancing Series: First Position Second Position Third Position

Dirty Dancing #3

Third Position BY

Melody Grace

Copyright © 2014 by Melody Grace All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author ’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner. All rights reserved. Photo credit copyright Regina Wamba Cover design by Louisa Maggio

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Table of Contents Raphael 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. Excerpt from Unexpectedly Yours Acknowledgements

Raphael When you’re wrapped in your lover ’s arms, you think the dance will last forever. The feel of their body surging above you, the slow grind of your hips, moving as one. The look in their eyes as they drive deep inside of you; the taste of their sweat-slick skin shuddering beneath your tongue. Time stops. The world fades. Nothing exists but heat and motion and desire. But what happens when the dance is over? When you’re laying breathless and naked, your limbs aching from bone-deep pleasure, the memory of their touch burned deep into your skin? What happens when you have to choose? Give it up and walk away, or risk it all for another glimpse of passion? I thought I knew for sure what my future held. Nothing in the world could keep me from my dreams; the ambition that beat like a heartbeat in my chest, demanding I push harder, reach higher, achieve it all. But that was before Annalise. Every step we dance together gives me a taste of perfection. Every night that I explore her luscious body shows me a desire that cannot be ignored. She has possessed me, claimed me, and now, I crave her surrender beyond anything on this earth. Loving me will destroy her dreams, but to end this now is unthinkable. Impossible. I won’t let her go without a fight. Will she pick her passion for dance—or me?

1. Annalise “Annalise Taylor.” The voice rings out, stopping me dead in my tracks. “Where on earth have you been?” I freeze. Just moments ago, I was on top of the world, walking back through the moonlit streets of Rome from Raphael’s apartment—the memory of his kisses still spinning in my head, and all the wicked, wicked pleasure he brought me with his hands, and mouth, and tongue… But my happiness crashes into pieces when I see the group waiting for me in the lobby. The program Director, Gilbert; our chaperone, Mademoiselle Ninette. And my mother. My blood runs cold. “Mom…?” I stutter, hurrying forwards. My cheeks flush, and I swear that anyone looking at me could see the illicit, sexy things I’ve been doing all night. “What are you doing here?” I struggle to keep my voice calm. “I thought you were in New York.” “I was, darling. I came to surprise you.” My mother steps forward and kisses me on both cheeks. To everyone else in the room, it looks like a loving greeting. Only I can see the barely-concealed rage glinting in her blue eyes. She turns back to the Director and Ninette. “As you can see, Annalise is fine. And in time for curfew,” she adds, her voice light. “I told you, this Lucia girl didn’t know what she was talking about.” “Lucia?” I echo. I see the other ballet student on the couch by the stairs. She’s smiling smugly at me. She probably thought ratting me out to the staff would cost me my solo in the big performance— and let her take my place. “See? It’s all just an innocent mix-up,” my mom says loudly. “Lucia told us you were out running around with some boy, but of course I said, she has to be mistaken. My daughter would never do something so stupid, isn’t that right, Annalise?” She gives me a fierce glare. “I…no, of course not,” I stutter. The Director frowns. “Where have you been?” he demands. “Your roommates didn’t know where

you’d gone.” I think fast. I haven’t technically broken any rules, but if they knew I’d been sneaking around to see Raphael, it could jeopardize my whole career. They wouldn’t understand that he’s helping my dance, not hurting it. “I was just…out for a walk. Rome is so beautiful at night,” I say, only half-lying. “I love to explore.” Mademoiselle Ninette makes a tutting noise. “By yourself? It’s not safe to be walking the streets alone so late.” “I know, I’m sorry,” I apologize quickly. “I lost track of time.” My mother laughs, a bright jovial sound. “Probably thinking about her performance. I swear, Annalise forgets everything when she’s thinking about her dance. But it is getting late, so we should really be going. My daughter needs plenty of rest for rehearsals tomorrow.” The Director gives me another suspicious look, but like everyone else in the world, he’s no match for my mother. “It’s so good to see you again,” Mom sidles closer and rests a hand on Gilbert’s arm. She gives him an intimate smile, tossing back her long blonde hair. “We’ll have to have dinner and catch up, it’s been too long.” He blinks, distracted by the full force of her charm. “Ah, of course. I’d like that.” “Perfect,” she coos. “Annalise has been singing your praises. Now, don’t you have to check on the other girls? We shouldn’t keep you.” Gilbert and Mademoiselle say goodbye and go upstairs for the curfew bed-check. The minute they’re out of sight, Mom turns back to me. “Go pack your things,” she snaps. “What? Why?” I protest, confused. She stops me with a look. “Don’t act the innocent with me,” she says, her voice as cold as ice. She straightens her Chanel jacket and looks around at the group dorm rooms with disdain. “We may have managed damage control on your useless chaperones, but clearly you need better supervision. I’ve rented an apartment near the studio. You’ll be living with me for the rest of the trip.” My heart falls. “But I don’t want to—” “What you want doesn’t matter anymore. God, Annalise, what were you thinking?” she bursts out. “I lost track of time!” I say again, but she doesn’t buy it for a second. “What’s his name?” she demands, lunging forward and grabbing my arm.

“No one. There’s no one!” I try to pull away. She gives me a shake, and I yelp. “Mom, you’re hurting me!” I cry. She releases me, scornful. “For Christ’s sake, I can smell him all over you.” Her scathing words ricochet through me. I gulp back tears, feeling guilty and shameful. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “Sorry didn’t just save you from getting kicked out of the program—I did.” Mom’s lips press together in a thin line. “You should be grateful I came all this way to support you. I arrived just in time to catch that Lucia girl running around, telling everyone about your wild affairs, and how we needed to call the police before you wound up lying dead in a ditch somewhere.” “Lucia doesn’t care about me, she’s my understudy,” I point out. “The only thing she cares about is taking my slot.” “You think I don’t know that?” Mom sneers. “What I don’t understand is why you would give her any excuse. This is what we’ve been working at for all these years. How could you do this to us? To me?” Guilt crashes through me as I think of everything Mom has done to support me, all the sacrifices she’s made. When I was born, it cut her career as a prima ballerina short: she gave up all her dreams for me, and now this is how I’m repaying her? “I’m sorry,” I whisper, hugging my arms around myself. “I didn’t mean to let you down. I just...” “What? Couldn’t keep your hormones in check long enough to think straight? And Lord knows what this is doing to your body and training.” She casts a critical eye over my body and sneers. “Is he feeding you pasta as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear?” I fold my arms over my chest defensively. “It’s not like that!” I protest. “Raphael is for real—” I stop, realizing just in time what I’ve let slip. But it’s too late. Mom’s eyes flash with anger at the confirmation. “So I was right. This is about a boy.” But Raphael is no boy. He’s all man. “He cares about me,” I add stubbornly. “And I care about him. More than anyone,” I admit, hoping desperately that she could understand. That she’ll put herself in my place for just one minute, and try to see how happy he makes me. But Mom is stony-faced. “You won’t see that boy again,” she declares. “End of discussion.”

I turn, defeated, to the stairs, but she catches my arm. “And don’t think for a second you can get away with sneaking around anymore,” she tells me, her voice steely and low. “It’s over, do you understand?” I clench my jaw, feeling a spark of rebellion. “Do. You. Understand?” Mom demands. There’s no way out of this tonight, and right now, I’m so exhausted I could lay down right here in the hallway and sleep, so instead of arguing, I nod. “That’s my girl.” Mom gives me a sharp nod. “Now get your things and go. I want to run your routine with you before bed. I need to see exactly how much you’ve been slacking off without me.”

2. With Mom breathing down my neck, I spend the next two days on total lockdown. From the moment my alarm goes off in the morning to the second I fall asleep at night, she doesn’t let me out of her sight. She’s there with fruit and protein bars when I get out of the shower¸ lecturing me on conditioning and technique as she walks me to the ballet studio for rehearsals. At lunch, she’s over in the corner of the cafeteria, eating with Gilbert and Mademoiselle, and the minute I’m done with my final session of the day, she’s waiting at the studio doors to accompany me back to the apartment. I spend evenings watching old ballet footage, until finally she gets tired or pops an Ambien and we both go to bed. I miss Raphael so much it hurts. A rebellious part of me wants to tell her everything: how I’ve been secretly training with him to dance as his partner for his big audition next week. That being with him makes me feel so alive, more than any ballet solo ever made me feel. That our passion is indescribable, awakening feelings I’ve never known before. The scene plays in my imagination, tempting me. I could just walk out: tell Mom I won’t follow her crazy rules. I could be free to see him, whenever I want. But every time, I think about what Mom’s given up for my career. She could have been one of the greats, but instead, she had me. And now it’s up to me to continue her legacy, for both of us. She’s been there supporting me every step of the way: from my very first toddler dance class, to my big auditions and performances. She’s poured her skills and talents into helping me, and I’ve become the dancer I am because of her. Ballet isn’t just a hobby to me, it’s in my blood. I want to be great, I want to make her proud, but that yearning is at war with my desire for Raphael. He’s shown me a joy that comes from freedom, from dancing for the love of it, not to meet the perfection of someone else’s standards. But Mom would never understand. To her, ballet is the only thing that matters, and everything else is a distraction. It makes you weak. And she raised me to be stronger than anyone. So I bite my tongue, and follow her rules, throwing myself into rehearsals for my Swan Lake solo. This big gala showcase is my last shot, my chance to prove I can be a professional dancer and rise through the ranks. It’s why I came to Rome at all, to have the chance to dance the big roles I can’t

win back home in New York. But even as I go through the motions, a part of me is far away from the ballet studio, across the city with Raphael. Exploring each other ’s bodies, learning the most erotic dance of all. He texts me in the morning again, as I’m in the locker room getting changed. I sneak my phone from my bag. Are you still under lock and key? I sigh as I text back. Yup. I’m sorry, I can’t get away tonight. How about right now? I wish. After that wistful reply I’m about to turn off my phone, but then I get another message. Rehearsal Room B. I jolt up like I’ve been shocked. Karla gives me a weird look. “You OK?” “Yes!” I yelp. “I just need…my shoes.” She looks down at my feet, and the ballet slippers already laced around my ankles. “My other shoes,” I say quickly. “Be right back.” I duck out of the locker room and slip down the hallway. Studio B is in the back of the building. It’s had a leak dripping from a busted pipe all week, so nobody is around as I open the door and close it quickly behind me. My heart stops. Raphael is waiting in the shadows. Even just pacing back and forth, there’s a grace and power to his movement: lean muscle in motion. He looks up, his expression changing when he sees me standing here. “Raphael—” Before I can even get the word out, he’s striding forward, taking my face in both hands and pushing me back against the wall. He claims my mouth in a fiercely passionate kiss. Oh God. Something ignites in my bloodstream, the craving I’ve almost forgotten since being away from him for so long. I kiss him back hard, reaching to loop my hands around his shoulders, running my fingers over the dense, muscular planes of his back, clutching greedy handfuls of his shirt to yank him closer to

me. As the kiss deepens, his tongue slides hotly into my mouth and I lose track of everything in the world but this. Just this. His body, pressed hard against me. My legs, giving way as I sink into his embrace. The electric touch of his hands roving over me, grasping at my ass and hips, driving his hips insistently into mine. Blood pounds in my ears and I drown in the sensation. The heat, rising, threatening to consume us both. I don’t know how long we’re here, kissing passionately against the wall, but then the sound of laughter and a door slamming far away pierces my haze of desire. I pull back, gasping. “You can’t be here! If they find us…” I trail off, ill at the thought. It would be a scandal, and worse, it could mean the end of my solo performance. “I’m sorry.” Raphael closes the distance between us again, this time to tenderly cradle my cheek. “I couldn’t go another day without seeing you. Touching you…” His fingers trace down my neck and along my collarbone. I shiver, feeling his touch spiral through me, all the way to the tight ache that’s coiled inside, needing him. “We can’t…” I murmur weakly. I drink in the sight of him, his dark hair falling long over his piercing dark eyes. I rest my hands on his chest, not sure whether I want to push him away or drag him back in for another kiss. “Would it be so bad if they knew about us?” Raphael asks, his dark eyes full of worry. I bite my lip. “My mom would freak. I’m supposed to be completely dedicated to my work. They would question my commitment, if I deserved to be dancing lead at all.” “Then I’ll find another partner,” Raphael declares. I gasp. “The audition is three days away! There’s not enough time.” He shakes his head. “I won’t be the cause of your misery, mia cara. You’ve worked too hard for this. I can’t stand in your way.” “No,” I tell him again, louder. “I want to dance with you.” Raphael looks unsure, but my certainty grows. Just being here with him, touching him again, I’m reminded of all the reasons I agreed to partner with him in the first place. This audition could change his life—I can’t wreck it for him now.

“We’ll find a way,” I insist. “My mom has people everywhere here, watching me, but maybe…” “Maybe?” he lifts an eyebrow and I brighten, struck by inspiration. “Between her jet-lag and how early she goes to sleep,” I tell him, “I could meet you later, to practice. We couldn’t go far though, somewhere close to the apartment…” “Does it have a basement? Or a garden?” Raphael asks. “The roof!” I grab his hands, smiling. “There’s a roof garden, it’s private, nobody goes up there. I could tell Mom I was practicing if she found out. And it would be true.” Raphael gives me a dizzying grin. He lifts me suddenly, spinning me around. “Tonight then,” he tells me, setting me back down with a gentle kiss on my forehead. It’s not enough. I tug his shirt, bringing his lips down hard against mine. I savor the kiss for as long as possible, trying to freeze this moment of excitement, possibility. But finally, I have to pull away. “I’ll text you when it’s safe to come over. I can buzz you in the front,” I tell him, backing reluctantly to the door. I’ve been gone too long already. Someone— probably Lucia—will have noticed I’m AWOL by now. “Until then.” Raphael presses a kiss to my palm. His lips curve in a secret smile. “I promise, it’ll be worth the wait.” His words make my pulse skip as I turn and hurry back down the hallway to our rehearsal room. I don’t know how I’ll manage to dance my turns with my head spinning like this, but knowing I’ll see him soon will make the afternoon practice that much sweeter. Soon. Soon, I’ll dance with him again.

