The Daddy Dance
MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE…
Injured Ballerina Kat Morehouse had come home to convalesce and help out her overburdened mom. And between caring for her niece and restoring her mother’s dance studio, romance was the last thing on Kat’s mind. Until Rye Harmon turned her plans—and her heart—topsy-turvy.
FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE?
Rye had been her high school crush, and he still made her weak in the knees—not a desirable condition for a dancer! But as their sizzling attraction drew them together, their ambitions pulled them apart. Because Rye’s dreams were taking him away from Eden Falls—just when Kat was starting to suspect that small-town life wouldn’t be so bad…if she could share it with the right person.
“We never got a chance to dance.”
A frisson of excitement raced across Kat as she registered the rumble of Rye's words. She let him turn her around, felt his other hand settle on her waist.
Her laughter was as soft as her silken hair. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly in dancing shape.” She waved a hand toward her walking boot.
“I wasn't thinking of anything too strenuous. Not your pliés or arabesques or that sort of thing.”
“Mmm,” she whispered. “You've been doing your homework.”
“All part of renovating the studio. I have to know how the space is going to be used, don't I?” That was a lie, though.
“Ready to sign up for a class?” she asked, obviously amused.
“I don't think either of us needs any training.” He pulled her close, relishing her surprised gasp even as she yielded to his pressure.
Dear Reader,
I was an adult when I attended my first professional ballet,
Giselle.
I fell for the romance, hook, line and sinker. When I came home from the theater, I announced that I was going to be a ballerina.
My friends and family laughed. I hadn’t exactly been a star when I dropped out of my beginning ballet lessons. I wasn’t a vision of grace or coordination. In recognition of my impossible dream, my mother started gifting me with stuffed animals dressed in ballet tutus (a sheep, a cow, a bunny…).
Though I realized I wasn’t meant to dance, the romance of that ballet never faded. When I started to imagine life in a small town in Virginia, I realized that I could finally complete my dream (in a way). I could write about a ballerina.
Kat Morehouse can’t imagine returning home after the excitement of New York City. Rye Harmon has finally escaped the small town, moving up the road to Richmond. Nevertheless, Kat and Rye find themselves back in Eden Falls.
I’ve loved building Kat and Rye’s life, and I’m thrilled to share Eden Falls with you. I love to hear from my readers—please stop by and visit me at www.mindyklasky.com.
All best wishes,
Mindy
Mindy Klasky
The Daddy Dance
Books by Mindy Klasky
Harlequin Special Edition
The Mogul’s Maybe Marriage
#2135
The Daddy Dance
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RDI/MIRA Books
Jane Madison series:
Girl’s Guide to Witchcraft
Sorcery and the Single Girl
Magic and the Modern Girl
As You Wish series:
How Not To Make a Wish
When Good Wishes Go Bad
To Wish or Not To Wish
Mindy Klasky
learned to read when her parents shoved a book in her hands and told her that she could travel anywhere in the world through stories. She never forgot that advice. These days, Mindy works and plays in a suburb of Washington, D.C., where she lives with her family. In her spare time, Mindy knits, cooks and tries to tame the endless to-be-read shelf in her home library. You can visit Mindy at her website, www.mindyklasky.com.
To my writers' retreat girlfriends, who gave Rye his nameâNancy Hunter, Jeri Smith-Ready, Maria V. Snyder, and Kristina Watson
Chapter One
K
at Morehouse pushed her sunglasses higher on her nose as the train chugged away from Eden Falls, leaving her behind on the platform. Heat rose in waves off the tiny station’s cracked parking lot. Plucking at her silk T-shirt, Kat realized for the first time since she’d left New York that solid black might not be the most comfortable wardrobe for her trip home to Virginia. Not this year. Not during this unseasonably hot spring.
But that was ridiculous. She was a dancer from New York—black was what she wore every day of her life. She wasn’t about to buy new clothes just because she was visiting Eden Falls.
Her foot already itched inside her walking boot cast. She resisted the urge to flex her toes, knowing that would only make her injury ache more. Dancer’s Fracture, the doctors had grimly diagnosed, brought on by overuse. The only cure was a walking boot and complete rest from ballet for several weeks.
Looking down at her small roller suitcase, Kat grimaced and reminded herself that she wasn’t going to be in Eden Falls for very long. Just time enough to help her family a bit—give her mother a little assistance as Susan nursed Kat’s father, Mike, who was recovering from a nasty bout of pneumonia. Take care of her niece for a few days while Kat’s irresponsible twin sister roamed somewhere off the beaten track. Look in on her mother’s dance studio, the Morehouse Dance Academy, where Kat had gotten her start so many years ago. She’d be in Eden Falls for five days. Maybe six. A week at most.
Kat glanced at her watch. She might not live in Eden Falls anymore, but she knew the train schedule by heart, had known it ever since she’d first dreamed of making a life for herself in the big city. The southbound Crescent stopped at one-thirty in the afternoon. The northbound Clipper would churn through at two-fifteen.
