“You lost your mother,” I murmured, my body shifting toward him.

“I lost more than that,” he growled, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

I fidgeted, not sure what to say. Did he mean me? He couldn’t.

So, I changed gears. “Speaking of goals, take a look at this,” I said, showing him a picture of me in a white, sequined tutu, posed en pointe, arms in fifth position.

“This is me as Aurora in Sleeping Beauty. The role required me to dance en pointe for long periods of time. Trust me, supporting your entire body on your toes is not easy and some ballerinas never get it. It takes years and tremendous strength in the legs and ankles. Yet, every time I look at this picture, I don’t see my accomplishment. I see her,” I said, pointing at Sarah. The photographer had inadvertently captured her expression as I posed, her hands pressed prayer-like against her lips, elation and joy on her face. Unshed tears brightened her eyes.

It gave me goosebumps every time I studied it.

I shrugged. “There’re many reasons why I dance. My body craves the impossibility of it, all those crazy twists and turns. It’s where I pour out all my fears and frustrations. But really, dance gave me life once when I think I was close to dying.” I touched Sarah’s face in the picture. “She gave me hope for a future. My parents…” I stopped, realizing I’d said too much already.

I turned back to face him.

He smiled, the warmth of it giving me butterflies. Dammit. What was wrong with me? He was a deceitful ass, and yet I still wanted him.

“She sounds like a beautiful person,” he said softly. “You must love her very much.”

“Yes,” I said. “She devoted her life to me. I’d do anything for her.”

He ran his eyes over my features, as if memorizing them. “I want someone to talk about me the way you talk about Sarah.”

Oh. My heart raced at his gentle words. I don’t know why.

And then he laughed, perhaps feeling self-conscious. He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Maybe all I need is some inspiration like that to get my mojo back. Maybe then I could improve my grades, be a better person.”

I shrugged.

“Now, if you volunteered yourself up, I might be inspired to try harder,” he murmured, his voice low and sexy.

I stiffened. “Seriously. Cut the smooth talk and listen to yourself. You and I are over. You screwed that up, not me, so don’t give me any of your bullshit lines about being your inspiration. And I’m getting whiplash from all your mood swings, so pick one and stick with it.”

He shook his head, grinning. “Damn, I love how you don’t take my shit.”

What? Why wasn’t he mad?

His hand brushed mine as he moved closer to me. “Forget the bullshit. The truth is you’re not like any girl I know. The way you talk about hope like it’s easy, like anyone can have it. I want that so fucking bad. Maybe that’s why you made me so crazy for you last year.” Slowly, as if he were unsure, he reached out and pushed a wisp of bangs from my eyes. Shocked by his words—and touch—I allowed it, forgetting what happened between us, forgetting everything in my head.

But then it came back. “You weren’t crazy for me. You wanted my body. That was it.”

Sadness flickered across his face. “I can’t deny I wanted you in my bed. Who wouldn’t? But, I’m not lying when I say you’re the best person I know.”

My teeth dug into my bottom lip, biting back the words I wanted to say to him. Because right at this moment, with his eyes lingering on my face, it almost felt as if we might—

He stepped in closer to me. His yellow gaze fixated on my mouth, and I stopped breathing. “Dovey, I—”

“Tea’s on, love birds,” Heather-Lynn shouted, making us both jump back. The moment or whatever ended. I was glad. I was.

We came inside and made our way to the kitchen where older appliances and an antique table took up most of the space. Instead of looking at Cuba, I stared at the table, its aged scratches and nicks part of its charm Sarah liked to say. Made of hard cherry wood, her husband had built it for her. Today, it gleamed like she’d polished it recently. How is it possible to be completely normal, cook breakfast, and keep a clean house but within the space of a heartbeat, forget the word for butter?

“Where’s Sarah?” Cuba asked me as I poured his tea a bit later. I stared at him blankly until he finally blushed. “Sorry, I—I wanted to meet her.”

I blinked. Why would he want to meet Sarah?

And maybe because I was surprised, I told him. “She’s sleeping. She has Alzheimer’s, so sometimes her meds throw her days and nights off.” Completely true, although today was because of the sleeping pill.

“Oh. That must be hard for you,” he commented, gazing at me. “You never told me.”

“You didn’t stick around long enough,” I added quietly.

“Does Spider know?” he asked.

Weird question.

“Yes.” I’d told Spider pretty much right away. And even though we’d known about her diagnosis while I was seeing Cuba, I hadn’t confided in him.

After a while, Heather-Lynn cradled her tea and focused on Cuba. “Aren’t you rich? Bet you got more money than you know what to do with. Your daddy’s Archie Hudson, right? Owns a pro basketball team?”

What in the world?

My back went ramrod straight. “Stop right there, Heather-Lynn. I don’t know what you’re doing, but there’s no need to involve—”

“Part-owner,” he answered her. “Why?”

She shot me an apologetic glance but kept talking to Cuba. “Apparently, Sarah owes Alexander Barinsky twenty thousand dollars. Two of his men came by asking for her or Dovey. They turned over a trash can outside and then broke a lamp in the living room—”

“Stop,” I snapped at her, my teacup clattering against my saucer, dread creeping up on me again at hearing her recount the story.

Why would she tell him?

“Who is this Barinsky guy?” Cuba asked her, ignoring me.

I groaned. I didn’t want him knowing the details about the shady place I came from, but at this point, I figured he already knew the worst part, that we owed money. I slumped back in my seat and let her tell him. It wasn’t like I could gag her.

She said, “He pretty much owns every strip joint, pawnshop, laundry mat, beauty shop this side of Dallas. He’s the Donald Trump of Ratcliffe. Or Tony Soprano. Whatever.”