3. I nervously go through the motions with Mom at the apartment all evening. I push steamed vegetables around my plate, sit through the taped performances she makes me watch, and don’t even argue when she picks apart my turnout in rehearsal today. But all the while, a rebellious voice inside me is watching the clock. Waiting to make my move. The moment it hits nine o’clock, I fake a yawn. “You know, I’m really worn out from practicing,” I tell her, getting up from the couch. “I’m going to turn in now.” She nods approvingly. “Sleep is important, your muscles need time to recover.” She flips through the TV channels, scanning for something to watch. “You’re not going to bed?” I ask, fighting to sound casual. “Jet-lag,” she sighs. “My body-clock is still upside down. Some nights I’m asleep at eight, the next, it’s two AM. I have my Ambien but I hate relying on them.” “Oh.” I hover in the doorway. “Mademoiselle Ninette was complaining about that too,” I add. “She said it’s better to take a sleeping pill and force your body to reset to local time. Otherwise, the jet-lag could last weeks.” I feel a flash of guilt. It’s true, Mademoiselle told us all to get on a strict sleep schedule, but I still feel bad for deceiving Mom like this. She looks over at me, then nods in agreement. “You know, you’re right.” Mom shuts off the TV and gets up. “I want to be up early to take you through a workout,” she adds, heading to her bedroom. “Your stamina is still behind. A true athlete never stops training.” My guilt melts away. I go to my room and slide under the covers, still dressed in my loose pajama bottoms and a tank top. I’ve decided to meet Raphael in these clothes, so it’s easier to run back downstairs and cover if anything goes wrong. I feel like a kid the night before Christmas, waiting for the coast to clear. I lay there in the dark, my heart racing. Already, I can picture him, my mind flooded with memories of the last time we were together. His mouth sliding over my breast; his fingers working their magic between my thighs. And his tongue, God, his tongue. My cheeks flush hotter, and I feel the

low coil of desire begin to build. My hands move lower, stroking over my hot skin. When I close my eyes, I see him staring back at me: the fevered lust in his gaze, looking at me the way no one else has. Like I’m special. Sexy. Powerful. He says I have a hold on him, but the truth is, it’s me who’s under his spell. He’s shown me a pleasure I never dreamed was possible, and awoke something deep inside me. Now I know, there’s no going back. All I want is more. Finally, I can’t wait any longer. I creep out of bed and down the hallway. I push Mom’s door ajar and peek inside. “Mom?” I whisper, holding my breath. She’s asleep. I tip-toe back to the living room and pull my phone from my bag. All clear, I text. A moment later, the reply comes. I’m here. I go to the security panel and check the video screen. Raphael is at the door. I buzz him in, and then grab a sweater and head for the door. I close it silently behind me, and hurry to meet him on the stairs. “She’s asleep?” Raphael asks, greeting me with a kiss. I nod. “We should be fine for a few hours.” His lips curve in a devastating smile. “But a few hours will never be enough.” His hands slide around my waist. He nudges me back against the wall and dips his head to kiss along my neck. Electricity ricochets through me, and I sink back, already shivering under his lips. We’re alone in the stairway, and already I just want to push him against the wall, or sneak back to my room and make those hours count the best way I can think of. But his audition is in two days, and I know this means the world to him. “Come on,” I say, reluctantly pulling back. I take his hand, and give him a stern look. “Play later. Now, we’ve got work to do.” “Is that a promise?” Raphael laughs.

“Maybe…” “Well,” he murmurs, leaning in for one last kiss. “You can count on me collecting.” He follows me up the spiral staircase higher, past another floor of apartments, until finally we reach the exit to the roof. I push open the door, stepping out onto the flat space. I breathe a sigh of relief. I didn’t have a chance to check it out earlier, and I wasn’t sure if it would suit, but the wide expanse of space is perfect. And the view of the city lights is spectacular. “Did you bring music?” I ask, turning back to Raphael. “We can’t play it loudly in case someone hears, but it would help me keep time.” “Right here.” Raphael sets up his phone, and the familiar chords of his audition piece begin to play. I pause, letting the music wash over me as I try to leave Annalise Taylor the ballerina behind, and inhabit my new role. Strong. Powerful. Sensuous. Raphael takes my hand, and we begin. We practice for hours, until dawn light streaks the sky and we can’t dance another step. I collapse on the low wall at the edge of the roof, looking out as the city slowly comes to life below us. I can’t help thinking of the millions of people down there, living lives I’ve never imagined. “Do you ever think about quitting?” I ask quietly. The moment the words leave my lips, I flush, like I’ve betrayed myself even asking. The other dancers at the Company would think my question was weakness, a sign I’m not cut out for it. And God forbid my mother ever heard those words. But Raphael doesn’t seem to judge me, he just looks out at the city and sighs. “I used to,” he admits. “Back when I told my parents I wanted to dance professionally, it caused them so much grief. My father didn’t think it was respectable,” he explains, his voice heavy with regret. “But my mother, it was worse for her, I think. She wondered how I would support a family, settle down the way she always dreamed for me. I hated disappointing them, and part of me wondered if it would just be easier if I gave it up. Trained to be a lawyer, or a businessman like they wanted. Make everyone happier.” “So why didn’t you?” I ask. I know Mom has been strict my whole life, but I can’t imagine having gotten this far on my own, without her support and encouragement. He chuckles. “Because dance is air to me. Water. Light. I could no more give it up than you could.”

I pause. “I don’t know about that.” I look down, toying with the strap on my shoes. “Sometimes I wonder… what else could I be? Who else could I be? I’ve spent my entire life training to be this perfect ballerina, just doing this one thing, all day, every day, reaching for a goal I never seem to get any closer to. What if there’s something else I love?” I ask, raising my eyes to meet his. “What if there’s a whole different person I could be, if only I’d chosen something different?” Raphael thinks for a moment, and reaches to cup my cheek with his hand. “I’ve seen you dance. Felt you,” he says softly. “I know this is your passion.” “Dancing with you, maybe,” I agree. “Like this. No rules, no pressure, just… free. But the rest of it?” I get a tight feeling in my chest just thinking about it. “Counting every calorie, feeling guilty about every missed practice. We dance until our toes bleed, did you know that?” I ask him, hollow. “The pain is something we’re supposed to live with. Like our success is worth the cost. I just don’t know if it’s worth it anymore. I’ll never be as good as her.” “Your mother?” I nod. “All this time I thought…maybe if I trained hard enough, sacrificed enough, I could make her proud.” Raphael frowns. “But don’t you love it, too?” “I used to.” I sigh. “There were always bad days, but the good ones made up for it, you know? Until they didn’t anymore. I can’t even remember when it shifted. But somewhere along the line, that love got buried under expectations, and pressure, and constantly feeling like I’m not good enough.” I swallow back a sob, embarrassed to be getting so emotional. But the past few weeks have pushed me to a breaking point, and Raphael is the first person to whom I’ve been able to open up and admit the fears that have been swirling in my heart for years. “It will all be OK.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and holds me close. I sink against him, grateful for the feeling, like I’m not totally alone in this anymore. “You don’t know that,” I whisper. “But I do.” Raphael tilts my face up to him. His eyes burn bright with reassurance. “You have a gift, Annalise, but what you choose to do with it, that’s all your choice. Your decision. I know it seems hard,” he adds, “but I believe in you. I know you have the strength to take the right path. No matter what that path is.” His faith makes the knot in my chest ease, just a little. I turn my head and rest it against his shoulder before he can see the tears stinging in the corner of my eyes.

How does he know the right thing to say to me? How can he see a strength in me that I don’t even know is there? He squeezes my shoulders gently and holds me, wordless as we watch the sun rise over Rome, bringing a new day.

4. I plan my escape with military precision. Raphael’s audition is on a Saturday, at 4pm. Usually, I might be able to ask Karla to cover for me; tell Mom we’ve got an extra rehearsal, and then slip out to make the schedule. But Karla is still barely speaking to me after our big fight. I miss her like crazy, but I’m still stinging from the cruel things she said. Even though you know part of it was right… There’s no time to think about it. I’m too busy coming up with a way to sneak off from Mom and the Company for four whole hours without anybody knowing I’m gone. Weekends are still free time, for rest and exploring the city, but with the big performance looming closer, most of us squeeze in an extra few hours of practice. If I could just find a way to shake Mom’s constant shadow… Luckily, my break comes on Saturday morning. I’m warming down from our strength workout in the living room when Mom looks up from her tablet. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” she asks. “I’m meeting Karla at the studio,” I lie. “We’re going to critique each other.” She nods with approval. “Good.” “What about you?” I ask, with a tremor of nerves. Please don’t let her offer to stay and watch too, I silently pray. “I’m going to meet some old friends across the city for lunch and shopping, so I’ll walk you over.” “Great!” I realize too late that my outburst is out of character, so I quickly calm down. “I mean, it’s nice you finally get to enjoy the city. You’ve been so great, working all day with me, but you should have a chance to relax, too.” Mom looks at me with a frown for a moment, then softens. “Of course I’m helping, sweetheart. You know I only want the best for you.” “I know,” I repeat quietly, feeling that knot of guilt return. I focus on the upcoming audition instead; after I text Raphael to say I’ll meet him at the venue, I run through the routine in my head,

over and over again, until I’m sure it’ll be perfect. I don’t want to let him down, but more than that, I want to enjoy every minute of it: get to that point where my brain shuts off and my body takes flight. It’s exciting to be part of his big moment, and I can’t wait to show the judges what we can do—what he can do. And then, I can’t wait for a private performance… I shiver, feeling the same hot surge of exhilaration that comes whenever I think of him. I know I’ve been holding back when we’re together; I didn’t want to rush when it’s my first time ever exploring these feelings, but with every day that passes, our bond deepens. I know him. I trust him. And I want to learn everything his body can teach me. I want it all. By the time Mom walks me to the studio, my nerves are wound up tight. We pause at the front doors, and I wait to slip away. “Look, there’s a cab,” I nod down the street. “You should grab it.” Mom turns to flag it down, just as Karla comes flying around the corner. “Good, you heard,” she says breathlessly. “Heard about what?” “Emergency rehearsal,” Karla says. “Gilbert called the whole company together. He wants us to run from start to finish!” My heart plummets. “Now?” I ask feebly, but of course I know the answer. The full performance runs for two hours at least, not counting breaks and do-overs. I’ll never make it to the audition in time! Karla disappears inside. I linger on the sidewalk, not sure what to do. “Don’t be late,” Mom tells me, nudging me towards the doors. “Gilbert hates tardiness.” She stands, waiting, so I have no choice but to climb the stairs and head inside. I turn in time to see her slide into a cab and drive away, but my feet keep walking, down the hall to the rehearsal studio. What do I do now? The entire company is gathered around the edges of the room, limbering up and getting ready. I find a spot by the wall next to Karla and open my bag. My ballet shoes are nestled beside my heels, the shoes I wear for my routine with Raphael.

I stare at them, torn. The piano accompanist begins to warm up, playing a familiar refrain. Karla stretches beside me, focused, getting her game face on. But my mind is miles away: picturing Raphael waiting at his audition, wondering when I’m going to show. I look around, sick with the choice I’m facing. I should be here. I have to be here. But I need to be with him. Clarity suddenly pierces the fog. I find myself stuffing the ballet shoes back in my back and getting to my feet. “Karla?” I whisper. She turns, her expression still hard. “I have to go,” I murmur. Her eyes widen. “What? Where? Why?” “I just need to go. You don’t have to cover for me,” I add. “Tell them whatever you want. I’m sorry,” I add. “But this is something I need to do.” “Don’t!” Karla grabs my arm. “I know you think he’s important, but you’re risking everything. Nothing’s more important than this,” she vows fiercely. I shake her off. “But it is.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and slip out of the studio, my confidence growing with every step. I push out of the main doors and into the sunshine, my heart pounding. Maybe I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my career, but I can’t leave Raphael waiting. I need to see this through. I’ve made my choice.

5. The dance collective is holding auditions at a big warehouse at the edge of the city. There has to be at least a hundred people here, and all of them look way more confident and cooler than I feel inside. “Are you sure I’m ready?” I murmur anxiously, clutching Raphael’s arm. We’re waiting for his number to be called, and now my nerves are going crazy. Every time I think about what I just did— walking out of rehearsal like that—I feel sick to my stomach. No, I have to block it all out. Nothing matters now except his audition. Raphael rubs my arm, soothing. “You’re ready.” “But that last lift ...” I hear the doubt in my voice and stop. “What am I doing?” I yelp. “I’m supposed to be the one giving you the pep talk, not the other way around.” Raphael manages a smile. “It’s good, you’re distracting me,” he says, holding my hand tighter. “If I stop to think about this, I’ll psych myself out.” “No negative thinking,” I scold him. “You’ve got this. I bet you’re ten times as good as anyone here.” Raphael glances around the waiting room, his eyes skipping over the crowd. “I don’t know ...” he tells me in a low voice. “I know some of these dancers, I’ve seen them around. They’re good. Really good.” “But you’re better.” I squeeze his hand. Raphael squeezes back, but his expression stays anxious. The minutes tick past. “It should be soon,” I reassure him. I watch the couple before us head in, dressed in cool jeans and tight T-shirts. I tug at my outfit, insecure. Raphael is dressed in his blank pants and a black shirt, and I’m wearing a dress I borrowed from Rosalie, knee-length blue with a swirling skirt. It’s supposed to show the line of my movements, whipping out when Raphael spins me around, but compared to all these super-fashionable dancers, I feel overdressed, and old-fashioned, too. Suddenly, Raphael bolts to his feet.

“What is it?” I look up, startled. “Nothing. I think I’m going to get a soda,” Raphael says hurriedly. “But we’re up next!” My protest falls on empty space. Raphael is already striding quickly away. I look around, panicked. The other couple will be out in a minute, so there’s no time for him to go wandering off. I check my watch, anxiously counting the seconds as they pass, willing Raphael to get back in time, but the seat beside me is still empty when the door opens again, and the dancers emerge. This time, they’re all smiles. Clearly, the audition went well. “Fifty-six?” The guy with the clipboard looks around. I leap up. “My partner is just, umm, in the bathroom!” I babble. “I’ll go get him. We’ll be right back!” The guy shrugs, “Sure, but I can only hold your spot a moment. We’ve got a lot of dancers to see.” He checks his board. “Fifty-seven? Fifty-seven, you’re up!” I race down the hall, checking everywhere for Raphael. He’s not by the soda machine, or outside the exit. I catch my breath, growing more desperate by the second. Where the hell is he? This is his big moment, not mine, and I never dreamed for a moment he’d be the one to crack under pressure. I’m just about to head back inside when I catch sight of his familiar figure, pacing restlessly back and forth under a small copse of trees, smoking a cigarette. I hurry towards him. “Raphael? We’re up. They called our number.” Raphael turns toward me. I catch my breath. Fear is painted in harsh strokes on his face, a panic I’ve never seen from him before. “I can’t do it,” he says shortly, stubbing out his cigarette. “Let’s go.” He grabs my arm and makes to leave, but I pull back. “Hey, stop! What’s going on?” I reach up to touch his face, but he flinches away. “Talk to me,” I urge him gently. “You were fine just a minute ago.” “I wasn’t thinking straight.” Raphael’s full lips are set in a heartbreaking scowl. “And now I am. I can’t do it, and I can’t believe I ever thought I could.” “Where is this coming from?” I try to keep my voice soothing, running my hand down his arm. Pre-audition nerves are common in dancers, but I never thought Raphael would want to walk away, not after everything we’ve been through to make it to this point. “You’re ready, more than ready. I know it.”

“You don’t know anything!” Raphael yanks back. “Those dancers in there, they’re the best!” he yells. “Not just in Rome, but from all over Italy. All over Europe! I was stupid to even think I could compete. My father was right,” he adds, in a hollow voice. “I’m making a fool of myself.” The insecurity on his face breaks my heart, and right now, I swear, I could strike his father down for making him feel this way. I can’t imagine how Raphael ever made it out, struggling to pursue his dream in the same house as someone determined to cut it down. He’s worked so hard, been so brave, and now, when that dream is closer than ever, the past is still holding him back. Haunting him. I won’t let him give up. He deserves this chance. “I’ve seen you dance,” I tell him fiercely. “There’s nobody like you. Nobody!” Raphael looks away, avoiding my gaze, so I drag him back, trying to make him listen, trying to make him understand just how special he is. “I’m not saying this because I’m your partner, or because I love you. I’m saying it because it’s true!” I stop, my hand flying to my mouth. What have I just said? My words hang between us, but I can’t take them back. Slowly, Raphael’s expression changes. He takes a step towards me, eyes shining with a dark intensity. “What did you say?” he asks, quiet. I feel my stomach lurch. Oh God. “I ... I ...” I look away, wishing the ground would swallow me up. What the hell were you thinking, Annalise? I scold myself, blushing furiously. It’s way too soon to even think about saying the L-word, let alone right now, when our relationship is the last thing on his mind. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, still not looking at him. “I shouldn’t have—I mean, just ignore it. Please. Pretend like I never said a word.” “But what you just said...do you mean it?” I gulp. I gather all my courage and look up, into those dark eyes that seem to strip away all my fears and make me bold. Make me brave. My heart races, and my words fade in my throat. I nod. Raphael reaches out, gently taking my face in his hands. His eyes search mine, full of wonder and disbelief. “Annalise ...” he whispers, and then his lips find mine in a searing, passionate kiss. I melt into him, overwhelmed with relief and joy. He didn’t run, he didn’t back away. I was so scared my confession would open a chasm between us, but instead, it’s formed a bridge—through his pain and fear, from his heart to mine.

