Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (35 page)

Cillian let out a low whistle. “Wow. I thought this would be a hair salon or a coffee shop or something like that. This—wow.”

Sammi noticed another enclosed room further down the hall. It had a lookout window like the first room did, and she glared and stormed toward it.

“Two. They have
two
studios.”

Fresh anger tinged with jealousy roiled through her. This was
her
place.
Childish...it hasn't been your place in over a month. At some point, you have to let it go.
Coming in was a bad idea, but now that she was here, she couldn't leave without seeing every inch.

The back studio was completely dark, but she could tell that it was even bigger than the other studio. Its door was closed.

She glanced to her left at a small sitting area in front of the studio windows, where a sofa was against the wall, facing the window. There was a couple of armchairs, hooks fitted into the walls above a stack of cubbies for little dancers to store dance bags, and even a wooden stand with a single-cup brewer on it, presumably for parents who wanted to stay and watch their children in class, or showed up early to pick them up. She'd had the same idea.

Beyond the sitting area was another little dark room, probably an office. She could make out the vague, shadowy shape of a desk and what might have been a bookshelf.

“Doesn't look like anyone's here.” She reached for the door of the studio. “I have to see this.”

“Sammi, just hang on.” Cillian squeezed her shoulder lightly. “Relax for a second.”

“I
am
—”

A sudden creaking noise from somewhere in the building met their ears, and she froze.
Shit. Where'd that come from? Maybe someone's home, after all.
They would probably not appreciate her poking around their place, even if the door was unlocked.
They might even call the cops...that might
be
the cops.

She turned to Cillian. “Someone's here,” she said in a hushed voice. “Maybe we triggered a silent alarm or something. What if it's the cops? Can they arrest us for trespassing?”

Cillian looked totally calm, his hands in his pockets. “Yes.”

“Neither of us look like criminals, right?”

He shrugged. “Martha Stewart is technically a criminal.”

We're so screwed.
“We tell them it's a misunderstanding, we thought this place was open and we're here because—because we have a kid and—and we want her to start taking lessons—”

“Or,” Cillian replied, mocking her dramatic stage whisper, “because you own this place and you have every right to be here.”

“Right.” Sammi barely heard him as her mind whirled. It was a likely story; they were old enough to believably have a child of dancing age. Then again, it depended on the cop. Some of them were relaxed and wouldn't give them a hard time, and some of them weren't. She might be in cuffs in the next few minutes and—

“Wait.” She whirled to stare up at him. “Say
what,
now?”

A slow smile spread over Cillian's face, his pewter eyes dancing. Without a word, he took her by the hand and pushed the door open.

Her heart beat faster and faster, and it all came together in the instant before he turned on the lights.

“
Surprise!”

Sammi didn't even register that she was crying until her vision became so blurry she had to stop and paw at her eyes. Everyone she loved was there to hug her, kiss her, congratulate her—Joe and Carmela, Nik and Toni, Vince and Ryan. Mia, Dante, Dominic, and Ramona. Uncle Gino. Jazz. Even Murphy and Esther, and Melody, Jenny, and Christopher were there.

“What did you do?” Sammi stared at Cillian, her mouth hanging open.

He only smiled, slipping an arm around her shoulders, hugging her tight. His lips pressed to her temple and slid to her ear. “You would've gotten this place eventually with all your hard work, but I wanted you to have it sooner than that.” He kissed her cheek and released her, walking across the studio to grab a large manila envelope from where it rested next to the sound system.

“Congratulations, my girl.” Carmela wrapped her arms around her. “I'm so happy for you.”

The force of her family's love overwhelmed her, made her lightheaded; feeling the true power of love in its purest form was transcendental.

This is mine
. She buried her face in her hands.
This is my dream and it's real.

Cillian maneuvered his way through the small crowd to her side, and held out the envelope as well as a set of keys. “Your ownership paperwork, and the keys. Congratulations, Sam.”

Sammi took them from him, holding his hand tight.
He did all of this
.
He did this for me. God, I love him so much.

She wanted to thank him a million times, tell him how lucky she was to have someone like him in her life, tell him that she couldn't believe he'd done something so amazingly thoughtful and kind for her, tell him that he had
just
made her life's dream come true.

“You are in so much trouble,” was all she could manage.

He flashed the wide, beautiful smile she loved, the rare one that made his eyes light up, and used his thumb to brush tears off her face. “Bring it on, Carnevale.”

“Well.” Carmela swiped away her own tears, leaning against her husband as he kissed the top of her head. “Enough with the waterworks. Let's celebrate, huh, everybody?”

On a couple of folding banquet tables set up near the back of the studio room, there were half a dozen aluminum pans of spaghetti and lasagna, a basket of fresh Italian loaves, bottles of olive oil with roasted garlic cloves and rosemary twigs resting at the bottom, dishes of bruschetta, and blocks of parmesan cheese to be grated over the pasta.

Never let it be said that Ma didn't feed her family on a Sunday.

Jazz had baked and decorated a glorious white almond sponge cake, stuffed with raspberry preserves and cream cheese filling, topped with mounds of extra-light, fluffy whipped frosting. She'd decorated it with a pair of pink fondant pointe shoes, tied together with their fondant ribbons. Melody popped the top on a couple bottles of champagne and sparkling juice and filled red plastic cups.

Everyone took seats on the attached benches, the tables pushed together to make one big one, and served up heaping plates. Soon, loud voices and laughter filled the space, echoing off the hard walls and floor and making it sound as if fifty people were in there.

