“You’ve done a good job keeping it looking sharp and trendy,” I say, gesturing to the photographs that line the walls of his shop before we pass through the door into the studio. “Do you sell those on consignment for the photographers?” They’re stunning images in a series, all macro shots of tattoos or close-ups of body parts with tattoos, so I doubt they’re mass-produced. If my father saw them, I imagine he’d consider buying them all.
My breath catches when I walk into the studio and get a closer look at the series of framed dancer images that grace the few feet of wall that aren’t occupied by mirrors.
“Well, considering I’m the photographer, not exactly. Anything to make a little extra cash. The lease on this place isn’t cheap. It’s one of the reasons I live upstairs. Not exactly five stars, but I pretty much only sleep there.” I turn and stare at him, my look apparently amusing him enough to laugh. “Don’t look so damn shocked. Mom instilled a healthy appreciation for the arts in all of us. Sam’s the one with most of the talent, but I got my fair share. We’re still trying to figure out what the hell happened to Elle though. She’s more about numbers.”
“Your little sister. I remember her.” I can easily picture the tiny, black-haired girl with big hazel eyes who appeared every so often during my last year of class. She’d mimic the other dancers, then get bored and spend her time at the reception desk, more content mashing buttons on the computer. “How old is she now?”
“Sixteen. She’s set to graduate early. I think she’s the only thing pushing Sam to actually finish this year. He can’t stand the idea of failing senior year again while his sister blows by him. Fucking smart as a whip. She knows what she wants in life.”
He exudes pride when he talks about her, and when I reach the bar, I look at him in the mirror and smile. “Sounds like a Santos to me.”
Music filters in from his shop as I grip the smooth wood. I kick off my low-heeled sandals, enjoying the way the warm wood floor feels against my bare feet. I don’t remember the last time I danced. I tried to keep it up, but finishing high school absorbed my waking hours, followed by a grueling college schedule, then an MBA program that left little room for extracurriculars. I was determined to earn my place in my father’s organization rather than have it handed to me, yet I still feel like I’m stuck on the outside looking in most of the time.
I position my feet and relax my knees, closing my eyes and letting the subdued music from Maddox’s shop wash over me. I’m acutely aware of him a few feet behind me, watching, yet somehow that makes it easier to remember the rhythm we had when we were younger. He was always there during classes, one of the few boys who ever attended. Often the only boy, so when a routine called for a partner, one lucky girl always got to pair up with him. I felt blessed every time it was me.
Gripping the bar, I crouch and sweep my other arm and leg out wide, then arch back. A big arm catches me around my waist, and I startle.
“I didn’t forget,” he says, low and husky. “Did you?”
I shake my head, falling into the moves as he spins us across the dance floor. One big hand grips my knee, and I become airborne, giddy when my feet lose contact with the ground and he spins us faster. He’s a little less graceful than I remember, but he holds me with ease, his hard body pressed tight against my back. Everything about this feels right. It has always felt right in his arms. Ever since that day when I was eight years old and he comforted me while my world crumbled to pieces.
The song ends abruptly, and a radio DJ’s voice comes on, shattering the moment. Maddox eases me back to the floor, and I turn in his arms, looking up at him. His throat works with a swallow and he backs up, darting his gaze to the mirror to look at me there, as if being too close to the real thing is too difficult and he needs to absorb me through a filter. I put a little distance between us, walking to the back wall and taking in the reflection of the entire space behind me.
He wanders toward the edge of the doorway to the dressing rooms and stops, hands in his pockets, his ass propped against the bar. A shaft of sunlight illuminates his tattooed arm, casting the heavy scars in dark relief. I want to ask about them, but now isn’t the right time. I’m not sure if there is a right time to quiz someone about how they were injured in a war.
Finally, he nods toward my wrist when I reach out for the bar again.
“You guys still close?” he asks, looking at the tattoo, then meeting my eyes again.
Laughing, I say, “Closer than ever. We were always like sisters. Her mom has been our housekeeper for as long as I can remember. You actually met her brothers the other night. The twins, Ben and Baz.”
He snorts. “No shit, those two are her brothers? Do they always follow Gustavo around like a pair of lap dogs?”
“They’re not dogs. They were there for me more than him. They’re protective of me by proxy, I guess. Leo too. His brother Manny is Toni’s boyfriend.”
“Ah,” he says. “That explains the way they stuck to Leo’s side afterward. I was afraid to ask Leo. He has a mean left hook.” He hangs his thumbs on his pockets and regards me more thoughtfully. “We never