Because it’s true. I didn’t realize until this very minute, but everything I told him comes straight from my soul. While I was busy focused on the dancing, reveling in our connection—the passionate nights, and the easy, laughing days—I’ve fallen in love for the first time. Completely. Totally. And I am his. “I believe in you,” I whisper, holding onto him tightly. “I promise, you can do this. We can do this. Together.” I could stay here forever, just holding him, but I know our time is running out. “Are you ready?” I pull away, looking up at him. “If we’re going to do this, we need to do it now.” Raphael takes a deep breath, then nods. “I think so.” “Not good enough.” I give him a soft, teasing smile. He manages a grin. “I know so.” “Better.” I lean up to kiss him again. “Now, let’s go in there and show them why they can’t live without you.”

6. There are moments of perfection that come along only once or twice in a dancer ’s whole career. The times when the stars align, and their performance somehow becomes more than just the sum of its parts: more than a graceful body and perfect footwork, more than fluid rhythm and effortless lifts. We become weightless, formless, no longer bound by our bodies or the reality of the world; we’re merely vessels for movement, the canvas on which an epic story is painted. Today is that day for me. Dancing with Raphael in front of that panel, I lose myself completely. Every line, every movement is performed just for him, our own private conversation of passion and limitless joy. It’s as if admitting my feelings for him unlocked something deep inside of me, the last cage of self-control that’s been holding me back. Now my heart is naked, totally open to him, and there’s nothing left between us to stop me communicating how I feel, pouring my soul into every step, wild and free and utterly surrendered to this dance. Surrendered to him. And Raphael...he’s right there with me. Answering my call, pushing me on, demanding more from me with his skill and grace. My awareness of him is absolute, feeling every step before he takes it, intuitively moving to his will. He is magnificent, a fallen angel sent to seduce and bewitch, dancing like I’ve never seen before. Time doesn’t exist; the four walls of the room mean nothing. All that matters is the two of us, dancing together as one. One heartbeat, one will, one soul. It’s perfection, a dream, to share my passion like this—to make it something greater with him than I ever felt dancing alone. I dance with him like I’ve only ever dreamed of dancing. And I know I’ll never be the same again.

7. Raphael We stumble from the building and down the street, drunk on each other, on the performance we just gave. We were perfection. Every move, every touch, I’ve never felt so in tune with another person. It was as if the world melted away, and it was only the two of us, a raw energy that couldn’t be denied. “I can’t believe it,” Annalise laughs, looking as euphoric as I feel. “That was...incredible! Amazing! I don’t even have the words!” I grab her waist and lift her, spinning us around until the world is just a blur. She shrieks with laughter, clutching at me. “You were amazing,” she says, as I set her down. “No, you were.” I cradle her face in my hands. How does she do this to me? How does she unleash such passion? “God, watching you...it was like I wasn’t a separate person anymore. I was with you. Inside you.” Annalise’s eyes widen. Lust strikes through me, but before I can take another step, she’s pressing her perfect body against me, reaching up to kiss me hungrily. I groan at the press of her soft, wet lips, the slide of her tongue against mine. Fuck, she’s incredible. I kiss her hard and fast, pushing her back off the main sidewalk and into the shelter of an alleyway. My hands rove, my mouth demands. More. Annalise lets out a breathy sigh, swaying against me. It’s not enough. I shove her up against the wall, and then cover her body again, pressing her soft frame into the brick, molding every inch to me as I slide my tongue deeper and savor every taste of her. She clutches at my shoulders, whimpering as I slide my hands under her jacket. I find her breasts, the perfect swells of flesh, and drag my thumbs across her tight nipples, teasing and rolling the stiff peaks until Annalise shudders and mewls under my touch. She writhes against me, mindless. God, she’s so beautiful, the hunger in her eyes mirroring the fierce heat surging through my body. I don’t care that we’re just steps away from the street, I need

more. I need to watch her come undone. I slip one hand between her thighs and find her clit through the thin fabric of her dress. Annalise’s eyes open, widening with shock—and desire. “We can’t,” she gasps weakly, even as her body arches up to press harder against my hand. “People might see...Raphael...” I circle slowly with my thumb, gently, and then move my lips to lick down the pale column of her throat as I tease one nipple with my other hand. Annalise whimpers, bucking against me. “Oh God,” she moans, “I can’t—” “You can,” I murmur. “You will. Just let go, my sweet. Let your body feel it all.” Her head falls back. Her hips arch up to meet me. I stroke her clit faster, deepening the pressure, watching the thrilled pleasure on her face. “Anyone could find us here,” she gasps, a wild light in her eyes. “Yes,” I growl, sliding her dress higher on her thighs. I need more, nothing between us anymore. “Anyone could see you like this. See my hands on you. How much you want it.” “Raphael,” she gasps. “You do want it, don’t you?” I still my hand, barely stroking, teasing her. She makes a noise of complaint. “Tell me.” My fingers find the edge of her lace panties. I push them gently aside, brushing her slick, tender nub. “Oh God,” she gasps, bucking against me. “Tell me,” I order her again, sliding closer, teasing at her damp core. She’s wet, ready for me, her body demanding what her lips cannot express. But I want to hear her say it. I need that surrender. “I’m waiting…” I whisper, dipping a finger just an inch inside her, then sliding out to circle her clit again. I feel her body shudder, feel the tension gripping in her thighs. I lower my lips, kissing hotly over her neckline, flicking at one pert nipple with my tongue. Annalise breaks. “Yes!” she cries, not even trying to keep quiet any longer. “I want it. Please!” I sink my finger into her wetness and pulse, hard.

Annalise collapses against my shoulder, moaning a strangled cry as I slide deeper, surging into her needy channel. Fuck, she feels so good, so tight. I can barely keep it together, but I need to push her over the edge. Nothing else matters but the soft cries of pleasure from her lips, and the way her body trembles against me. I press the heel of my palm against her clit, fluttering my finger deeper inside her. “Come for me,” I growl into her ear, demanding her release. Annalise gasps, and then her whole body goes stiff as she finally shatters, convulsing madly around me with a breathless moan. I milk her orgasm until the tremors die away. Then slowly, I pull my hand away, lift my finger to my lips and suck. She tastes divine. Annalise blinks at me, her cheeks flushed. “I…” she stammers, still catching her breath. “God, the look on your face when you’re losing control...” I watch her, her innocence unraveling, the passion showing through. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” Her smile slips for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve pushed her too far. “Take me home,” she tells me. My heart falls. Fuck. “Right, sure. You need to get back.” “No,” she stops me, with a secret smile. “Your home.” I look at her. There’s only certainty in her eyes now, certainty and pure desire. I realize, it’s time. Time for me to fulfill every promise I’ve been making, and show her why her body was really created, all the heights of ecstasy it can provide. Tonight, we will dance, and nothing will be the same.

8. Annalise We head back to his apartment in silence, the sexual tension between us growing so strong I can barely focus enough to put one foot in front of the other. Every touch from him feels like an avalanche; even the press of his hand against the small of my back, ushering me into the lobby, sends shivers of desire through me. I can’t believe what just happened in the alleyway. To be so wild and reckless, where anyone could see… But that was part of the thrill, the rebellion. The craving for him took me over, until all that mattered was the rush in my blood, and his mouth on my breast, and the deep slide of his finger taking me to the edge—and beyond. And now? Now, every atom of my body is calling out to him, suspended in a shivering state of anticipation for everything to come. Raphael yanks the elevator cage shut and hits the button, then backs into the far corner, putting as much space as possible between us. His eyes burn into mine and he grips the railing that runs around the inside of the elevator like he’s holding himself back from tearing my clothes off, right here, right now. Oh God. I feel my nipples harden under my dress. His gaze roams over me, stripping me bare, dark and sweet as molasses. I shiver. “Raphael...” I murmur, my heart in my throat. Our eyes lock, and the intensity there takes my breath away. He wants me just as much as I ache for him, and soon— The elevator jerks to a halt, and then Raphael’s hand is on my arm, dragging me down the hallway. He doesn’t stop until we’re inside, and the door slams shut behind us. Silence. I look around the room, nervous now that we’re here. Alone. The bed sits in the corner, full of promise. My nerves kick. I turn back to Raphael, self-conscious. What am I supposed to do now? “Come here,” Raphael tells me, his voice deep with lust. He holds out a hand, beckoning me. I take a step toward him, my heart pounding.

Raphael reaches out, and slowly traces a line down my cheek, down the sensitive skin of my throat. I feel myself trembling under his stare, caught in his hypnotic gaze. “I’ve wanted you since the first day I saw you,” he murmurs, tracing along my collarbone. “Do you remember? I was dancing, and you stood there in the crowd, looking like an angel. So innocent,” he breathes, gently hooking his thumb under the thin strap of my dress. “So perfect.” He lifts the strap aside, sliding it off my shoulder. The bodice peels away from my chest, falling to expose my left breast. Raphael exhales, drinking in the sight of me with hungry eyes. “Now look at you,” he slowly traces lower, over the swell of my flesh, sending shivers like silver cobwebs across my skin. “More beautiful than I could have ever imagined.” Raphael dips his head and slowly licks around my nipple. I gasp. His tongue blazes, hot and rough against my skin, teasing me with a new heat that sends liquid pooling between my thighs. “You taste like peaches,” he growls, reaching to unhook my other strap. The dress falls around my waist, baring my chest completely. “God, so sweet.” Raphael slowly kisses across to my other breast, his tongue circling the tender flesh in a light caress. Then he closes his lips around my nipple and sucks. I cry out in pleasure, the sound echoing in the empty loft. But I don’t care. I sway against him, and Raphael braces my body upright. He sucks my nipple again, dragging his tongue against the tight nub, his hand closing around my other breast to lightly squeeze and pinch. My God, the feeling is overwhelming, a rich, sharp ache that has me arching against his mouth, drowning in sensation. Raphael lifts his head, his breath coming fast. He swiftly strips down the rest of my dress, lifting me aside to let it crumple on the floor. Now I’m shivering with anticipation, barely able to stand before him, wearing nothing but a pair of lace panties. Raphael waits, his eyes glazed, watching me. Then slowly, he sinks to his knees. My heart skips a beat as Raphael leans closer, sliding his thumbs up under the fabric of my panties. He tugs them lower, lower, all the way down, and now there’s nothing between us anymore. I can feel his breath on me, hot and slow, and I shudder, dizzy, unable to look away from the sight of his dark head, bent toward me, gently kissing up the inside of my thighs. I sway, heat rising in me, aching for his touch. As if he can hear my silent pleas, Raphael glances up, catching my eyes, and then, not looking away, licks up along my clit in a long, gorgeous swoop. Fuck. I gasp, clutching onto his head for balance, my legs going weak. Raphael grips my hips harder, holding me steady, and licks again, this time delving his tongue into my slit, sliding over me, circling the tight, aching heart of me with a slow, relentless friction that has me moaning beneath his touch.

It’s too good. Every nerve in my body alive and screaming out for more. Pleasure rolls through me, thick and sweet, as Raphael’s tongue continues his wicked work. He teases me, never letting me settle into the rhythm, and every time I feel the wave start to rise, he’s gone: probing his tongue inside, swirling across my nub, closing his lips around me to nip and suckle again. I can’t take it, it’s all too much. My legs buckle and I fall against him. “Raphael...” I manage to gasp. I feel like I’m coming undone, and all the while, desire still burns. Aching, needing him. A raging hunger that can’t be satisfied, not yet. Not like this. Raphael stops and meets my gaze. His jaw is clenched, his body taut with tension. “This is your choice,” he says. “Tell me what you want and it’s yours.” “You,” I shudder. I’ve never wanted anything more. “All of you.” He rises to his feet and lifts me like I’m nothing, carrying me across to the bed in a few short strides. I fall back into the soft covers, and then he’s looming above me, stripping off his shirt and pants until his bronzed body is clad only in underwear, the hard ridge of his desire clearly outlined through the fabric. I catch my breath, and a small part of my brain flashes red with nerves at the size of him. How will I possibly take all of that? But the hunger takes over. I pull him toward me and slide my hands across his magnificent body to touch and feel every inch of muscle and smooth, velvet skin. He feels incredible. Raphael groans, thrusting against me. I part my thighs, drawing him closer. His fingers find me, dancing between the apex of my thighs again, and the pleasure is insane. I cry out, biting down on his shoulder as his fingers delve deeper, curling up inside me. One finger, pulsing into me, then two, stroking until I’m mindless, my head thrown back as I clutch on to him for dear life. But it’s not enough. I need to feel him, too. I reach for his cock, closing my fingers around the hard length of him, tugging him closer, but Raphael suddenly pulls away, rocking back on his heels to strip off his underwear and pull a foil packet from the bedside stand. His eyes find mine, never leaving me as he slides on the condom and positions himself between my thighs. My heart catches in my throat and I tense up. “Hey,” Raphael whispers, leaning down to capture my lips in a kiss. “It’s OK. I promise.” “I know.” I blush, embarrassed. I must seem so naive to him, such an inexperienced girl. “I just...I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, you do.” Raphael’s mouth moves to my ear, his sexy accent sending shivers down my spine. “Listen to your body.” He strokes across my stomach, leans to kiss my breast. I gasp, the tension in me slowly unwinding at the touch of his mouth, his hands, his body against my skin. “Just let go, the way you did before,” he murmurs, his touch slipping lower, between my thighs as he braces himself above me. “Let go, and dance.” He touches me softly until my body is liquid, my insecurities drowned out by the desire that beats louder, until it’s a crescendo, and the only thing in the world that can calm the desperate ache is him. Right now. Inside me. I pull his face to mine, kissing him hard as I open my thighs and arch up in a silent invitation. Slowly, he pushes inside. Oh God. I’m overwhelmed by unfamiliar sensations. There’s an ache, a sharp pain as I feel him start to fill me, but suddenly he’s pulling back, his body clenched with tension. I look up at him, confused. “Is something wrong?” I whisper. Raphael smiles tenderly, but I can see the ragged control in his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he mutters. “You won’t.” I rise up against him again, pressing my body to his. “I trust you. Please.” My voice wavers on my final plea. I don’t want to go slow, or hold back anymore. I want to fall, to feel it, all of him. Everything. Raphael’s eyes flash, and he kisses me hungrily, a desperate, searching kiss. His body surges into mine again, deeper, so much deeper this time. The pain is sharper, more intense, the hard length of him splitting me open, filling me up. It’s almost more than I can stand, and he stops again, still buried deep inside. “Is this OK?” he growls, lifting his head above me. I gasp, feeling myself stretch around him to accommodate his thickness. The pain is dulling, and in its place, there’s a new ache, needy and wanting. I flex around him, testing. “Oh God,” Raphael groans, crumpling the bed sheets in his fist. “You’re so tight. Jesus, you feel so fucking good!” He starts to withdraw again, slowly sliding out, and I’m shocked at the absence I feel where he leaves me. I make a noise of protest, sliding my hands down over his back and arching up against

him, desperate to keep him here inside. Raphael’s eyes go dark. He slams me back onto the bed and thrusts up into me, all the way to the hilt. I cry out, feeling him deep, so fucking deep inside I lose all sense of where I end and he begins. There’s only the two of us now, joined as one, the surge of him inside me, and my answering thrusts. I clutch at him, feeling my way through the unknown, letting my body take over, as if it’s danced these steps a thousand times. Suddenly, Raphael rolls our bodies so I’m above him now, bearing down on him. His body rises up to meet me, slamming new waves of pleasure through me with every stroke. Sweet Jesus. I rock against him, moaning, and oh! The pressure hits me inside and out, a new wicked angle, right there, sending the black glitter rushing through my veins. Every movement spreads the pleasure, pulling me higher, driving me faster. Raphael’s eyes are locked on mine, a mirror of wild abandon. I can hear myself whimpering as I rise up and plunge down again, clenching around him, every thrust sending me hurtling closer to the edge. I’m rising, rising, but it’s too far—I’m drowning in sensation, overcome. “Don’t stop, baby,” Raphael growls, his fingers digging hard into my hips. “Move with me, feel it, right there.” He surges up inside me again and it feels so good, more than words could ever describe. Raphael grabs my wrists, flipping us suddenly to pin me down against the bed. His mouth captures mine in a relentless kiss as his body crashes into me, driving me hard into the mattress with an animal thrust that sends my mind shattering into a thousand pieces. I scream, arching back, thrusting up to meet him. I’m falling apart, nothing but sensation and desperate need. Raphael answers my cries with another ragged kiss. His hands are on me everywhere, his cock plunging, hard and relentless, thick and sweet inside me, hitting everywhere, hitting just right. “Raphael,” I sob, writhing beneath him, begging for something, but I don’t even know what. “Please!” He rises up, pushing my legs back, locking my ankles up behind his neck as he strokes inside me again, deeper than ever before, hitting a new burst of pleasure, high inside me. Jesus! I arch back, clutching the headboard, holding on for dear life, needing him to fill me up. Raphael slides out and rocks into me again, all the way in, finding that sweet spot, so fucking deep I lose my mind. I thrust against him, trying to force his rhythm, but Raphael just pins me down with one hand, his eyes locked on mine, slowly sliding out and plunging back into me, fucking me with deep, precise strokes.