Now, it was one forty-five, and Susan Morehouse was nowhere in sight. In fact, there was only one other person standing on the edge of the parking lot, a passenger who had disembarked with Kat. That woman was tall, with broad shoulders that looked like they were made for milking cows or kneading bread dough. Her oval face and regular features looked vaguely familiar, and Kat realized she must be one of the Harmons, the oldest family in Eden Falls.
Shrugging, Kat dug her cell phone out of her purse, resigned to calling home. She tapped the screen and waited for the phone to wake from its electronic slumber. A round icon spun for a few seconds. A minute. More. The phone finally emitted a faint chirp, dutifully informing her that she was out of range of a recognized cell tower. Out of range of civilization.
Kat rolled her eyes. It was one thing to leave New York City for a week of playing Florence Nightingale in Eden Falls, Virginia. It was another to be cut off without the backbone of modern communications technology. Even
if
Kat was looking forward to helping her mother, a week was really going to stretch out if she didn’t have a working smart phone.
Squinting in the bright sunlight, Kat read a message sent by Haley, her roommate back in New York. The text must have come in during the train ride, before Kat had slipped out of range.
OMG
, said the text.
A + S r here.
“A,” Adam. The boyfriend of three years whom Kat had sent packing one week before, after discovering his side relationship with Selene Johnson. That would be “S,” the corp’s newest phenom dancer.
Haley had sent another message, five minutes later.
2 gross.
And a third one, five minutes after that.
Hands all over.
All over. Right. Kat and Adam were all over. Adam hadn’t had the decency to admit what was going on with Selene. Not even when Kat showed him the silk panties she’d found beneath his pillow—panties that
she
had definitely not left behind. Panties that Selene must have intended Kat to find.
Even now, Kat swallowed hard, trying to force her feelings past the raw, empty space in the middle of her chest. She had honestly believed she and Adam were meant for each other. She had thought that he alone
understood
her, believed in all the crazy sacrifices she had to make as a dancer. He was the first guy—the
only
guy—she had ever gotten involved with, the only one who had seemed worth sacrificing some of her carefully allocated time and energy.
How could Kat have been so wrong? In reality, Adam had just been waiting for the next younger, more fit, more flexible dancer to come along. Kat hated herself for every minute she had invested in their broken relationship, every second she had stolen from her true focus: her dancing career. She closed her eyes, and once again she could see that slinky thong in Adam’s bed.
“2 gross” was right.
Kat dropped her useless cell phone into her purse and wiped her palms against her jet-black jeans, feeling the afternoon sun shimmer off the denim. At least her hair was up, off her neck in this heat. Small mercy. She started to rummage deep in her bag, digging for her wallet. A place like Eden Falls had to have pay phones somewhere. She could call her mother, figure out where their wires had crossed. Reach out to her cousin Amanda, if she needed to. Amanda was always good for a ride, whenever Kat made one of her rare weekend appearances.
Before she could find a couple of quarters, though, a huge silver pickup truck rolled to a stop in the parking lot. The Harmon woman smiled as she held out her thumb, pretending to hitch a ride. The driver—another Harmon, by the broad set of his shoulders, by his shock of chestnut hair—laughed as he walked around the front of his truck. He gave his sister a bear hug, swinging her around in a circle that swept her feet off the dusty asphalt. The woman whooped and punched at his shoulder, demanding to be set down. The guy obliged, opening the truck’s passenger door before he hefted her huge suitcase into the vehicle’s gleaming bed.
He was heading back to the driver’s side when he noticed Kat. “Hey!” he called across the small lot, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Kat, right? Kat Morehouse?”
Startled by the easy note of recognition in the man’s voice, Kat darted a glance to his face, really studying him for the first time. No. It couldn’t be. There was no possible way Rye Harmon was the first guy she was seeing, here in Eden Falls. He started to walk toward her, and Kat started to forget the English language.
But those were definitely Rye Harmon’s eyes, coal black and warm as a panther’s flank. And that was Rye Harmon’s smile, generous and kind amid a few days’ worth of unshaved stubble. And that was Rye Harmon’s hand, strong and sinewy, extended toward her in a common gesture of civil greeting.
Kat’s belly completed a fouetté, flipping so rapidly that she could barely catch her breath.
Rye Harmon had played Curly in the high school production of
Oklahoma
the year Kat had left for New York. Kat had still been in middle school, too young to audition for the musical. Nevertheless, the high school drama teacher had actually recruited her to dance the part of Laurey in the show’s famous dream sequence. The role had been ideal for a budding young ballerina, and Kat had loved her first true chance to perform. There had been costumes and makeup and lights—and there had been Rye Harmon.
