“I’m so fucking in!” Kenny shouts from the back—he’s one of the newer dancers. “I’ve got choreo ideas I’ve been sitting on formonths.”
“Same!” Mia is grinning now, her earlier unreadable expression transformed into something bright and eager. “I’ve got some routines that would break your back, Charlie. But Devon and I could own that stage?—”
“Wait, wait.” I hold up my hands, laughing despite myself. “Guys, I just want you to know, if you want an out, here it is. This is going to be a lot of work. We’re talking complete overhaul, probably pulling all-nighters, definitely pushing ourselves harder than we have all tour. The show in Tampa is next week. That’s not a lot of time to reinvent ourselves. So if anyone is not up for it…it’s okay. Just let me know. You will still be compensated for your time with me.”
“Yeah, who wants to be a little bitch?” Devon crosses his arms, but he’s grinning, looking around the patio.
Not a single soul pipes up. No one retreats. No unsure expressions. They always had the fire. They just needed me to light the damn match.
All right. Here we go.
I glance around the group. “I believe in every single one of you. I’m asking you to believe in me, too. Believe that I can pull this off. Believe that we can create something better than what we’ve been doing.”
The pool filter hums. A bird calls somewhere in the palm trees.
Then Devon raises his hand. “Fully in.”
“Me too,” Mia says immediately.
“Obviously,” from Jasmine.
One by one, hands go up. Voices call out agreement. By the time the last dancer has committed, the energy around the poolhas completely transformed—from lazy afternoon hangout to this pure, electric sense ofpurpose.
“Holy shit.” I press my hands to my cheeks as tears prick at my eyes. I expected our ranks to shrink today. I didn’t expect to feel strengthened. “You guys. I don’t even know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything.” Devon pulls me into a hug, his still-damp skin cool against my sundress. “Save those pipes for the performance. We can take the lead on the dance side.”
More hugs follow. Jasmine squeezes me so hard I squeak. Marcus lifts me off the ground entirely. By the time they release me, I’m laughing and crying and feeling lighter than I have in months.
“Okay, okay.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “Pizza first. Then we talk logistics. Sound good?”
The group descends on the pizza boxes like locusts, and the afternoon dissolves into a chaotic mix of brainstorming and pepperoni and arguments about which songs need the most work. I’m in the middle of it all, scribbling notes on napkins, fielding suggestions, watching these incredible people come alive with creative verve.
This is what it’s supposed to feel like. A team. A family. Something worth fighting for.
Taio
I watch the whole thing from the kitchen window.
From where I stand, I can see her by the pool, this tiny figure in an oversized hat and billowing sundress. She’s laying herself bare, confessing doubts to people who dance behind her every night, who could so easily turn on her. Yet there she is, reachingout with open palms instead of clenched fists, asking them to catch her when she could have pretended to never stumble.
Then it happens—the dancers burst into applause, circling around her with open arms. I watch her face transform: first shock, then a trembling smile, then something luminous and grateful spreading across her features as she realizes they’re still with her, all in.
My chest twists, warmth spreading outward until I’m smiling like a loon, alone in the kitchen, watching a woman I’ve known for less than a few weeks command the loyalty of an entire dance team through sheer vulnerability and authenticity.
This is what she does. She walks into rooms full of people who have every reason to resent her, and she wins them over by being exactly who she is. No pretense. No manipulation. Just Charlie, messy and imperfect and somehow radiant because of it.
I think about the book still sitting in my bag—the romance novel I’m three-quarters through, the one where the hero and heroine keep circling each other, kept apart by circumstance and fear and all the reasonable obstacles that make stories interesting. I’ve read dozens of these books. I know how they work. I know the beats, the tropes, the inevitable moment when everything clicks into place and the couple gets their happily-ever-after.
But standing here, watching Charlie through a window, I feel like I’m caught in the middle of a plot without any guarantee of how it ends.
The inkling is there. That spark I’ve envied, the one that only exists in fiction, the one I’d almost convinced myself wasn’t real. It’s small, but it’s growing. Every time she laughs. Every time she says something ridiculous. Every time she looks at me like I’m the only person in the room.
I’m falling for her, one idiosyncrasy at a time. The realization should scare me more than it does. Instead, it feels inevitable, like I’ve been moving toward this moment since the night I knocked on the wrong hotel room door.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out, expecting Charlie, or maybe Sage with some tour update. Instead, the screen displays a number I know by heart but never saved as a contact.