I’m crying out, not caring about anything but the fire in my bloodstream, the sharp rising tide, and the feel of him, only him, so thick inside me, driving me out of myself, into the blackness, past the edge of sanity and reason, teetering on the edge of chaos. “Annalise,” Raphael gasps. His beautiful face is wild, his eyes blazing with desperate need. “God, Annalise!” He slides out of me again, so so slow, and then suddenly drives into me hard. I scream, pleasure bursting like fireworks through my body. Raphael rocks again, slow, too slow, and then pistons hard, slamming me back into the mattress with the force. Fuck! He slams into me again, harder still, and I rise up to meet him, clawing, reckless, biting down on his neck as he crashes into me, driving deep, faster now, sweeping me up in his torrid rhythm until I’m raging, consuming him as he devours me, our bodies strung out and hurtling together toward the brightness, a supernova in the night’s sky. “Look at me.” He tilts my face back up, eyes level with mine. I stare back, completely helpless. Raphael’s dark gazes pierces into me, all the way to my soul, as his body demands all I have to give. The intimacy shatters my last resistance, and I feel the pressure rise, cresting, the first wave of ecstasy rushing through my skin. I open my mouth in a silent scream, but he won’t let me look away; holding me, forcing me to give him everything, the last barriers between us falling away as I feel him shudder in my arms. Raphael’s eyes widen and he cries out, a desperate, animal sound that’s the last thing I register before the pleasure finally rips my world apart, blotting out the sun and slamming through my body in a tidal wave of pure sensation that crashes, over and over, until there’s nothing left of me. Only us. Only him. My love.

9. I spend most of the night with Raphael, learning his body by heart, but I know I can’t hide here forever. “Will you be OK?” Raphael frowns, tenderly touching my cheek in the doorway. I shrug. “I don’t know. Walking out of practice like that was a big deal. There’ll be consequences for sure. And my mother…” I shiver at what her reaction will be. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Don’t be.” I lift my gaze. “I’m not sorry about a single thing that happened.” My lips curl into a grin. I can’t help smiling. Even with all my worries, I still feel like I just learned to fly. Raphael pulls me in to steal another kiss. “When can I see you again?” “I’m not sure. Soon, I hope.” I breathe in the scent of him, trying to commit him to memory. “I’ll text you when the coast is clear.” “Good luck.” He kisses me one last time before I pull away and head down in the elevator. It’s late, so I catch a cab across the midnight city back to Mom’s apartment, trying to keep hold of this happiness before it all comes crashing down. Walking out like that was reckless, but I don’t regret a single choice. Being with Raphael today was the right thing to do, and now I guess I’ll just have to face the music. I punch in the security code, and climb the ornate staircase up to the apartment. The door is locked, and I silently turn my key, praying that Mom is still in bed. But of course, she isn’t. Every light is on when I step into the apartment. Mom sits, waiting on the couch. I take a few steps into the room, and let my bag fall to the floor. Her face is pinched, but I can see the anger radiating from every muscle in her slim body. I gulp.

Her eyes flick over me from head to toe. I flush, wondering if she can tell. “Well,” she says at last. “I hope he was worth it.” I cringe. “Mom—” “No.” She cuts me off, rising to her feet. “Nothing you could say right now will make up for what you just did. Do you realize what you’ve thrown away?” Her voice rises, shrill with anger. I hate that it’s come to this, that there’s no way forward without hurting someone. Mom, or me. That I have to choose between betraying everything I’ve worked for in the ballet, and following my heart. “I love him,” I say quietly, fighting back tears. But my mother looks at me like I’m a stranger. “You don’t know what love is.” She stabs a finger at me. “Love is dedication and commitment to your craft. Love is training day after day, until finally you make it to the top!” “No,” I shake my head. “It’s not the same. I love dance, I do, but this is something else—” “There is nothing else!” She raises her hand and then there’s a crack of pain, sharp against my cheek. I reel back in shock. “You don’t understand,” she continues, her slender frame shaking with anger. “You don’t know what I gave up, what I sacrificed—” “But I do!” I cry, fighting back the tears. “Mademoiselle told me, about why you quit performing. I know that I’m the reason. And I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry, but I can’t live your dreams for you!” There’s silence. “What are you talking about?” Mom stares at me. “You weren’t my reason for quitting,” she tells me clearly, her face twisting with a note of self-loathing. “You were my excuse. And there’s not a single day that goes by when I don’t regret giving up.” What? “I was weak,” she tells me, her tone bitingly cool. “I was at the top, I had everything, and I couldn’t take it. All I could see were people coming for me, knives out. God, those bitches would have done anything to take my spot. It was mine,” she says fiercely. “I earned it, I deserved it. But I didn’t know how to hold on.” She pauses. “I didn’t have a mother like you, you see.” Mom fixes me with a sharp look. “Mine was ordinary, pedestrian. She just wanted me to be happy,” she mimics the words, mocking the woman who had always had a kind word for me, a hand-knit sweater, a soft hug on her lap as we

watched the afternoon cartoons. “She didn’t realize there are more important things in life, like being the best. I should have never listened to her. I should have done anything to stay at the top. But I walked away.” The walls are caving in on me. I fight to breathe. Everything I thought I knew is crumbling. “I don’t understand,” I stammer. “What happened?” Mom’s face is pinched, a mask of regret. “I saw what happened to dancers past their peak. How they try to cling to their former glory. It’s pathetic. The whispers, the steady demotions, until finally somebody pulls you aside and suggests you take a step back from performing, focus on being an ambassador for the art instead.” Her voice is scathing. “I was scared that would happen to me, that people would gossip about how the great Meredith Taylor had lost her form and didn’t know when to quit. But if I got pregnant...” A victorious smile plays across her lips. “Nobody could hold it against me then. Everyone would understand.” I stare at her, wordless. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I always thought she’d wanted me— enough to risk her dancing, enough to risk everything. And instead... Instead, I was just an escape route. A way to preserve her precious dancing legacy, to silence the critics and still go out on top. “But Mademoiselle said…she said having me was the reason you never danced the same again. Because you had something in your life that you loved more than ballet.” Mom looks at me with pity in her eyes, and then I see it: the cool blue clarity, unreachable. Untouchable. “I will never love anything in this world more than ballet.” Her voice cuts through me like a shard of ice. “And if you’re the daughter I raised, then neither will you.” My heart breaks. Mom’s face flashes, and I can tell she regrets what she’s said. “I’m only telling you this for your own good,” she adds quickly. “Now go to bed,” she says shortly, looking away. “You have rehearsal in the morning. I covered with Gilbert, said you were sick. But you can’t miss another performance, do you hear me? This is your last chance.” I don’t answer. Everything’s falling apart, everything I thought I knew disintegrating beneath my feet. I can’t think straight, can barely see through the tears stinging my eyes. Mom reaches for me, but I flinch away. “Trust me, Annalise, this boy...he’s not worth it.” Her expression turns beseeching. “Sooner or later, he’ll let you down, and then what will you do? It’ll be too late. You’ll have sacrificed too much. You can’t take these things back once they’re done. I know,

I’ve been there, and there’s not a single day that passes I don’t regret it.” “Regret me.” I say, with a shaking voice. “You mean, regret me.” “Annalise—” I turn and flee for my bedroom, locking the door behind me and sinking onto the bed in tears.

10. I don’t sleep. All I can hear is Mom’s voice echoing in my head. “I will never love anything in this world more than ballet.” All these years I’ve tried so hard to make her proud, but it’s been in vain. I always thought that if I made it into the Company, if I won those solos, if I danced as well as her, then maybe it would make her happy, and she would finally be proud of me. Now, I realize with a sinking heart, I might never make her happy. Because the very fact that I’m here, alive, is a constant reminder of everything she gave up. When she looks at me, she doesn’t see her daughter, she just sees her own weakness and mistakes—the one thing she would take back if she could ever do it over again. She wishes I’d never been born. By the time dawn breaks outside the windows, I’m sick with emotion. There’s only one person who can help me make sense of this. Raphael. I try his cell phone, but there’s no reply. He mentioned he was on the breakfast shift at the restaurant, so I scramble into a sweater and jeans and make my way across town. People give me a wide berth on the street and buses, glancing sideways as I sniffle and try to keep it together, but by the time I reach the restaurant, my tears are coming in hot, desperate sobs. All I want is to be in Raphael’s arms, for him to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be OK. I quickly wipe my face and take a shaky breath, tapping on the front door. It’s early, and the restaurant is still closed to customers, but I can see Luca inside helping set up the morning service, and I know Raphael will be here somewhere, too. Luca lets me in, looking surprised. “Annalise, is everything OK?” I shake my head, knowing that if I try to explain, I’ll just fall apart again. “Is Raphael here?” “Sure, he’s out back,” Luca nods. “Go right through.” I put my head down and hurry through the restaurant. Luca’s family wave and greet me, but I don’t pause. I can’t. It’s taken everything I have to get here, and now I just need Raphael, more than anything in the world.

I push through the back door and step out into the alleyway behind the restaurant. I see Raphael and open my mouth to call to him, but then I see who he’s with, and my heart stops. Francesca.

11. I stare into the tiny alleyway in disbelief. Raphael and Francesca. It can’t be. But it is. He’s dancing with her, and not just any steps. The routine Raphael choreographed just for his audition. Just for us. He’s smiling down at her like they’re the only two people in the world, his hands tight around her waist, guiding her body into place as they spin and move across the cobbled street. Francesca gazes up at him, and the connection between them is undeniable—sensuality shimmering in the air between them, radiating from every step. I feel a chill wash through my body, paralyzing me. I know what it feels like to be where she’s standing, to fall into his arms like this. They couldn’t be more intimate if I’d walked in on them having sex. The door slams shut behind me. Raphael looks up. “Annalise!” he exclaims, leaping back from her. And if seeing them dance together wasn’t bad enough, then the look on his face now is enough to break my heart. Guilty. “What’s going on?” I whisper, suddenly feeling too weak to stand. I reach out a hand, clutching onto the wall for support. “What are you doing with her?” “I was teaching her the steps,” Raphael gulps. He shoots an anxious look at Francesca, then back at me. “But...why?” I blink, trying not to lose it. “Because I’m his partner again,” Francesca answers for him, giving me a triumphant look. I stare. “Is that true?” He looks down. “I was going to tell you. I got a message, from the Collective. They asked me to a call-back. Only, it’s a week from now. Your opening night. I knew I could never ask you, so...” Francesca steps forward beside him, sliding her hand possessively around his arm.

“He came to me, and begged me to dance with him,” she says smugly. “He realized he made a mistake picking you, he said he couldn’t do it without me—” “That’s not how it is!” Raphael interrupts, but I already feel ill, just listening to her. “Annalise, listen, let me explain.” He takes two paces toward me. I flinch back. “Is she telling the truth?” I swallow back tears, waiting, hoping for him to say something to make all of this OK. “Did you ask her to replace me?” “No, I mean yes, but it’s not like that!” Raphael looks anguished, but all I can see is the image of them dancing together, a perfect couple. A few hours ago that was me in his arms, and now he has Francesca there, like it meant nothing at all! “So what was I?” I demand, anger coming now, hot in my veins. “A place-holder? Some temporary fling until she came back to you? Or maybe that’s what we all are—disposable partners, for you to pick up and put down whenever you want!” “You’re not listening to me.” Raphael closes the distance between us and takes my hands in his, staring into my eyes. “I did this for you. I could never ask you to choose between me and your dance.” “But you did!” I cry, fury and wretched misery crashing through me in a torrent of grief. How did I not see this coming? How could I ignore all the warnings? “The moment you asked me to be your partner, I made a choice. Do you even know what I’ve given up for you?” I demand, thinking of the rehearsal hours I sacrificed to be with him, all the sneaking around and lies. And now, my very place in the company is hanging by a thread, and all because I fell for his charm, threw myself headfirst into his embrace. “God, Raphael, you don’t even know. I risked everything!” “I do know,” he tells me, still holding me tight. “That’s why I went to Francesca. So you wouldn’t have to dance both parts anymore. You can focus on your ballet, and we can be—” “There is no ‘we’!” I wrench away from him, sobbing. “You chose her and you didn’t even tell me, you just dumped me like I don’t mean a thing to you.” “You’re not listening!” Raphael argues, but I am. I’m finally remembering everything he’s said to me—and all the things he hasn’t. And the fact that he never said he loves me. Not even close. Staring at him, feeling the shiver of doubt snake through me, I realize the truth. I told him that I love him, I showed him: last night, I made love to him with my body and my soul, but he never said it

back to me, not once. Oh God. What have I done? I feel my heart break clean in two. I’ve been blind all this time, believing we were more than what we really are. My mom was right. He let me down. And now? Now what will I do? I back away from him, shaking. “What was I to you?” I beg, still holding out hope. “Your partner? Your lover? Or just some stupid American slut who gave it up to you without even...without...” I can’t take it anymore. My voice breaks with grief. “Annalise, don’t say that. Please, you don’t understand!” Raphael starts after me, but I shove him away. “Answer me!” “This isn’t about us,” Raphael implores me, “this audition, it’s my chance. And you’re so busy, with your own rehearsals...” He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t even realize his betrayal. But he’s a dancer, after all: the work comes first, and everything else is negotiable. Second-best. I was second-best, I realize with an aching resignation. My insecurities come raging to the surface, a bleak whirlwind of despair. You’re not perfect, not to him. You’ll never be good enough. “I should have listened,” I weep. “To my mom, to everyone. They warned me, but I believed. I believed in you.” I give one last look at him, at those dark eyes that seduced me, at the body that transported me to paradise and back, and then I flee. “Annalise! Annalise!” I ignore the sound of his cries echoing after me and I run, blinded by tears, torn apart by grief. I run.

