Someone whispered his last name and a ripple of gasps passed through the group.
He ignored the sudden, unwanted scrutiny and focused on Reese.
Oh Jesus, she was pretty. Way, way out of his league. Did he imagine that kiss?
She stepped out into the open and it became the greatest challenge of his lifetime to not stare at her legs, exposed almost completely in a very small pair of shorts. It was February in New York. Was she trying to catch hypothermia?
“What are you doing here?” Reese prompted in a murmur.
Heads swiveled in every direction eagerly looking for his father. They wouldn’t find him. It wasn’t that Leo had a bad relationship with Bernard. They just didn’t have a lot in common. Fine, nothing. They had zero common interests. Bernard was forever watching his diet, as did most dancers, so he’d decreed early on to Leo that it was “dangerous” for him to visit the Cookie Jar. Dancing was the world to Leo’s father. When they saw one another at holidays or for an occasional drink, the visit would usually start out pretty great. They’d catch up on family business and current events. Until the conversation inevitably fell flat. Bernard didn’t know how to interact with someone who wasn’t singing his praises and Leo didn’t know how to sing them.
“What is a Bexley doing in the Theater District?” someone asked from behind Reese. “You didn’t really just ask that. His father practically built this block.”
A male dancer in leg warmers craned his neck over Reese’s shoulder. “He wouldn’t happen to be around, would he?”
Color built in Reese’s cheeks, her expression seemingly troubled.
“No, I’m alone,” Leo answered, not surprised when everyone’s shoulders slumped. “I thought we could talk, if you’re free,” he said to Reese.
A beat passed, Reese pulled her coat tighter around her body. “Sure.” She turned slightly and met the eyes of another dancer in a BTS sweatshirt. “See you at home?”
“Oh yes.” The girl moseyed on, along with the rest of the pack, who thankfully were no longer interested. “Expect questions.”
“Sorry about that,” Reese said after a moment, ducking her head. “So you’re a Bexley.”
He grunted. “Bernard is my father.”
She stared off down the block. “I see.”
Tourists were bottlenecking around them on the sidewalk so he took her elbow gently, pulling her into the relative privacy just outside the theater doors. “Are you coming from rehearsal?” he asked, stooping down a little to catch her eye. The other night, they’d barely been able to unlock their gazes for a second. Now she seemed to be avoiding it.
“A class, actually. A dancer never stops learning.” She wet her lips. “But I guess you know that, don’t you?”
“Not really. I was raised around this world. Not in it.” He lost the battle he’d been waging with his self-control not to look at her legs. Christ. Long and toned and smooth. No doubt about it, she belonged on stage. Focus, pervert. “You ran off on me Saturday night.”
She winced. “I know, I—”
“It was my fault. I had a hunch you were a dancer and when you confirmed it…look, I really shouldn’t have judged you like that.”
Reese’s attention drifted to her group of friends who’d reached the end of the avenue. “I can see why you would.”
Surprisingly, the simplicity and understanding of that statement made him want to tell her more, to explain his wariness of dancers in greater detail, but wouldn’t that be coming on too strong? And when had that ever been a worry for him before? It was probably better to keep his skeletons in the closet, since her interest—had he imagined it?—seemed to have waned.
Hell, he was already here in Times Square standing outside of the theater where she performed. Why try and play it safe now? Besides, that same cool balm was spreading in his chest, just like the last time he’d been around Reese. The fear of saying the wrong thing wasn’t as prevalent as usual. Was it the understanding in those brown eyes or the way she seemed to lean into the silences, like he did?
“I had a friend a long time ago—I’m talking high school. Senior year.” He tossed his coffee in a nearby garbage can to give his hands something to do, then sank them into the pockets of his jeans. “My parents sent me to a performing arts high school, which is kind of like sending a bodybuilder to ballet class, but they were donors and knew the faculty. Anyway obviously I didn’t fit in. I had friends, but when they were in dance class or singing lessons, I would be baking, and we just…we’d drift after a while. But I had one friend, in particular…Tate. He kept showing up, no matter how many times I blew him off. One afternoon, I walked in and he was passing his headshot to Bernard. Pitching him, essentially. Maybe I should have realized he wanted to earn points with my father, but I didn’t know what to look for—”
“Wait, wait.” She placed her hand on the crook of his elbow. “Are you talking about Tate Dillinger? Tony award winner?”
Leo gave a nod. “That would be him.”
“Wow.” Her lids dropped. “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t tell you so you’d feel bad, Reese. Just wanted you to know why I, uh…might have acted like a jackass Saturday night. I’ve been running every interaction with performers through a certain lens for a long time—”
“You don’t have to apologize,” she interrupted, looking almost pained. “Please, don’t.”
“I liked kissing you.”
A breath puffed out of her. “Oh.”
“I’d like to do it again.”
Her expression was nothing short of astonished, but he didn’t miss the way her eyes dropped to his mouth and heated. “Is that why you’re here? To kiss me?”
“I’m here to ask you out.” His voice had fallen several octaves. “But if you’re offering…”
“I don’t know if this is a good idea.” She hugged her elbows. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s not that I don’t find you crazy attractive—”
“You have weird taste, but go on.”
A laugh shot out of her, warming him. “I just…I promised myself I would put one hundred percent of my drive and focus into dancing. It’s a recent promise and breaking it already would make me pretty wishy-washy.”
Shit. She might really say no. And he’d have no choice but to respect that. But a man just didn’t give up easily on a girl who inspired him to take the train to Times Square on a Tuesday afternoon. A girl whose mouth had spawned hours of fantasies to derail a routine that never, ever deviated. They’d spent less than an hour in each other’s presence, yet he could already tell that if they parted ways now, he’d be thinking of her for a really long time.
“Far be it from me to hit you with a guilt trip, but…”
He was caught off guard when her arms dropped slowly, her throat working with a swallow. “What? I should feel guilty for what?”
“For coming to my bakery and leaving me with a week’s worth of work.” Leo took his phone out of his pocket, waving it. “Jackie implemented your idea on the website. We’ve had two hundred entries for personalized cake pops in twenty-four hours. We’re calling it the Sweetest Fix.”