“What? When?”
“Yesterday, as I was walking by the inn. Your parents and grandmother popped out of the inn like a jack-in-the-box when I walked by. Blocked my way on the sidewalk.”
Mortified, I hang my head. I can only imagine what my grandmother probably said to him. My parents . . . I’m not as worried about them embarrassing me. Sure, they were likely to be incredibly enthusiastic, but I know they wouldn’t intentionally say anything that I wouldn’t want them to say. My grandmother, however, would have used any and every chance to rattle Jace just for the fun of it. She’s similar to Gladys in that way.
“And exactly how much did my Gram comment on your . . .” I wave my hand in the direction of his general frame, not wanting to say the words, namely, his notable attractiveness, his physique, or even—objectively—his top-tier level of hotness. I’m a dancer. I’ve seen the male figure quite a bit in my life—in tights, at that. So, I can convincingly say that while Jace’s frame is bulkier than the dancers I’ve been around most of my life, he’s all muscle, clean lines, and strength. Yes, he’s huge. But his frame wasn’t formed by bodybuilding. He’s not a gym bro. He’s a punching-the-lights-out-of-punching-bags-and-building-furniture-by-hand kind of guy. And it’s clearly a workout regimen that works.
I come to, realizing that I’ve gotten lost in listing Jace’s excellent physical attributes while standing right next to him. I’ve officially been thinking way too long about how much I like looking at him.
When my vision clears, his expression is stoic. The only indication that he’s enjoying this conversation is in the slight lift of his posture, the flex of his biceps as he crosses his arms, and the amusement flickering like a lit candle in his gaze.
“Your grandmother might’ve mentioned my height. I believe the words ‘gun show’ were utilized more than once.”
I laugh and cover my mouth in embarrassment at the volume as the kids stop their motions for a minute before resuming their squeals and play. “Oh no, she didn’t!” I draw out the words in horror.
At this, a grin tugs up one side of his mouth, that infamous dimple I remember on his cheek making its first appearance since the days of old. I feel a silent gasp overtake me. There really should be a warning that comes with that dimple. Everyone within a five-foot radius: Look out!
“I mean, she’s not wrong.”
“Jace!” I push his arm, but he doesn’t budge in the least. A microscope would be needed to detect any hint of movement. Goodness, the man really is a mountain. “Did you just admit to your attractiveness?”
“No, I stated a fact.” He shrugs, pulling a hammer from his tool belt. He turns to face me and slowly walks backward. Pointing the hammer at me playfully, his shoulders lift again. “But you just did.”
Heat floods my face, and I can’t help but smile so widely that my mouth hurts. The moment is a glimpse of our easy banter all those years ago. Every day, it seems I see a little more of the man I first met. And I love it.
“Miss Jones.” I hear a flustered voice behind me.
When I turn, Arthur of the Music and Arts Committee is walking my way. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Collins,” I call out. As unfortunate as it is, that really is his last name.
Arthur takes one look at my students dancing and moving freely. He huffs. While our townspeople are known for their kindness, there are a few who feel the need to keep things incredibly orderly and have certain expectations as to what art can be. “I don’t understand what’s happening here,” he says with a frown. “I thought you would be rehearsing for the performance.”
I paste on a smile and trust it looks genuine. “Oh, but we are. Unrestricted movement and encouragement to move through play ensure that children feel empowered to continue to move their bodies in a way that would benefit them. We’re about to begin our number, but until then, they’re exploring self-expression and the freedom found in dance.” Hoping that sounded important enough, I laugh as one of my students does the chicken dance. It’s not ballet in the least, but it’s entertaining.
“I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” Arthur says with a notable degree of skepticism.
“Yes, thank you. Can I help you with something, though?”
“Ahh, yes, I just wanted to be sure that you saw my memo that the Hoffermans are going to be out of town during the performance. Shame, really.”
I . . . did not know that. The Hoffermans are the second top donor each year. My stomach sinks. Something about this year has felt extra challenging. Dance isn’t a priority for everyone, and sometimes, it feels like an uphill battle convincing the town to ensure our dance studio survives. First, we lost the sets I used to use for the holiday production to water damage after they were accidentally left outside during a snowstorm, then we lost our original set designer, and now, we’re losing the influenceand generosity of one of our best financial supporters. I don’t know how to make it the best show ever this year, not when so many things seem to be falling out of place, but I still have to try. The Hoffermans are the type to want people to know about their support. So, if they’re not concerned with being here, I have even more reason to be concerned about the survival of my livelihood.
But I can’t say any of that out loud. “I appreciate the update, Mr. Collins,” I begin. “It was kind of you to travel all the way here just to tell me.”
His feet shift at the compliment, but he doesn’t smile. I know he means well, and I’m confident my appreciation was genuine.
“Well, I just hope there are enough scholarships after the holidays to keep you going, is all,” he says ruefully.
We both know the importance of this performance is about more than the scholarships. It’s about Piper, whose father was laid off. She dreams of being a principal dancer like I was. It’s also about Bennett, who is being raised by a single mom. She works two jobs and believes he should pursue dance if that’s what makes him happy.
When I was coming up, my parents always provided. For the most part, I never had to worry, but I remember slow seasons during which my parents’ inn struggled and stress over the cost of my dance costumes was high. As soon as I could, I scooped cones at Bette’s Ice Cream in the summer to make sure I had the money to pay for all my shoes and uniforms throughout the year. And Mom once admitted that she wanted to dance as a child, but her parents couldn’t afford it. That broke my heart, and that’s why I am passionate about making sure everyone has the opportunity to pursue their dreams.
Because dance shouldn’t be optional for people.
As much as it’s hard to hear, I know Arthur is trying to look out for me. He wants me to manage my expectations and plan ahead. But right now, I need a little less realism and a lotmore hope. Looking at Jace hammering away at something that I think is going to be a box for one of the dancing dolls in The Nutcracker, something that feels a little like potential nestles into the center of my chest.
“I think we’re going to be okay, sir,” I say firmly. “I love dance, but my students mean the most to me. I will do everything I can to ensure that everyone who wants to dance in this town continues to be able to do so.”
Arthur’s eyebrows lift. He seems uncertain as to whether I just denied his doom-and-gloom outlook. “Right. Just wanted you to know.” He turns to my students, who have now transitioned into hopping while meowing like cats. I stifle a laugh. They’re adorable. “I’ll leave you to whatever this is.” With that, he turns and heads to the door backstage.