12. I don’t know how I make it back across the city to the rehearsal studios; it’s all I can do to keep from sinking down on the nearest park bench to weep. But as the streets pass me by, morning traffic fading to a blur, my anguish hardens into a resigned numbness. You should have listened. They were right, all along. I risked everything, and he betrayed me. I was just a dancer to him, a brief fling to be discarded when someone better, stronger, more beautiful came back around. I wanted so much to believe that what we had was special, but all along, it was just another dance to him: passionate steps, and gasping, pleasure-filled nights. He was going through the motions of love, but there was nothing more behind his movements. Stupid girl. You stupid fucking girl. I reach the studio and slowly climb the stairs. The dressing room is empty, and I can hear the sound of music from down the hall, so I quickly change into my practice leotard and tights, tightly wrapping the ribbons of my pointe shoes up my legs. The door bursts open. My mom hurries in. “Where have you been?” she demands, careful to keep her voice hushed. “I told you, you’re hanging by a thread here. I just spent the last hour promising the earth to these fools to stop them from cutting you out of the program right away. Why didn’t you—” She stops, taking in my expression. Concern flits across her face. “What happened?” She moves to touch my arm, but I jerk away. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Sweetheart—” “I said no!” I clench my jaw fiercely. “You were right, OK? About Raphael, about everything. Are you happy now?” Her face drops. “I only ever wanted the best for you, you know.” “No,” I correct her, meeting her gaze head-on. “You wanted me to be the best. There’s a difference.” I swallow back my tears, pushing past her, out into the studio. I slink in the back and take my

position at the barre, avoiding Mademoiselle’s questioning gaze. I try to block everything from my mind now, all my pain and hurt, and focus on nothing but my body, and the steps, and preparing for the performance that’s now the most important thing in my life. The only thing left in your life. No! I grit my teeth and hold back the tears. Falling apart now would mean failure, nothing but foolish weakness, and I’m not going to be that stupid, weak girl anymore. My mother raised me better than this, she raised me to be perfect, and now, after everything, I’m not going to let her down. I’m going to prove to Gilbert and the company that I deserve this part. I’m going to prove to myself that Raphael doesn’t matter. He can’t hold me back or distract me anymore. It’s over. He’s out of my life. And now I have to make sure that the only thing damaged by my stupidity is my heart, not my career. Because what my mother taught me is true. I should never have loved anything more than dance. And now that I’ve learned my lesson, I know I never will.

13. “The feathers aren’t right.” My mom plucks at my costume disapprovingly. Dress rehearsal has just finished, and everyone else is filing out of the theater, but she’s still arguing with the wardrobe mistress over my outfit. “They don’t billow the way they should, and we need more yardage in the skirt.” “Mom...” I sigh, exhausted. All I want to do is fall into bed, and instead, I’m stuck up on this stool backstage among the tangle of electrical cables and props, with the poor seamstress jabbing pins into every spare limb. “The feathers are fine.” “Fine won’t cut it.” Mom gives me a look. “You need to be breathtaking, enchanting, a regal swan queen. Not a mangy old duck from Central Park,” she adds, giving the wardrobe assistant a glare. I mouth a silent ‘sorry’ and stand patiently, until she’s pinned and tucked an extra layer to my skirt. For the last week, I’ve been in the middle of a swirl of wardrobe fittings and last-minute rehearsals, surrounded by people with barely a moment to myself. I’m grateful. If I was left alone, I wouldn’t be able stop myself from thinking about him, and that hurts too much. It hurts too much to bear. Even like this, the time has dragged past, an eternity. Every minute I’m apart from him, I feel it; every second knowing he’s out of my life fills me with a heavy ache. I should be excited, nervous, anything other than numb, but it’s like there’s a sheet of smudged glass dividing me from everyone else: dimming the lights, keeping me separate and detached no matter how much noise clatters around me. Mademoiselle praised me for it. She said I had a wonderful temperament, keeping so calm when other dancers were having mini freak-outs and anxious fights. I didn’t tell her that it felt more like a curse than a blessing—that I wasn’t capable of feeling anything but misery. The seamstress pins for a few more minutes as I wait. “Better.” Mom casts a critical eye over me, then nods. “Thank you, Cybil,” she adds, suddenly all smiles and honey. “I know I’m a nightmare, but what can I do? This is my sweetheart’s big debut.” She gives me an exaggerated hug, and finally, Cybil smiles. “You must be so excited. I’ll have this all fixed for the morning.” “You’re a gem!” Mom calls after her as she packs up and goes.

We’re left alone in the chaos of the backstage space. “Always be nice to makeup and wardrobe,” Mom advises me. “I forgot once, and had sharp words with mine back when we were doing Sleeping Beauty. I wound up looking like a horror movie, all white skin and dark shadows under my eyes. I was supposed to be well-rested!” I step down off the stool and reach for a wad of cotton wool and the tub of cold cream. Slowly, I wipe away the harsh makeup, watching my ordinary face show through the layers of powder and eyeliner. Mom putters around the dressing room behind me, straightening up things, and checking my pointe shoes. “So... how was I?” I finally ask. “You saw the whole thing. What did you think?” Mom pauses. “You’ll get there,” she says, and my heart falls. I know what that means. Not good enough. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, but she’s already launched into her laundry list of criticisms. “You need to keep your arm up,” she tells me, her tone brisk. “It drops every time you hit the halfway point on the spins, and it throws your whole line off. And the lifts are still lagging,” she adds. “I know Gregor doesn’t have the strength you need, but I tried to have them cast Alexis and they wouldn’t listen. No matter,” she continues, not noticing I haven’t said a word. “You’ll just have to jump the extra height when he releases you, to make it look right. And don’t drift upstage—you need to keep your position, even if the corps hit their marks wrong...” I tune her out, staring at my reflection, sadness aching in my chest. I remember dancing the steps for Raphael in his apartment, how much joy and meaning I poured into every beat. Out there, on the stage, it wasn’t the same. I was going through the motions, and nothing I do seems to break me out of this wretched numbness. “Annalise?” I hear my name repeated, and lift my head. “I said, are you ready to go?” Mom looks impatient. “I thought we could have a quiet dinner, and go over your rehearsal videos again. It’s a big day tomorrow.” I slowly shake my head. “I think I’m going to stay here a little while, practice my spins some more. Get used to the stage.” Mom frowns, but doesn’t disagree. “Alright, darling. But don’t stay too late. You need to be fresh for opening night.” “I will be.”

I change back into my regular practice clothes and walk slowly back to the stage. All day, the theater has been a bustle of activity: dancers racing around, technicians bumping through with their lights and equipment, but now, it’s almost eerily quiet. I trail my hand over the heavy curtains and walk out on stage. Silence. I look out over the empty theater, at the rows of velvet seats, and try to imagine tomorrow night, when they’ll all be filled with curious audience members, clutching their programs and settling in for the show. Expecting greatness. Expecting me to be perfect. I take a slow breath, rising up on my toes and stretching my leg out. We did a full run-through this afternoon for the entire program: my solos, and all the others, too. It was the first time we’d been in full costume, with everyone dancing their separate routines. I’ve always loved dress rehearsals: to see the show become something real, more than just dancers in sweatshirts pirouetting in a basic studio space. The gorgeous tutus and rustle of tulle, the bright lights, the backstage buzz, the first glimpse of what it would be like with a real audience out there in the theater. But today, it slid past me in a daze. I take my position again and try another move, a series of spins. I kick out, and again, try to banish all thoughts from my mind, but as I spin, I see his face. Raphael. There in my mind, his dark eyes taunting me, teasing me. Seducing you. There’s a noise off-stage and I falter, stumbling out of the spin. I turn, my breath coming fast, feeling hope rise in my chest even though I know it’s in vain. Maybe he came. Maybe he’s realized he made a mistake, and— “Sorry,” Karla’s voice comes, and she steps out of the shadows into view. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to tell you that we’re going to get a bite now, if you’d like to come with?” I look up. She’s loitering awkwardly in the doorway to the studio, waiting for me. Even though it’s the first time she’s tried to talk to me in a week, I shake my head firmly, turning back to the mirrors. “I have to practice.” “You’ve been turning those steps for hours now. If you do them any longer, you’ll drill straight through the floor.” Karla laughs, but I don’t join in. “I really can’t. I don’t have time. It has to be perfect for tomorrow.” I do the spin again, making

sure to set my leg higher, make the line more elegant. “Come on, Annalise...Annalise!” She says louder, and I stop, breathing heavily. “What?” I demand. Karla pauses. “I’m sorry, OK?” She looks down, guilty. “About what happened with everything. I shouldn’t have given you such a hard time.” I blink, my frustration fading away. “No, I’m sorry,” I admit, shameful. “You’re right. I have this huge opportunity, and I was taking it for granted.” “But you’ve earned it!” Karla insists. “I was just being jealous and petty, saying the things I did.” “No, I was the petty one,” I argue back, my voice wavering. “You were only looking out for me!” “Aww, don’t make me cry, my mascara’s going to run!” Karla moves forward to hug me, and I hug her back, glad that the tension between us has eased, one small weight lifting off my shoulders. “And I’m really sorry about Raphael, too.” “How did you...?” I start to ask, then stop. Gossip in the company travels like wildfire, and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out my romance was dead—especially not with me moping around with a scowl on my face, practicing at the studios all hours of the day. “Do you want to talk about it?” Karla asks gently. “I know you must be hurting.” “It’s fine.” I grit my teeth, feeling the same dull pain stab through my chest that comes whenever I think of his name, his face, his body. “I just need to work, that’s all. This is my last chance.” Karla sighs. “I know, but I miss you. We all do. Ros and I have barely seen you since you moved out of the dorms.” “Mom rented an apartment right around the corner,” I explain. “It’s easier this way. I thought you’d be glad,” I add. “Less competition for the bathroom in the morning.” Karla manages a small laugh. “OK, that’s one plus. But we still miss having you around. Movie nights, and girl-talk, and all that stuff. You know Mademoiselle is driving Ros crazy,” she adds, confidentially. “She’s like this close to quitting.” I blink in surprise. “But what would she do then?” I ask, distracted by the gossip. “Would she have to go home?” “I don’t know,” Karla shrugs. “And neither does Ros. Which is why she’s sticking it out for now.” She gives me another smile. “Come to dinner. I promise not to mention his name if you don’t want.”

I feel a wave of homesickness for my old roommates. I look around the empty stage, and know I’m done for now. There’s nothing more I can practice; it’s all up to tomorrow. “OK,” I agree. “But I can’t stay long. Mom wants me back at the apartment before nine. I have to stay rested before the big night.” Karla gives me a look, but doesn’t disagree. “I’ll text Ros, have her save you a seat.”

14. We head down the block, to the old pizzeria many of the dancers use as an informal gathering place in the evenings. With the dress rehearsal finished, everyone is here, taking one last chance to let their hair down before the big test to come. It’s noisy and buzzing with energy, but I sense the mood change when I walk in: catching whispers and stares as Karla leads us to a table in the back. “Annalise!” Ros leaps up and hugs me. “I’m so glad you made it. I already ordered,” she adds. “Let me guess,” Karla sighs, collapsing into her seat. “A huge pepperoni pizza for you, and limp rabbit food for the rest of us?” “That’s what you told me to order!” Ros protests. “I know, but I still hate you for it.” Karla beams cheerfully. I slide into a seat, self-conscious. “Why is everyone looking at me?” I whisper, looking around the room. Karla makes a vague gesture. “Don’t worry about it.” “That means they are.” I feel a tremor of fear. I’ve been so focused on getting ready for opening night, I’ve barely registered the other dancers in rehearsals, but now, away from the studio, I realize that I must have been a major topic of conversation. “What are they saying?” Karla and Ros exchange a look. “It’s just stupid competitive bullshit,” Ros says hurriedly. “Lucia is still mad they didn’t fire you and give her the solo instead,” Karla adds, “so she’s bitching all over the place, saying how your mom pulled strings for you. It’s nothing. Ignore her.” “Oh.” The waiter arrives with our food, and the subject is dropped as we turn our attention to our meals, but I can’t help sneaking glances over to the corner table, where Lucia is holding court with a couple of the other corps de ballet. She probably thought that turning me in over Raphael would secure her the part, but instead, she’s still left in the background, willing me to fail. “She’s right,” I admit. Karla blinks at me. “What?” “About my mom. They should have fired me,” I say, shrugging at the hard truth of it. “Anyone

else who broke the rules like that would have been on the first flight back home. It’s only because Mom sweet-talked them that they kept me around.” And begged, and pleaded, and threatened, I silently add. My mom waged a full-on war to keep me in the company, promising that if I was sent home in disgrace, she would pull strings and have Mademoiselle and Gilbert replaced before they could even say ‘arabesque.’ I’ve always hated the thought of Mom’s reputation giving me undeserved breaks in my career, but I have to admit, I’m thankful she was able to keep me here. The alternative is just too awful to consider. “Face it, Lucia just did what any of us would have done,” I add, glancing her way again. Lucia catches my eye this time, and gives me a massive glare. “This is a competition, remember. You have to play dirty to win.” Karla frowns at me. “Jesus, way to sound like a heartless bitch.” I shrug again, feeling nothing but emptiness inside. “Come on, you’re saying that if you were my understudy, you wouldn’t have turned me in?” “What? No!” Karla protests, but I fix her with a look. “Really?” I raise my eyebrow. “If I was the one standing between you and all your dreams coming true, you wouldn’t have been tempted?” There’s silence. Karla looks away, clearly realizing the truth. “See? It’s the way this works,” I say, my voice coming out with a bitter metallic edge. “You don’t get ahead without pushing someone else down.” The way Mom did, to make it to the top. The way Raphael did, with me. The way I should have done from the start. But my words seem to surprise my friends. Rosalie shakes her head, looking concerned. “I don’t like to hear you talk like this. It’s not like you.” “And what is?” I challenge her. “Being stupid and naive, believing everything will work out just because I want it to? Just because you let Mademoiselle push you around, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to live that way.” “Annalise!” Karla exclaims. I stop. Rosalie is looking hurt, biting her lip, and I realize in a guilty flash that I’ve gone too far. “I’m sorry,” I tell her quickly. “Forget I said anything. I didn’t mean it, I promise.”

“It’s OK.” Rosalie gives me a wavering smile. “I know you’re having a tough time.” We’re interrupted suddenly as Lucia and her minions pass us by, talking loudly. “She’s barely keeping it together,” Lucia is saying. “Why do you think her mommy came running? She can’t handle the pressure.” “Totally.” The other girls agree. “And is it any wonder that Italian guy dumped her?” Lucia shoots me a smug look, sashaying past. “She’s got ‘frigid bitch’ written all over her.” I tense, ice running through my veins at the mention of Raphael. “Don’t listen to her,” Rosalie whispers, giving me a reassuring pat. “Seriously,” Karla agrees, glaring after them. “Everyone knows you’re ten times better than her. That’s why they didn’t send you home,” she adds. “They must have figured that if they promoted her, it would ruin the whole show.” “Thanks,” I give them a small smile to show I’m not about to fall apart. “But you’re exaggerating. And we both know your solo is all anyone will be talking about after tomorrow night,” I change the subject, teasing. “That is true,” Karla laughs. “You looked amazing up there, Karla,” Ros adds, taking a big bite of cheesy pizza. My stomach rumbles just looking at it, and I’m about to ask for a slice, but then I remember what Mom said to me, and turn back to my salad instead. “How did it feel?” I ask Karla. “I was changing, so I only caught the end.” “Fine, great, awesome.” Karla beams, entirely unconcerned by the looming performance. “I’ve got this thing nailed.” “I don’t know whether you’re crazy or a genius to be talking like that,” I tell her, shaking my head. “Aren’t you worried you’ll jinx it?” “Superstition is for losers,” Karla declares. “I have talent. Hard work. Dedication.” “Modesty,” I finish for her. She laughs. “Hey, if I don’t believe in myself, who will?” I pause, suddenly thrown. Raphael believes in you, a voice whispers.

