The Ballerina's Secret

“Fine.” He turned on his heel, telling himself it wasn’t too late. He could still get out of this.

Say it. Just say it. I’m not coming back.

But the words stuck in this throat as his footsteps echoed past the empty space where Tessa had been.

Chapter Three (#u4521553f-a801-56bb-9676-e3e5fdc19c0a)

“New pointe shoes?” Tessa’s mother, Emily Wilde, eyed the Freed of London bag sticking out of her dance bag.

Ugh, why hadn’t she zipped it properly? Never mind, though. She’d done nothing wrong. She didn’t have anything to hide.

Other than the weird sounds she’d heard yesterday, obviously. That was a different story, and much more serious than an audition for a part she probably wouldn’t even get.

“I’m auditioning for the Manhattan Ballet.” Tessa unclipped Mr. B’s leash and let him loose in the dance school. He trotted to the dog bed in the corner of the main classroom, spun three circles and then collapsed in a furry little heap.

When Tessa looked up, her mother had already begun signing. Her hands moved through the air in an alphabetic flurry. “Again? Oh, Tessa.”

“Yes, again.” She wondered what her mother’s voice sounded like now. Emily never talked when she signed, so Tessa couldn’t tell if she sounded the same.

Probably not. Nothing sounded like it should. She felt as though she’d woken up a day ago at the bottom of the ocean. Everything sounded muffled. Distorted. Not at all like she remembered.

“I need you to look after Mr. B today, okay?” He’d expressed his displeasure about being left behind the day before by disemboweling a throw pillow. There’d been more feathers on her living room floor than in the first three acts of Swan Lake. “And possibly tomorrow.”

Her mother’s eyebrows shot up. “Tomorrow, too?”

If I last that long. “The cast list goes up tomorrow afternoon.”

“I see.” Her mom nodded. “And will you be back today in time for the preschool tap class?”

Preschool tap. What on earth would that sound like? Tessa didn’t want to know. God help her. “Sorry, I have a doctor’s appointment late today. Can we get Chloe to cover it?”

Her sister, Chloe, should be the one teaching tap, anyway. She was a Rockette. She lived in tap shoes. But she always had something more pressing to do. More important. It was getting kind of old, truth be told.

“I’ll check.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t realize you’d scheduled a doctor’s appointment. Is everything okay?”

Tessa had no idea how to answer that question. Things were not okay, which was why she’d made the appointment to begin with.

But if she was truly getting her hearing back, wouldn’t it get better? It had to. She couldn’t live like this. She’d rather be deaf.

“Everything’s fine.” She pasted on a smile.

She’d tell her mom what was going on once she had a handle on things. She couldn’t deal with any additional drama. Not when she still had two more days of auditions to get through.

“Good. I’ll see you later, then. Don’t worry about Mr. B. He loves it here.”

As should you.

Emily didn’t say so. She didn’t have to. Tessa got the message loud and clear.

She wanted too much. She should be happy teaching dance. Which was probably why her mom hadn’t even wished her good luck at her audition. She probably hadn’t thought to wish her well. She’d just assumed Tessa wouldn’t make it. Just like all the other times she’d auditioned in the past year.

Tessa glanced at the clock on the wall above the record player that had been a fixture at the studio since she’d been too little to reach the barre. It was late. She wouldn’t have to worry about her audition if she didn’t hurry to make the train. She waved goodbye to Mr. B, and left.

While she sat in the subway car, she mentally reviewed the combination Ivanov had taught them the day before. The train made a terrible noise, though. Much louder than the music from Heathcliff’s piano.

Heathcliff. She really should stop calling him that, even to herself. Surely the man had a name.

Don’t you have more important things to be concerned about?

She did. Namely, the time.

She flew into the Manhattan Ballet studio with only ten minutes to spare. Through the tiny window at the end of the hall, she saw Chance Gabel standing just a little too close to Sabrina Cox, one of the other principal dancers. Neither of them was dancing, or paying the least bit of attention to anyone or anything, other than each other. Which meant rehearsal hadn’t started.

Good. She wasn’t late.

Yet.

She pushed the door open, intent on getting to her spot and slipping her shoes on as quickly as possible. But instead of darting inside, she crashed into something. Someone, technically. The shoes she carried in her arms tumbled to the floor, and she found herself face-to-face with the angry piano player.

Face to chest, actually, as he was a good six or seven inches taller than she was. But unlike the permanent scowl on his face, his chest was rather nice. Firm. Solid beneath her fingertips, which for some ridiculous reason, had lingered there. His T-shirt was even balled in her fists, which she could only assume was a result of her recent mental breakdown.

“I’m sorry.” She swallowed. “So sorry.”

He looked at her as though she’d materialized out of thin air, which she sort of had, since she’d flown right into the room. He started to say something, but she didn’t catch it because her gaze dropped to her hands, still gripping his shirt like he was her own personal, perfectly muscular security blanket.

She ordered her balled fists to let go, and they flagrantly disobeyed. Then, to her even greater mortification, the piano man’s musical fingers wrapped around hers and unfastened them for her. As per usual, there was a scowl on his face. Tessa didn’t know if it was due to the fact that she’d plowed straight into him, or because it seemed to be his default expression. Resting Heathcliff face.

Oh, God.

She scrambled to the floor to gather her shoes together. Rehearsal was mere seconds away, and she wasn’t anywhere near her spot. She felt altogether vulnerable. Exposed. As if every pair of eyes in the room was bearing down on her, but when she glanced up, no one was watching.

Only him.

* * *

The dancer, Tessa, was in a panic, and Julian only seemed to be making things worse.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Rehearsal can’t start without the music, and I guess you could say that’s me. I’m the music.”

He waited for a laugh. Or a smile. Neither was forthcoming. Not even a hint of acknowledgment. Just like on the train.

Okay, then.

He sat back on his heels and watched her gather her things. She might not want to give him the time of day. Correction—not might. She clearly didn’t. And while that realization didn’t please him in the slightest, he had no desire to see her punished for being tardy. The Russian appeared so full of himself, he’d abhor such a violation. If for some reason he took it in stride—a possibility that seemed slim at best—Madame Daria would never let it slide. Of that, Julian was certain.

Still.

He prickled at being slighted by Tessa. Again. Granted, this was her world, not his. He was in a dance studio, not some smoky blues club in the West Village, where, even now, he could have his pick of women.