Marcus released her cheek, but only to trace his index finger around the edges of her face, grazing her hairline gently as his hand made its progress across her skin. Heather opened her eyes and gazed up at him, riveted by his warmth and determination as he charted the path from her forehead to her temple, down her cheek and along her jawline, until his finger came to rest on her chin. Then he ducked his head and gently kissed her there.
“Stage face, my ass,” he murmured, and she let out a watery giggle, tipping her head back so his lips met her throat.
Outside the tent, a bell clanged, and they both jumped.
“Must be time to get moving,” Heather said regretfully. She disentangled herself from his arms and her sleeping bag, then groaned. Now that she no longer had the distraction of Marcus’s hands and mouth, she was reminded of just how poorly she’d slept and how sore she was.
“These tents looked so comfortable in the brochure,” Marcus said, grimacing. “We can sue for false advertising.”
Heather laughed. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, but maybe you should hand over date planning to me next time.”
“Hey, I’m just glad to hear there’ll be a next time after this.” Marcus rubbed the shoulder he’d slept on, then reached stiffly toward the corner of the tent and unzipped the entrance flap.
“Not if there isn’t coffee out there,” Heather grumbled as she eased herself carefully into a sitting position. Her hamstrings complained as she did, and her lower back felt like it was made of cement. She officially hated camping. And glamping.
**
Marcus staggered out into the sharp morning light. The two sisters appeared to have slept perfectly well, or at least well enough to run around the firepit playing some kind of game as their father sat on a bench, nursing a steaming metal mug.
“Where’d you get that?” Marcus called to him.
The man gestured to the other side of the clearing, where someone—likely Craig—had set up hot water and instant coffee. Behind him, Heather let out a whimper of longing, and Marcus took her hand.
“Come on, let’s get you caffeinated.”
As they walked, Heather laced her fingers between his and swung their hands a few times through the cool air. Marcus gave her a gentle squeeze, and then, on the third swing, he pulled her close and gave her a spin. She laughed as he pulled her into him, suddenly chest to chest, one hand firm on her lower back.
“You wanna dance?” Heather asked, gazing up at him, anticipation in her tired, beautiful face.
“With The Heather Hays?”
“I’m just Heather up here.” She shrugged, smiling, eyes sparkling with invitation.
In that moment, another fleeting but perfectly clear thought dashed through Marcus’s still-groggy brain. It would be worth spending another year with Sharon if it meant getting strong enough to dance with Heather. It would be worth grinding through tedious exercises and enduring the pain of rebuilding his atrophied muscles to perform with this woman, this dancer, this unexpected ray of sunshine. The image of the two of them flashed before his eyes, him and Heather on a real stage, in front of a real audience, and not in joggers.
For a few seconds, they swayed, moving together in silent rhythm. When Marcus spun her out, she responded by stepping in front of him, into the highest fifth position relevé her shoes would allow. Then she took a step forward and set up for a pirouette. Marcus put his hands on her waist, ready to spin and steady her.
Heather turned, her shoe scraping in the packed dirt, and after three rotations Marcus stopped her, holding her tight and secure. It was just like rehearsal with Justin and Peter, except here, no one was watching them. No one was scrutinizing or judging or watching for signs of inappropriate fraternization. It was just him and Heather and the music only they could hear.
Heather stepped away from him again, this time into a low arabesque, and again Marcus caught her waist and held her there.
“Penché?” he asked, and she hesitated.
“Slowly. I’m cold, and I just spent the night on the world’s thinnest mattress.”
Marcus chuckled and squeezed her waist in understanding, then she lowered her body towards the ground, diving carefully forward until her free foot pointed to the sky. After a few seconds, Heather pulled up, and once again Marcus felt her muscles working beneath his hands and marvelled for a moment that he was in fact dancing with Heather. The woman everyone else thought of as The Heather Hays. On packed dirt at a campsite, on the way to get weak instant coffee, but still. He hadn’t danced a pas de deux in over a year, but this had been more than worth the wait.
When she was fully upright, Heather spun out from him, tight chainé turns taking her a few feet away until he caught up with her. She stopped and swept one leg up into an attitude derrière, beaming as he took her hand and walked around her, turning her on one leg in a slow promenade. After a few seconds, she wobbled, and before Marcus could catch her she lost her balance and came down from relevé, laughing.
“That’s all I can do before coffee. Is your ankle okay?”
“It’s fine,” he said. Better than fine, actually, Marcus realised as she gave him a relieved smile, kissed him quickly, and made a beeline for the coffee. Sure, he hadn’t moved much, and it wasn’t like he’d just performed some huge jumps or anything, but his Achilles hadn’t complained at all. He’d barely thought about it. He’d been so focused on Heather, on making sure she was placedproperly over her leg and stable in her pirouettes. And it had felt easy, like they’d been dancing together all their lives.
Heather handed him a mug full of milky coffee, and he sipped it gratefully. It was no flat white, but it was hot and caffeinated, and today it would do. They walked back to the fire hand in hand, and even though he knew better, Marcus let himself wonder what it would be like to dance with Heather Hays for the rest of his life.
After making sure they all had water and appropriate footwear, Craig led everyone down the longer, scenic path. The girls and their father were at the front, the sisters chattering with each other and peppering Craig with questions. The French couple walked serenely behind them, and Heather and Marcus followed slowly at the back of the pack.
“Are you sure your ankle can handle this?” Heather asked, watching the weak morning sun slide over his face as he moved. The night’s chill hung in the air, and the forest smelled of damp soil.