Believed, I correct myself angrily. And that was all just a game. Oh yeah? the voice challenges. So why was he texting and calling you, begging for a chance to explain? I push the thought aside and focus on my food instead, letting Rosalie’s and Karla’s easy banter surround me in a brief blanket of warmth. Raphael is gone. There’s no going back now, even if I could. After dinner, I head back to the apartment. I find myself checking my cell phone on the ride up, even though I know there’s no chance of a message from him. At first, he bombarded me with calls and texts. I deleted them all without reading, it was still too much to take, seeing his name flash onscreen at any moment: a terrible reminder of the hurt he’d caused. I got a new number, and even changed my email address, and just like that, he was gone: silence instead of the constant buzz. Emptiness, instead of pain. I let myself into the apartment and find Mom in the living room, watching old performances on the TV. I pause in the doorway, thinking she’s watching a tape of me, but when I look closer I can see it’s her: dancing Swan Lake back when she was playing my role, years ago. I watch the figure dance, so flawless, so perfect. “You never wavered, even for a moment,” I say, equal parts admiration and jealousy. Mom’s head snaps around. “You startled me!” She quickly reaches for the remote, but I stop her. “No, I want to see.” I take a few more steps into the room, and watch her finish the piece. Even now, I’m awestruck by her talent: the crisp elegance of her lines, the ferocity with which she tackles every movement. “You were so beautiful. I remember seeing you dance it for that charity benefit, when I was four years old. I’ve never seen it danced better.” Mom waves her hand. “I was past my prime then.” “Not to me. You were magnificent.” I remember how it made me feel, so proud that this special creature was my mother, the one who brought the audience to their feet, the applause echoing long after she took her final bow. “That was a long time ago.” My mom clicks off the TV. The screen goes dark. “How are you feeling?” she asks. I shrug. “A little sore, but I’ll be fine. I’m going to go take a bath.”

“No, I meant...” she trails off, and a look of concern slips over her delicate features. “Never mind.” She shakes it away. “You should soak for at least a half hour. I brought the salts to soothe your muscles. Is there anything else you need?” The words cut through me. Raphael. I need Raphael, more than anything in the world. “Some tea would be great,” I say instead, because what I need is gone, and nothing can take his place. She fetches the tea and then leaves me alone in the marble bathroom, the water running hot into the claw-foot tub. I pour in half a bottle of lavender oils and then slowly undress, sliding into the hot water. I feel it wash over my body in a soothing tide. Suddenly, I feel so broken, I want to cry. How can I be missing him like this? I know he betrayed me, that he never loved me at all, but still, my treacherous heart aches for him like never before. I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing, out there somewhere in the city—so near, but so far away. His second audition is tomorrow, but maybe he’s working tonight at the restaurant, or rehearsing with Francesca, alone up in his loft, the way we used to. Touching her, the way he touched me. I sink lower, my body shaking with the sobs I can’t deny. I’ve been trying so hard to keep it together and put him out of my mind, but now the memories crash through me, and I’m helpless to resist. I hug my knees to my chest, naked, feeling the grief roll through me. I loved him. I loved him, and I still do. I can’t help it. Every moment we spent together, every dream we shared, the whispered confessions in the dark of the night—all of it keeps replaying over and over in my mind. It’s agony. I don’t understand, that’s the worst part. I don’t understand anything at all. How he could fool me, all this time, acting as if he felt the same way, when really, there was nothing behind his charming smile but empty promises and cruel lies. Should I have seen it from the start? Were there warning signs all along that I ignored? I play it through a hundred times, but still, I don’t see the clues. But there must have been. I was just too trusting, too naive. I wanted so much for this to be love that I was

blind to everything. I gave myself to him, so completely. And now...? Now, I’m left with a bitter absence in my chest, where joy and hope used to be. The loss of him cuts me to the core. I slide under the water, feeling it close over my head. Here, my tears don’t sting my cheeks with their hot grief. Here, my sobs are dulled to a silent shake. “Annalise!” I break the surface, gasping for air. My mom is standing over me, looking anxious. “I was knocking. Are you OK?” “Fine,” I say quickly, grabbing a towel and getting up. I wrap it around myself securely and wipe water from my face. Water, and hot, salty tears. Forcing a bright smile, I move past her. “I should get to bed. Like you said, it’s a big day tomorrow.” “OK. Sleep tight.” When I look back, my mom is watching me, a shadow of concern on her face. I turn away, and close my bedroom door behind me. My whole body cries out for rest, but as I slide into bed, sleep is the last thing I want. When I sleep, I dream only of him.

15. “I can’t find my hairnet!” “Where did you put that lipstick?” “They called for us, we’re late, shit, shit!” The dizzying babble of backstage panic whirls around me. Fifteen minutes until the curtain goes up, and the entire company is going crazy, crammed into our tiny dressing rooms, fighting over mirror space. “Oh my God, the place is packed!” Karla races into the dressing room, her face lit up with wild excitement. “I just snuck a peek, and there’s not an empty seat in the whole theater.” I feel my nerves flare to life, even before Karla adds, “And the Director is here, too. Not Gilbert, but the American Director. Mademoiselle said he flew over especially.” My heart skips. “Karla!” I whimper. “Don’t tell me that. I’ll screw it up now for sure.” “What happened to you?” Karla’s face creases with concern. “When you left last night, you were totally together. What changed?” I shrug. “I didn’t sleep very well,” I reply vaguely, looking away. “Bad dreams.” All night long, I dreamed of Raphael. Gasping, wanton dreams of us together, his hands sliding over my body, his mouth sending me wild with desire. I woke trembling, my body flushed and craving, my heart betraying me with a hopeful ache. I lay there in the dark, and I felt the absence of him beside me, so deep I turned my head into my pillow and wept. But there’s no time for heartache, not tonight. “This is it, kid.” Karla gives me a wink. She’s dressed up in her peasant girl costume, two bright red circles rouged on her cheeks. “I won’t see you until you’re done, so good luck!” “You too.” I hug her, careful not to crush my stiff tutu. “I know you’ll kill it.” “Damn straight.” Karla beams, a picture of cool relaxation. She even snaps her gum as she strolls out of the dressing room toward the stage, as easy as if she were wandering off to a movie, not the stage of one of the oldest opera houses in Rome.

I turn back to the mirror, wondering where Raphael is right now. There should be no comparison: a gala opening night, the high point of my career, or playing support to someone else’s audition in some warehouse downtown. But despite everything, a treacherous part of me wishes I was far away from here, with him instead: clinging to the back of the Vespa, speeding through the city to his audition. You’re crazy, I tell myself. You’re finally the lead, the one they’ll all be looking at. Dancing Odette, the lights, the glittering costume, the applause. This is everything you’ve ever dreamed about. But that was before him. “Hello? Some of us need to get ready, too.” A voice snaps me out of it. I turn to find Lucia, giving me a glare. “Sorry,” I reply, moving out of the way. She checks her reflection, smoothing back her hair, wound tightly in a bun. She’s wearing the costume of the corps de ballet, the matching white tutus of the swans. My outfit is white too, but more elaborate by far: laced with silver and feathers, shimmering and fluttering with every movement. I have more crystals woven in my hair, and a tiara wound with feathers, glittering under the lights. Lucia eyes me, clearly jealous. “Break a leg,” she says, with a saccharine grin. “You too,” I reply, not doubting for a moment that she actually means it. I feel a hand on my arm and turn. Mom. She’s dressed up in a gown and jewels, looking like a princess. “I just came to wish you good luck, darling. I’ll be right in front.” “Thanks.” She kisses me on the cheek and turns to go, but panic suddenly courses through me, and I clutch her hand, pulling her back. “Mom?” My voice comes out strangled. “I’m scared. What if I mess up?” “You won’t,” she says firmly. “We’ve rehearsed the steps a hundred times.” “No, but what if I can’t do it?” I whisper, terrified. “What if I’m not good enough?” I want her to tell me not to worry, that I’m wonderful, that I’ll be great. But instead, Mom gives me a hard look. “This isn’t the time for silly nerves. There are important people here tonight. Don’t let me down.” She adjusts my tutu, and then leaves in a swish of silk. My fear hardens, icy and bleak.

“Swan Lake, Act Two scene to the stage,” a voice yells. The panic in the dressing room goes up a notch, but I try to zone out, letting everything drift away as I follow the other girls down the corridor to backstage. “Good luck out there.” Mademoiselle grips my shoulder briefly, giving me an encouraging smile. I nod, panic twisting in my stomach. The other dancers gather, hushed, in the folds of the curtains, ready to start. This is it. No going back. Everything is on the line. I slowly flex my ankles, stretch out my arms. The audience settles, the orchestra starts, the lights dim again. There are important people here tonight. Don’t let me down. The stage manager gives a nod. The other girls glide out into place to begin. Don’t let me down. Don’t let me down. My cue comes, the lift of violin, a shiver in the air. I take a deep breath, and leap, soaring onto the stage in a shimmer of feathers. The swan queen, mid-flight. Arriving. In some performances I lose myself, pure motion on the stage. Other times, I stay firmly in my mind, aware of every lift and spin: calculating, analyzing, working at the dance. Tonight, it’s both. Somehow, as my first routine unfolds, it feels like I’m removed from my body. On the outside, looking in. I can see the blaze of the spotlights, blinding me to the darkness of the audience beyond. I can feel the polished boards of the stage beneath my feet, sense every movement from my partner, and the corps de ballet behind. I’m acutely aware of my movements, every spin and lift, but I’m not me anymore. I’m not here. In my heart, I’m dancing in a cobbled courtyard with Raphael, in the haze of the afternoon sun. It’s his face I see before me, not Prince Siegfried’s. And as I leap and spin, entrancing him, pulling him into my world, I’m overcome with the bittersweet joy of my memories, transporting me to a time when passion ran like wildfire in my blood, and possibility shimmered, golden in the air. And then the music changes, and the illusion slips. I’m back onstage, caked in makeup, swathed in my heavy costume, performing a part. Playing at love, make-believe, mimicking the emotions I used

to feel for real. I don’t miss a beat: the steps are like muscle memory to me by now, and my body could remember them in my sleep. I keep dancing like nothing has changed, but inside, I feel the joy rush out of me, leaving nothing but a heavy ache. I finish the sequence flawlessly. The curtain falls, the crowd goes wild. Applause echoes, booming through the auditorium, but I don’t feel a thing. I just danced the most perfect solo of my life, and I don’t feel anything at all.

16. “Hurry.” Mademoiselle tugs at my arm, and I realize the other dancers have cleared the stage. “It’s intermission now. You need to change for Odile!” I let her pull me up and hustle me into the wings again. Dancers part the way for me, murmuring their congratulations, but it barely registers. I stumble on, down the narrow hallway to the dressing room. The door closes, and I’m suddenly alone. I did it. Everything I’ve been working for, all the sacrifice, it was right there, up on that stage. Perfect. I stare at myself blankly in the mirror, not recognizing the face that stares back. Then I see it: a huge bouquet of red roses, propped on the dressing table by the mirror. My name is scribbled on an envelope, tucked among the fragrant blooms. Raphael. My heart leaps into my throat. I scan back over the note, greedily drinking in the words. My Annalise, I’m sorry I made such a mess of things. I was trying to protect you. I knew you would risk everything for me, and I couldn’t be the one to take you away from your dream. One day, you would have regretted it, and then neither of us could have lived with the mistake. But I was wrong to go to Francesca without talking to you. I was wrong to let you walk away. I know that now. You were the first person to believe in me, and I let you down. I’m not dancing with her anymore. I can’t bear to dance with anyone but you. I only hope that you find the joy you deserve tonight. You’ve earned it a thousand times over. I won’t wish you good luck, because I know you don’t need it. Just dance what’s in your heart—it’s the only thing that matters. They can’t help but fall in love with you, the way I did. The way I always will. Mio amore. Raphael

I lower the letter, my heart pounding. He loves me. He loves me! Adrenaline floods through my body. “Pretty flowers.” Cybil bustles in, holding my next costume, the black tutu for Odile. “And the guy who delivered them wasn’t too bad, either.” She winks. “He was here?” I gasp, clutching her arm. “Tall, dark hair—” “Carrying some kind of helmet,” Cybil finishes, nodding. “I said you’d be down in a moment, but he wouldn’t wait.” My mind races. He came! But what about his audition? “When was this?” I demand, breathless. “Before the show?” “No, just now.” Cybil lifts my arms and starts tugging my tutu over my head. I push the stiff tulle away from my body. “What are you doing?” she cries. “I have to go. I have to catch him!” “You’re crazy.” Cybil stares at me. “We have five minutes to get you dressed before the curtain goes up. Sit down!” I stop, suddenly realizing what I’m doing. What I’m about to do. “No,” I tell her, my heart pounding. “I’m not going on.” “We don’t have time for this,” Cybil talks over me, bustling around the room. “Put it on. Here are the shoes, and the headdress...” she quickly assembles the rest of my costume change, but I stay stock still in the middle of the small room. I’m lightheaded, dizzy, like any moment I could just float away, but I know with more certainty than I’ve ever felt in my life, that this is the end. I’m not going out there again. I won’t dance my final piece. I’m going after Raphael. “Honey, everyone’s waiting,” Cybil tries to urge me, desperate. I pull on my sweatpants and shirt instead, grabbing pins out of my bun. “Find Lucia,” I tell her hurriedly. “She knows the steps. God knows, she wants it enough.” She’ll be ready, I know. Odile is

the dark queen, glittering, soulless, and brilliant. Lucia will be perfect in the part. “I don’t understand,” Cybil gapes. “Are you sick?” “No,” I smile at her, sliding on my sneakers. “I’ve never felt better!” I grab my purse from under the bench, wondering if I’m already too late to catch him. His audition is across town, and if I have enough money for a cab— The door opens, and Cybil turns, her face flooding with relief. “Finally!” she exclaims. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her.” “What do you mean?” My mom steps into the room. She looks around, her eyes widening when she sees me in my regular clothes, the fancy costume cast aside. “Annalise!” “Go find Lucia,” I tell Cybil again. “Don’t go anywhere!” Mom orders her. “Get my daughter dressed.” I ignore her. “We’re the same size, the costume will fit. Hurry, there’s not much time!” Cybil looks back and forth between my mother and me for a minute, then swears under her breath and flees. “There’s no time to explain, Mom,” I tell her calmly, even though I feel like my heart is about to beat right out of my chest. “I have to go.” “You will put on that costume and get up on that stage if I have to drag you out there myself!” my mom screams, her face wild with fury. I feel a lurch of fear, but I push it back, resolved. “No, I won’t.” I meet her eyes, deadly serious. “I quit.” Her jaw drops. She gasps for air, speechless. “I don’t want to do this anymore.” My voice twists, my true emotions finally rising up and finding a voice, after so many years being pushed aside. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Mom, I don’t want to disappoint you. God, the only thing I ever wanted was to make you proud,” I add, pleading. “But it’s not enough, can’t you see that? I’m not like you. I need more than ballet in my life. I want to be happy!” Her face changes. “This is about that boy.” “He’s not a boy,” I correct her. “He’s a man. The best I’ve ever known. And yes, he’s part of it, but this is about so much more. I’m sorry,” I say again, feeling the seconds tick past. Every one of them, taking Raphael further away from me. “I have to go,” I tell her one last time. I dart forward and kiss her on the cheek, then head toward the door.

