“So,” he said in a brisker tone, “about the studio.”
I raised my eyes anxiously to his. “Yes?”
“I have a proposition for you. You must promise to be honest in your response.”
“Oookay,” I said doubtfully. My knuckles whitened on the mug’s handle.
“I have made arrangements to expand my export business to this area; I have signed agreements with several outlets-stores-in D.C., Virginia, and Pennsylvania. I need to be here to oversee the business for a while, maybe as much as a year. Since I will be here anyway, I thought I would hold on to Rafe’s share of the studio for now and run it with you.”
“As partners?” Doubt and hope collided in me.
He nodded and stepped closer until he was standing right in front of me. “I have a degree in accounting and I am a whiz with numbers and organization. I could not help noticing when I went through the paperwork that you were-”
“Hopeless with numbers.” I laughed weakly. “But you don’t dance.”
“True. But I am a fast learner.” He smiled and reached his hand out. “Know where I can find a good teacher?”
I put my hand in his, feeling a tingle that had nothing to do with my wound as his fingers closed over mine. I stood and we were a mere breath apart. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
I raised our clasped hands to dance position and put my left hand carefully on his shoulder. My stitches protested, but I ignored them. His left arm automatically encircled my waist and I leaned into his strength and warmth and steadiness. He smiled down at me, gaze slipping to my lips, and my voice trembled a little as I said, “Lesson number one: the frame.”
“Now?” he said, looking a little uneasy. “Here? There’s no music.”
“Oh, there’s always music.” I squeezed his hand and we began to dance.
Ella Barrick