Sammi sat next to Cillian against the mirror, her plate in her lap. “How did you do this? I know you must have had help.”

Cillian pointed his fork at Jazz. “My accomplice.”

“What?” Niq exclaimed. She looked between Jazz and Cillian. “You were in on it? You didn't tell me?”

“All due respect, Niq, but you and Toni have the loudest mouths in Boston.” Jazz shrugged, daintily slurping a spaghetti noodle. “You two can't hold water. The point of this was supposed to be a surprise.” She winked at Sammi, then grinned at Cillian. “I think we pulled it off.”

“Agreed.” Cillian nodded, reaching across the table for a high-five. “Couldn't have done it without you.”

“Well, you did a fabulous job.” Esther shook her head. “This place is just beautiful.”

Sammi touched Cillian's hand. “I just can't say thank you enough. I am going to repay you, though.”

“Oh, you can repay me.” He wiggled his brows.

Sammi chuckled. “No, I mean—I'm going to pay you back. Everything I saved for this place is yours.”

“No way. I don't want it.”

Sammi narrowed her eyes. “Okay. We'll table this for now, but this is not over.”

He just winked and kissed her hand.

When everyone finished eating, Cillian got to his feet. “Everybody, can we all head outside? Got one more surprise.”

They shuffled outside to gather in front. Cillian flipped a switch on the wall just inside the door, then stepped out and pulled on a thin rope attached to the tarp. The canvas covering fell to the ground, and Sammi's heart caught in her throat. Illuminated in a soft glow of white lights in the dusky evening, her sign—
her sign!
—shone softly.

Inspire Dance Academy.

She started crying all over again.

There was so much to work out—advertising, building clientele, selecting and organizing the dance classes. And, she thought as she set her jaw, there was a business contract to be drawn up with Cillian in regards to repaying him for his investment. No matter what he said, she would pay him back every last red cent, with interest.

But for now, she was content to stand there on sidewalk, surrounded by her family—Cillian and Jazz and the Ronans were family as much as her blood relatives were—and wrap herself in his arms. While everyone else stared up at her sign, she rested her chin on his chest and looked up at him.

He felt her gaze and looked down at her, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Happy?”

“Elated. Because of you.”

“I actually was afraid you might be mad.”

She drew her head back. “Why would I be mad?”

“I don't want you to think that I thought you couldn't do this on your own.” He shrugged. “I just had an opportunity to make it a right-now thing for you, so I took it.”

“I'm not mad.” She squeezed him.

“Good.” He smiled in relief.

She tagged his chin with her lips. “Hey. I really love you.”

There was so much more she could say, words of gratitude that he'd come into her life, that he'd helped heal her from the horrific trauma of her past, that he'd given her so much more than she'd believed she could have. But it all caught in her throat, in the trap of the lump that formed there.

But the way he smiled, the gentle crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way he touched her face, let her know that she didn't have to say any of it. He knew.

“I love you, too, Sammi.”

They stood together, their arms wrapped around each other, and enjoyed the glow of the sign as it lit up the dark.

Cillian strolled into the academy, glancing at his watch. He was a little early, but Sammi's last class on Thursdays let out momentarily.

Inspire had been open for six months, and it was growing at an exponential rate. Baz had helped put together an online marketing campaign for the academy, posting videos of Sammi's showcase performance and testimonials from families of dancers she taught at the rec center. Growth had been slow but steady the first few months, and when school started in the fall, there'd been a huge spike in business.

So huge, that Sammi had hired an extra teacher and an office assistant. She could have done the work herself, but she insisted on keeping her job at the bakery during the day until she had enough income to support herself from the studio alone. Five nights a week she was at the academy, teaching dancers that ranged in age from three-year-olds to high-school students. Jenny, his niece, was one of her brightest pupils.

He and Sammi were both so busy these days; with her work at the academy and his own with running the gym, personal training, and the self-defense class that had been expanded to twice a week, it was hard to spend as much time together as they would have liked.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the little box there. After tonight, he hoped to change that. That brought on another bout of the nerves he'd had all week, his stomach going shaky, his skin heating with a warm tingle.

To distract himself, he wandered to the lookout window of the back studio. Sammi stood in front of her eight-to-nine-year-old dancers, facing the mirror.

“You girls did great work tonight. Let's do our reverence, and then it's time to go.”

She led the girls through a series of slow movements—graceful sweeps of the arms, deep curtsies to the right and left sides.

He couldn't keep a small smile off his face—he loved watching her in her element, teaching young dancers, helping them with their form, encouraging them. She was born to do this, and seeing her living her dream filled him with a deep, quiet feeling of contentment.
All is right with the world—ours, anyway.

They ended with a round of applause, and then the door to the back studio pushed open and two dozen young girls flew out in a mob of chattering, excited noise toward the small group of parents that waited for them in the sitting area. Before long, the studio was empty and quiet again.

Cillian lounged in the doorway of the little back office, looking up and smiling when Sammi stepped out of the studio. Her face lit up at the sight of him.

“My favorite boyfriend.” She hurried over and kissed his lips with a playful smack.

“Better be your
only
boyfriend.” He swatted her bottom as she passed him to enter the office, smirking when she squealed. “How was class?”

“Tiring. Those little girls have so much energy. I want whatever they're drinking.” She straightened up some papers on the desk and then turned to the computer, logging out and powering down. “Where are we going for dinner? Hopefully nowhere fancy, because I'm starving and I refuse to change first.”

“Cheesesteaks?”