“Annalise Taylor, don’t you dare walk out that door!” Mom’s voice echoes after me, desperate, but I don’t stop. I push out into the hallway, weaving through the crowds toward the stage exit. Lucia comes from the opposite direction, hurrying behind Cybil. “You’re giving me the spot?” she demands. “But why?” I smile. “I don’t need it anymore. Good luck,” I add, “You’ll do great.” There’s a beat, and then the backstage area explodes into chaos. Cybil starts yelling out for the costume, and other dancers babble in confusion. I see Mademoiselle coming, and Gilbert too, so I turn away and slip unnoticed through the crowd, leaving the madness behind me. As I push through the exit and step out into the crisp night air, I wait for the regret to hit me. None comes; only a rush of relief. Excitement. Possibility. The future is suddenly wide open to me, holding anything I choose. Everything. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned here in Rome, one thing Raphael showed me, it’s that there’s more. More life, more passion, more to dance than this lonely, cold world of the company, where every friend is a competitor, every meal a battle—and everything I do feels not quite good enough. Dancing with him, I was gloriously, perfectly, imperfect. For the first time in my life, I felt whole and complete, and the only thing that mattered was the rhythm of the music, the joy that flowed through me with every step. No rules, no limits, just our love of dance. And each other. That’s what I want in my life right now. To finally feel something other than fear and insecurity, to explore life on my terms. I love dance, but it’s not all I am as a person, and although I have no idea what comes next, that freedom fills me with a sweet, reckless joy. I’ve danced in the shadows long enough. Now, it’s time to choose my own steps. I look around, searching for a cab. There’s a flash of motion in the corner of my eye, and I turn to see the familiar red frame of Raphael’s Vespa turning the corner at the end of the block.

17. My heart leaps. “Raphael!” I yell, but he disappears out of sight. I take off in a run, hurling myself through the pedestrians blocking my path. “Raphael!” I scream again, louder, as I race down the street. People leap out of my way, staring at me as if I’m crazy, and I know that to them I must seem insane. I still have my heavy stage makeup caked on, my hair tumbling down from its feathered tiara as I race through the evening crowds, yelling at the top of my lungs. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except finding him and telling him how I feel. “Raphael!” I round the corner and see him up ahead, sitting in the middle of a throng of cars. Without a thought, I dash into the street, sprinting through the traffic until I reach him. I pull him around. “What the—?” Raphael stops, his face lighting up as he realizes it’s me. He climbs off the Vespa, clutching my arms in disbelief. “But what are you doing? You should be out on stage!” I shake my head, breathless from my sprint. “I’m not…I’m not going on. I quit.” “I don’t understand.” Raphael keeps holding me, and I swear, I could dance just from the feel of his arms around me, the warmth of his body so close to mine. “That role was everything to you. Why would you walk away?” I don’t reply, simply drinking in the sight of him, the proud arch of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes over those beautiful midnight eyes. I could look at him forever, but first, I need something more than a letter to base my hopes on. “Did you mean what you wrote to me?” I ask him urgently, everything hinging on his reply. I would move mountains for this man, follow him to hell and back, but only if he feels this too. “I need to hear it from you. Please.” “I meant it.” Raphael’s gaze holds mine, so full of emotion it takes my breath away. He reaches to cradle my face in his hands, achingly tender. “I love you, Annalise. I need you in my life. I’ve never felt this way before, I didn’t even realize it until you were walking away. You belong to me.” He shakes his head, desperate. “Forgive me, please, amore mio. Say it’s not too late.” Joy sweeps through me and I realize that even with all the missteps I’ve made, I’m finally on the right path. I’ve made the right choice. “It’s never too late,” I promise, shaking with emotion. “I’ll

always be yours. I love you!” Raphael’s eyes flash darkly, and then he pulls me into a passionate embrace. His lips claim mine with animal desire. Sensation shatters through me as I fall into the kiss, tasting him, giving myself to him. The last shards of ice in my chest melt clean away, leaving me breathless with pure joy. This is it. Nothing matters now, nothing except the feel his arms locked safe around me, and the drum of his heart against mine, the wild rhythm sounding out our love. Raphael breaks away. Reality comes crashing back in with an angry blare: all around us, cars are sounding their horns, people yelling in rapid-fire Italian. The lights have changed to green: we’re blocking all the traffic. “Uscire dal modo!” a driver behind us screams. Raphael just waves him away. “Are you ready?” he asks me, handing me the helmet and climbing onto the Vespa. I settle behind him, holding him close. “I’m ready for anything now,” I laugh, dropping a kiss on his shoulder. I hold on tight, and feel the engine roar to life beneath us. “Anything in the world.” We make it to the warehouse for his callback audition with moments to spare. I don’t have time to change or prepare, and suddenly, I’m out in the middle of the floor with Raphael. It couldn’t be more different from the stage I left behind, far across the city. There are no spotlights and heavy velvet curtains, no layers of crisp tulle, gilt-edged gala boxes, an audience decked in tuxes and evening gowns. I don’t care. Here, gazing across the floor at Raphael, waiting for the first chords of music to ripple through me, I feel a joy like nothing I’ve ever known. I meet his eyes and see the passion there, a mirror of my own, and I know, whatever the uncertain future holds—whether he gets this job or not, wherever we go, whatever I do with my dance now—it will be OK. More than OK. We’re together. As long as we share this bond, everything else will fall into place. This love is ours, and it’s everything. I hear the music begin, and I dance.

3 months later - New York City. “And first position...second...third, and plie.” The afternoon sun falls in golden bands across the polished honey floor as a dozen pairs of feet move in unison, sweeping into position, toes pointed. I’m back in a rehearsal studio, but it couldn’t be more different from the one at the American Ballet Company. “Watch the arms, everyone.” I slowly walk the line, checking my students’ positions. “That’s it. Beautiful!” The twelve tiny dancers that make up my beginner ’s ballet class wobble and wave, stumbling through the exercise. I give them a nudge and some pointers, but mainly, I cheer them along until finally, the lilting piano music comes to a stop. I clap my hands together. “That’s all for this week. Great job, you guys! Now, how do we finish every rehearsal?” They burst into cheers. “Dance party!” I laugh. “Time to go crazy.” I set my iPod to play some pop music, and watch as the girls leap around, jumping and twirling in their tiny tutus. The smiles on their faces fill me with joy: the simple love of dance, without stress or rules. I join in, spinning them around and showing them some fun moves until it’s time to go open the doors and let the parents in. “Great class.” The owner of the studio, Miriam, comes over as the studio empties out: the kids all bundled up in their warm winter coats. I wave them off, saying goodbye and chatting to some of the parents as they go, until we’re left alone to tidy up the studio. “Word is traveling fast about you.” Miriam pauses, looking over at me. “We’ve already got a waiting list for your next semester. You know, if you wanted to add another session...” “No thank you,” I say, deflecting her regular request. “Just one is fine for me. I’m still figuring things out.” Miriam gives me a rueful smile. “Let me know if you change your mind. The kids love you, Annalise. You have a real gift. I wish you’d think about teaching full-time.” “Not right now,” I smile. “I love my lesson, but I don’t know if I’m ready to commit to something

like that. There are still all kinds of things I’m discovering.” “I forget, you’re still so young.” Miriam laughs. “Well, I’ll see you next week.” “I can’t wait.” And I mean it. I layer on my parka and gloves, and skip down the steps and out into the bustle of Manhattan. Spring is on the horizon, but the cotton-wool skies still cloud the city with a bitter chill. I wind my scarf tighter as I duck through the crowds of pedestrians and tourists cramming the sidewalk, thinking fondly of the warmth of Rome. My phone buzzes with a call, and I answer happily, seeing the caller ID. “Ciao, amore mio,” I answer in Italian. Raphael laughs. “You’re sounding like a native,” he praises me. “How was class?” “Fun! I’m just heading home now. How about you?” I duck out of the flow of traffic to hear him better, his rich accent sliding down my spine like sweet molasses. “Rehearsal is going well. I think we’re almost ready for the shoot.” “Tell me, is she as much of a diva as they say?” I ask, eager for gossip. Raphael’s dance troupe are shooting a music video for a big pop star next week, and I’ve been waiting for the scoop on their superstar client. “Not yet, but we’ve been warned.” Raphael sounds amused. There’s a noise in the background, somebody calling to him. “I’ve got to run. I’ll be home around six?” “I can’t wait.” “Me either. I’ve been thinking about you all day. Ciao, bella.” Raphael murmurs, then hangs up. I can’t keep the smile off my face as I skip down to the subway and take my place on the packed platform. It hasn’t been easy, the last three months, but somehow, with Raphael beside me, everything has worked out OK. After I walked out of the performance, my mother cut me off completely. I’m not sure if she thought she could force me back to ballet, or if she took my leaving as a personal insult. Either way, she hasn’t spoken to me since. My bags were packed and waiting in the lobby of the apartment building when I returned from Raphael’s audition. She had already caught a flight back to New York without me. At first, I panicked. Leaving the company was the right thing to do, but my future stretched out in front of me, full of uncertainty. But Raphael took my hand, and didn’t let me go. He won the spot with

the Collective, and even better: they were relocating to New York. So we both moved back here together, to the city I’d always called my home, but it turns out I hadn’t even begun to discover it. I hop off the subway at my stop downtown and walk briskly through the familiar neighborhood, stopping at my usual deli on the corner across from our building. “Annalise!” The owner, Gio, is Italian, and after meeting Raphael, he now greets me with a kiss on each cheek. “What can I do for you today?” “I’m not sure.” I run my eyes over the crates of fresh fruit, my mind turning. “I was thinking maybe a fruit tart, or a cake...” Gio brightens. “The dark plums, so sweet. With a pastry, light as air...” He kisses his fingertips. I laugh. “OK, sounds good.” I load up on supplies, and balance the bag in my arms as I cross the street and climb the six flights up to our apartment. It’s a tiny one-bedroom with a view of the alleyway, but it’s all ours: decorated with framed dance prints, vintage art, and furniture thrifted from the local stores. The galley kitchen is barely big enough for one person, but that doesn’t stop Raphael from whipping up his favorite meatballs and spaghetti, or gnocchi, or any of the other amazing dishes that I can now eat without the crushing weight of guilt poisoning every bite. I let myself in and set the groceries on the kitchen counter, switching on some music and getting out my cookbooks as I set to work on one of my new discoveries: baking. Maybe it was inevitable, after spending my life ignoring dessert, to find a new love for sweet things. Now, there’s nothing I enjoy more than spending an afternoon here with the buzz of the city outside, surrounded with flour and butter and sugar: whisking and mixing and making something of my own. I teach myself from the cookbooks I find on the used book carts and secondhand stores around town, trying out new recipes with whatever I like the look of in the bodegas and delis. Sometimes, I play my Italian language lessons, or practice my vocabulary with Raphael. I’m taking an Italian class at one of the community colleges here, along with courses in literature, art, and history. I’m not sure if college is for me, but I want to try it out: to start exploring all of the things I missed out on, being so single-mindedly focused on dance all these years. There’s a whole world out there, and I want to taste it all. I’m just checking the plum tart in the oven, bubbling with sweet juicy syrup, when Raphael enters. “My God, I could smell that all the way down the hall.” He comes up behind me, wrapping his

arms around my chest and leaning over to smell the dessert. “It looks like heaven.” “It needs another ten minutes.” I twist around so I’m facing him, reaching up to pull him into a kiss. He relaxes against me, a bundle of thick winter coat and red-tipped ears. “You’re cold!” I place my hands over his cheeks, feeling the bite of winter. “I’ll never get used to this winter,” Raphael frowns, but his dark eyes are teasing. “Yes, but it’ll be spring soon,” I remind him, stroking along the stubble on his jaw. “Blossoms and green. Central Park. Picnics...” He wraps me in a bear hug. “I don’t know, I kind of like hibernating...” Raphael dips to kiss down my neck, his hands sliding lower over my curves. I shiver, melting against him. “It’s the weekend tomorrow,” I whisper playfully. “That means we don’t have to get out of bed all day.” “Technically, it’s already the weekend.” Raphael’s smile flashes with wicked intent. He slips his hands up underneath my sweater, the shock of cold against my skin making me yelp. He swallows my protest in another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue plunging into my mouth, sliding over mine in a gorgeous caress. I groan, falling back as he pushes me up against the refrigerator, all hard muscle and roving hands. I grab at his shirt, reveling in the feel of his bare skin beneath, the ridges and planes I know by heart. Mine, all mine. He knows just what to do to take me there, stroking me, teasing me, until I’m breathless and gasping under his touch— The oven timer rings out through the tiny space. I break away, gasping. “The tart!” Raphael laughs, stepping aside and passing me a dishcloth to protect my hands as I lift the dessert from the oven. “Perfect!” I clap my hands together, proud. “I know you are.” Raphael leans in to kiss my cheek. I melt. “Hey, I almost forgot.” Raphael reaches over to the stack of letters he put on the counter. “We got mail.”

“It’s probably just junk...” I flip through the circulars, then stop on a postcard: the South of France. “It’s from Rosalie!” I exclaim happily. I scan the brief note. “She’s in Cannes with Mademoiselle…oh, it doesn’t sound like it’s going well.” I sigh. “I wish she’d leave her. Mademoiselle takes her for granted so badly, she walks all over her.” “Everybody in their own time,” Raphael reminds me, reaching to sneak a corner of the tart. “Mmm,” he groans, a happy sound. “This is amazing.” I glow with pride. “Maybe I’ll take a pastry course,” I muse. “There’s only so much I can do on my own.” “You can do anything.” Raphael kisses me. “Especially if it means I get to eat more like this. Wait, what’s wrong?” He notices the change in my expression. I stare at the thick envelope in my hands. “It’s from Mom.” “What does it say?” “I don’t know.” I take a deep breath, but I can’t bring myself to open it. “Hey,” Raphael’s voice is soft. He moves closer, wrapping his strong arms around me. “Whatever she says, it’ll be OK.” I nod and gather my strength, ripping open the envelope. The notecard is short and to the point. “She wants us to come for dinner,” I say slowly, not quite believing my eyes. “Us, as in me and you?” Raphael takes it, raising his eyebrows as he reads. “That’s something, right?” “That’s huge.” I say, realizing that something has changed. My heart lifts. “Do you think she wants to make up?” I ask hopefully. Even though leaving was necessary, it still cuts me to have her gone from my life entirely. I’d like to have a chance to get to know her, without ballet looming so large over us; to see her as more than a coach and task-master, but as my mother, too. “I think she misses you.” Raphael smiles gently at me. “And how could she not?” I hug him, swift and strong. “Thank you,” I whisper, suddenly feeling tears sting the edge of my eyes. Not tears of sadness, but of joy, relief, and thankfulness to have him in my life. A life we’ll live together. “When I think, if I’d never met you...” I stop, trying to imagine the other reality, the one where I never knew this happiness or freedom. This love. Raphael holds me tight, then pulls back slightly to look down at me, his dark eyes shining bright with love. “It was always going to be this way,” he promises. “You’re my destiny, amore mio. My only

love.” I hold him tight, full of wonder. I used to think my destiny was set. I thought I knew for sure what I wanted. And then I met Raphael, and everything changed. Because he showed me I was more than I ever thought possible. That we’re more, together. And it’s only just the beginning. THE END Read on for an exclusive look at the first chapters of Unexpectedly Yours, Melody Grace’s new holiday book!

Chapter One. Christmas Eve

Sophie Christmas in New York... Ever since I was a girl, snuggling in to watch holiday movies, I’ve dreamed about the day I would experience it for myself. The lights, the store windows, ice-skating at Rockefeller Center, the sleigh ride through Central Park... Growing up in LA, with fake confetti snowfall and balmy 75 degree weather, I couldn’t wait to wrap up warmly in mittens and walk hand-in-hand through the softlyfalling snow with the man of my dreams-“Watch it, red!” A stressed-looking man shoves past me to the baggage carousel. I leap back, right into the path of the other three hundred people all charging to get their luggage. “Sorry... Sorry... wait!” I try and duck out of the stampede, but there’s no escape. The afternoon before Christmas, and the airport is madness: kids screaming, businessmen wielding their laptop cases like shields, hoards of tourists squinting at their phones. Last year, a friend of mine dragged me to a sample sale at a wedding dress warehouse. You haven’t seen chaos until you’ve watched five hundred wild-eyed brides-to-be fighting over the same 70% off Vera Wang strapless sheath. They had to call in riot police, and the whole thing wound up on the evening news. But this? This is whole other level of insanity. I grip my case tighter and fight my way to the exit. The doors slide open, and I step outside into a blast of icy frigid air and the sound of horns blaring in traffic. Holy crap, that’s cold! I bite back a gasp of shock. Just remember, you can’t have moonlit walks in the snow without actual snow, I remind myself, wrapping my vintage red wool coat tighter. I look around, but the sidewalk is packed with people. “Excuse me,” I flag a passing security guy. “Where’s the taxi rank?” “You’re looking at it.” He hurries on, rushing to separate two guys about throw punches over the next cab in line. Behind them, the impatient crowd stretches around the block.

Plan B then. The Departures level is right upstairs, so I drag my case into the elevator and head upstairs, hoping to snag a cab from someone just arriving to fly out. As the elevator fills, I slide my phone from my pocket and check to see if Matt has arrived. I wanted us to travel together, get the full romantic getaway experience from the minute we left LA, but he had a medical conference scheduled this week, so we had to fly out separately. Three romantic, snowy days in New York for Christmas, then on to Connecticut to meet his parents for the first time. I can’t wait. My case is heavier than an anvil, bouncing along behind me, packed full of ‘seduce me’ slinky dresses for my candlelit dinners with Matt, and demure, ‘love me’ dresses to wow my future in-laws. I shopped for weeks at my favorite vintage and thrift stores in LA, and since I’m a stress packer, I couldn’t leave anything behind. I want this trip to be perfect. I’ve planned every minute of our New York adventure: all the sights I’ve been daydreaming about ever since my babysitter slid ‘Serendipity’ into the old VCR and I fell in love with the city for the first time. “Hey babe, just checking in.” There’s no new messages, so I leave him a voicemail. “My flight landed fine, so I’ll see you at the hotel.” I duck out of the elevator and head outside again, but this time, the sidewalk is blissfully empty. Everyone is rushing straight inside to catch their flight, leaving their cabs free. I spot one just about to pull away from the curb and wave. “Wait up!” The driver sees me and stops, popping open the trunk. But I’m just dragging my case over when someone hurries past. It’s a sandy-haired guy wearing a dark wool jacket and a pair of cowboy boots. His bag catches my shoulder hard, knocking me off-balance. “Hey!” I stumble, slipping on the icy ground. The world tilts as I flail for dear life, but gravity wins. I go crashing to the ground, ass-first, feet in the air. “Oww!” The guy doesn’t even hear me. He opens the door of the cab -- my cab! -- and slides inside. The driver sends me a sympathetic look, but he doesn’t stop to help. They drive away, leaving me in a heap on the ground with my belonging scattered all around me and muddy ice slush soaking into my pants. Welcome to New York City.

By the time I’ve managed to find another cab and haul my shivering, wet body into the car, the glow is definitely off my holiday spirit. Matt still hasn’t called, and his flight was supposed to arrive a couple of hours ago. I leave him another message, and cross my fingers that he hasn’t been delayed by snow somewhere. “Here for the holidays?” My elderly driver makes small-talk from up front as we speed away from the airport. There’s a fake holly branch swinging from the rear-view mirror, and he’s got the radio tuned to a golden oldies station; Elvis crooning about it being a blue Christmas without you. “Yes,” I reply, trying to squeeze the ice water out of my jeans. “Just you?” he frowns. “No, my boyfriend is coming.” I say quickly. He relaxes into a smile again. “Good, good. Can’t have a pretty girl like you alone on the holidays. You need someone to kiss on New Year ’s Eve!” I smile, and quickly check my phone to see if Matt’s flight was on time. It’s listed as arriving on schedule. I feel a surge of relief, finally relaxing back into the seat. Matt’s probably already checked us in and is relaxing in the tub. Or, more likely, he’s sprawled out doing what every sleep-deprived doctor loves most in the world. Sleeping. He’s been under so much pressure recently, I’ve hardly seen him at all. He warned me when we started dating five months ago that his surgical residency at one of the top hospitals in LA didn’t leave him any free time. I didn’t mind: I’m still in school too, I just started a masters degree in psychology, and sometimes I lose sleep over my reading lists and deadlines, not to mention the days I volunteer at a crisis hotline as part of my research. I understood that his career and my school-work wouldn’t leave much time to be together, but we had such a great connection, we both swore we’d make it work. The first few months went by in a whirl, stealing moments together: a breakfast here, a late-night movie there. It was fun, snatching whatever time together our crazy schedules allowed. I would drop by the hospital to grab lunch with Matt in the cafeteria, and he would deliver triple-shot coffees when I was pulling all-nighters in the library. One night, he even showed up at my apartment just to kiss me, before turning right back around and heading to the hospital for another twelve-hour shift. It was romantic and thrilling to begin with, but I have to admit, the novelty is wearing off fast. I want something more than fleeting kisses and trading texts. I want something real. I told my friend Tegan that it feels like we’re in a long-distance relationship, even though we live a couple of miles apart. And more and more, whenever I make time for us and plan a special dinner or date, he gets called back in on some emergency and I’m stuck alone at a table set for two. I try to be understanding, but still, I wonder how much longer we can keep this up. I’ve been

hinting at moving in together so we can take the next step, and I’m hoping that having this time together over the holidays will give him that spark to make a change. Can’t wait to see you, I type out a quick text. I have a special night planned! I look up just as we approach the Brooklyn Bridge. My heart catches. The Manhattan skyline is sparkling under the grey, cloudy skies. Towering buildings and glittering lights, already shining in the darkening afternoon. It’s perfect. As the cab drives closer, I hug my arms around myself and smile. This is going to be the trip of a lifetime, I can just feel it. Matt will finally relax, and then everything will be OK. I’ll finally have the Christmas I’ve been dreaming about. And maybe it will even snow.

Chapter Two. Austin I’ve never been filled with the Christmas spirit, but this year, I’m officially done with the holidays. Keep your merry reindeer. Tell Santa where he can shove it. What I need is a soft bed, a stiff drink, and a willing playmate -- and not necessarily in that order. “Are you sure you can’t make it?” My mom’s face fills my cellphone screen, messaging all the way from London. I can see a huge Christmas tree behind her, and the mantle in the hotel room covered with wreaths and stockings. “I’m sorry. I was stuck at the airport all morning, but they cancelled my flight and every plane crossing the Atlantic is booked solid.” I explain. “You’re lucky you flew out yesterday. You guys will just have to celebrate without me.” “But this vacation to England was your gift to us...” She looks upset, so I reassure her with a grin. “Don’t worry about me, mom. I’ll have plenty to keep me busy. You guys just have fun.” I hang up, sending thanks to whatever higher power sent freak ice-storms raging over London. I’m sorry not to spend time with my folks, but I can see them back home in Texas all the time. No, this was a lucky break. Instead of sitting through a week of jet-lag and enforced holiday cheer, I have nothing but time. No carol concerts, no Christmas dinner, and no watching schmaltzy movies for the hundredth time. Just a perfect, no-stress, zero-bullshit Christmas in New York: me, a bottle of bourbon, takeout pizza and ESPN. What more could a guy ask for? Back at the hotel, the woman at the front desk, Patrice, lights up when she sees me. “Mr. Kelly,” she beams. “I thought you were all checked out.” “Change of plans.” I drop my bag and flash her my best charming grin. “Any chance you can squeeze me in to my old room? Turns out I’ll be staying a couple of days longer.” “Let me just take a look...” Patrice clicks at her computer a moment. “Actually, there’s someone scheduled to check in tonight.” She pauses, looking around. There’s nobody but us in the lobby, so she gives me a wink. “But we just had a cancellation and our executive penthouse suite is free.”

“Darlin’, as long as there’s four walls and nobody around to hear me snore, I’m all set.” She giggles. “The penthouse it is. And, I didn’t want to ask before, but...” she trails off, biting her lip with an anxious expression. I’ve seen that look on a thousand faces, I know exactly what’s coming next. You don’t spend five years as the lead guitarist in a major rock band without recognizing when a fan’s got a favor to ask. “Let me guess, you want an autograph?” I smile, putting her out of her nervous misery. She blushes. “It’s just, my daughter is a huge fan.” “Not you?” I tease. She looks stricken. “Oh no, I am too. But I got her your CD for a gift, and if it was signed, she would think I was the best mom ever.” I laugh. “No problem. Just bring it in tomorrow and I’ll swing by to sign.” “Thank you,” she breathes. “Oh my gosh, you’ve just made her Christmas!” “Happy holidays,” I wink, taking the room key she slides across the desk. Instead of going straight upstairs, I head to the bar instead. It’s still afternoon, so the place is almost empty. I pick a booth near the back, and settle in, ordering a double shot of whiskey to get me started. I take a long drink, and feel the tension ease out of me. This last six months has been non-stop: an epic world tour with the band, and working on my solo stuff too. For the last three weeks I’ve been holed up at a record studio across town, laying down tracks for my first album. After spending so long with my band-mates, it’s scary and exhilarating to go it alone. There’s nobody to bounce ideas off the same way -- and no-one to call me out when I wind up obsessing over a single lyric or rhythm track. Still, I’m happy to be taking that step. The Reckless will always be a part of my life, but it’s fun to challenge myself and try out new material too. I’ve been drawn to quieter, more acoustic material for a while now. The band’s music is rock -- driving, melodic, but hard. On my own, I get to dial it down and go back to my roots. Once a country boy, always a country boy. I take another drink and scroll through my phone. With time on my hands now, I need someone to help pass it. “Anika, darlin’,” I call my on-again/off-again girlfriend, an Estonian model who I met on the set of one of our music videos. “What are you doing tonight?” “Having dinner,” she replies coolly. “In Miami. Where I told you I’d be going.”

Shit. “Call it wishful thinking,” I answer smoothly. “Sure you don’t want to hop a flight?” She snorts. “I thought you said we have nothing in common.” “Nothing but chemistry. C’mon, baby,” I cajole. “It’s Christmas. Do you want to be naughty or nice...?” She giggles, her voice softening. “Sorry, baby, I’m all booked up. But I’ll be back for New Year ’s. Call me!” I hang up. It’s probably for the best: Anika can be a high-strung diva when her blood sugar gets low, and since this is the holidays, she’ll be waging a constant battle against carbs. I start scrolling through my address book. Becky. Brita. Caitlin, Carolina... I smile at the memories. You can’t blame me: I’m a red-blooded male who’s hit a hundred different cities over the past five years. Yeah, we had some good times, the band and me. But lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m too old for the same playboy bullshit. Sure, it’s tough to keep up a real relationship on the road, but the truth is, I quit trying. After my first serious girlfriend and I flamed out over long-distance troubles and her jealous streak, I decided to give dating a wide berth. I was too busy rehearsing all day, and partying all night to care about anything real, but now, that scene feels hollow and surface. I’m not twenty-two anymore. And seeing my best friend Dex settle down with the love of his life has reminded me that I haven’t met mine yet. That’s irony for you: my new album is packed with love songs, but the lyrics I write are all for a girl I’ve never even met. It’s why I’ve hung on with Anika for so long. Deep down, I know that we’re not right for each other, but it’s still nice to see the same face over the breakfast table in the morning, and have someone to call up to make plans for dinner the same night. Even if she won’t eat a damn thing. The empty seat beside me in the booth feels like it’s taunting me, so I find myself scrolling through the list and making calls. But every girl I talk to is way ahead of me: they’re either out of town with family or off the market for good. “Sorry, babe. I’m at my parent’s place in Arizona.” “I would be there in a heartbeat, but I’m at a yoga retreat in Peru.” “You’re two months too late, Austin. I’m engaged.”

I finally quit around the ‘K’s. This is crazy. Is everyone in the world except me spending this weekend with their nearest and dearest? Maybe this is a sign to get your shit together. I sit back and take a look around the room. There are a couple more people here now. Some middle-aged tourists poring over maps in the corner, and-Her. I stop. She’s perched on a stool by the bar, chatting to the bartender as he fixes her a drink. She’s dressed in a slinky navy dress that hugs her curves, her auburn hair gleaming under the lights. Every few seconds, she glances back at her phone, like she’s waiting for someone. Whoever he is, he’s too late. I’m already here. I slide out of the booth and head over. Up close, she’s even more beautiful: expressive hazel eyes and a sweet, glossy mouth curled in an excited smile. The bartender passes her a martini, and she takes a sip, her pink tongue darting out to lick the moisture from her lips. I feel a surge of lust. Damn. Five seconds in, and I could already write a song about that mouth. I lean against the bar beside her and flash my best grin, the one Nashville Sound voted the hottest smile in music. “Hey darlin’,” I drawl, “Have you been waiting for me? I wait for that flash of recognition on her face-- for her eyes to brighten, and her breath to catch, and her to swoon right into my arms the way women always do. Instead, she bursts out laughing. TO BE CONTINUED…

**Austin and Sophie’s holiday season heats up in Unexpectedly Yours.** Available now!

Acknowledgements: A huge thanks to everyone who’s supported Annalise and Raphael! To my fab agent, Rebecca Friedman; Brandie Coonis; Becca Manuel; Jenn Watson; the NWB girls: Monica Murphy, Lexy Ryan, Violet Duke, Sawyer Bennett, Kendall Ryan, Jessie Evans, Lauren Blakely. Louisa Maggio and Regina Wamba for the incredible cover designs. And to the amazing bloggers who have championed these books, I couldn’t do this without you! Xo Melody

THE BEACHWOOD BAY SERIES: BOOK 1: UNTOUCHED (Emerson & Juliet’s story begins - novella) BOOK 2: UNBROKEN (Emerson & Juliet’s story continues) BOOK 3: UNTAMED HEARTS (Brit & Hunter ’s story begins - novella) BOOK 4: UNAFRAID (Brit & Hunter ’s story continues) BOOK 5: UNWRAPPED (Lacey & Daniel’s holiday novella) BOOK 6: UNCONDITIONAL (Garret & Carina) BEACHWOOD BAY: THE CALLAHANS BOOK 7: UNREQUITED (Dex & Alicia begin – novella) BOOK 8: UNINHIBITED (Dex & Alicia) BOOK 9: UNSTOPPABLE (Ryland & Tegan) BOOK 10: UNEXPECTEDLY YOURS (holiday story) -- DECEMBER 2014 BOOK 11: UNWRITTEN –- JANUARY 2015 BOOK 12: UNFORGETTABLE –- MARCH 2015 Author ’s note: each book can be read as a stand-alone story, but you'll enjoy reading the other Beachwood Bay books, too. *



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