Rye had been the star pitcher on the high school baseball team, with a reasonable baritone voice and an easy manner that translated well to the high school auditorium stage. Sure, he didn’t know the first thing about dancing, but with careful choreography, the audience never discovered the truth. Week after week, Kat had nurtured a silly crush on her partner, even though she
knew
it could never amount to anything. Not when she was a precocious middle-school brat, and he was a high school hero. Not when she had her entire New York career ahead of herself, and he was Eden Falls incarnate—born, bred and content to stay in town forever.
In the intervening years, Kat had danced on stages around the world. She had kissed and been kissed a thousand times—in ballets and in real life, too. She was a grown, competent, mature woman, come back to town to help her family when they needed her most.
But she was also the child who had lived in Eden Falls, the shy girl who had craved attention from the unattainable senior.
And so she reacted the way a classically trained New York ballerina would act. She raised her chin. She narrowed her eyes. She tilted her head slightly to the right. And she said, “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
Rye stopped short as Kat Morehouse pinned him with her silver-gray eyes. He had no doubt that he was looking at Kat and not her twin, Rachel. Kat had always been the sister with the cool reserve, with the poised pride, even before she’d left Eden Falls. When was that? Ten years ago? Rye had just graduated from high school, but he’d still been impressed with all the gossip about one of Eden Falls’s own heading up to New York City to make her fortune at some fancy ballet school.
Of course, Rye had seen plenty of Kat’s sister, Rachel, around town over the past decade. Done more than see her, six years ago. He’d actually dated her for three of the most tempestuous weeks of his life. She’d been six months out of high school then, and she had flirted with him mercilessly, showing up at job sites, throwing pebbles at his window until he came down to see her in the middle of the night. It had taken him a while to figure out that she was just bent on getting revenge against one of Rye’s fraternity brothers, Josh Barton. Barton had dumped her, saying she was nuts.
It had taken Rye just a few weeks to reach the same conclusion, then a few more to extricate himself from Rachel’s crazy, melodramatic life. Just as well—a couple of months later, Rachel had turned up pregnant. Rye could still remember the frozen wave of disbelief that had washed over him when she told him the news, the shattering sound of all his dreams crashing to earth. And he could still remember stammering out a promise to be there for Rachel, to support his child. Most of all, though, he recalled the searing rush of relief when Rachel laughed, told him the baby was Josh’s, entitled to its own share of the legendary Barton fortune.
Rye had dodged a bullet there.
If he had fathered Rachel’s daughter—what was her name? Jessica? Jennifer?—he never could have left town. Never could have moved up to Richmond, set up his own contracting business. As it was, it had taken him six years after that wake-up call, and he still felt the constant demands of his family, had felt it with half a dozen girlfriends over the years. With a kid in the picture, he never could have fulfilled his vow to be a fully independent contractor by his thirtieth birthday.
He’d been well shed of Rachel, six years ago.
And he had no doubt he was looking at Kat now. Rachel and Kat were about as opposite as any two human beings could be—even if they were sisters. Even if they were twins. Kat’s sharp eyes were the same as they’d been in middle school—but that was the only resemblance she bore to the freakishly good dancer he had once known.
That Kat Morehouse had been a kid.
This Kat Morehouse was a woman.
She was a full head taller than when he’d seen her last. Skinnier, too, all long legs and bare arms and a neck that looked like it was carved out of rare marble. Her jet-black hair was piled on top of her head in some sort of spiky ponytail, but he could see that it would be long and straight and thick, if she ever let it down. She was wearing a trim black T-shirt and matching jeans that looked like they’d been specially sewn in Paris or Italy or one of those fashion places.
And she had a bright blue walking boot on her left leg—the sort of boot that he’d worn through a few injuries over the years. The sort of boot that itched like hell in the heat. The sort of boot that made it a pain to stand on the edge of a ragged blacktop parking lot in front of the Eden Falls train station, waiting for a ride that was obviously late or, more likely, not coming at all.
Rye realized he was still standing there, his hand extended toward Kat like he was some idiot farm boy gawking at the state fair Dairy Princess. He squared his shoulders and wiped his palms across the worn denim thighs of his jeans. From the ice in Kat’s platinum gaze, she clearly had no recollection of who he was. Well, at least he could fix that.
He stepped forward, finally closing the distance between them. “Rye,” he said by way of introduction. “Rye Harmon. We met in high school. I mean, when I was in high school. You were in middle school. I was Curly, in
Oklahoma
. I mean, the play.”
Yeah, genius
, Rye thought to himself.
Like she really thought you meant Oklahoma, the state.
Kat hadn’t graduated from the National Ballet School without plenty of acting classes. She put those skills to good use, flashing a bright smile of supposedly sudden recognition. “Rye!” she said. “Of course!”
She sounded fake to herself, but she suspected no one else could tell. Well, maybe her mother. Her father. Rachel, if she bothered to pay attention. But certainly not a practical stranger like Rye Harmon. A practical stranger who said, “Going to your folks’ house? I can drop you there.” He reached for her overnight bag, as if his assistance was a forgone conclusion.
“Oh, no,” she protested. “I couldn’t ask you to do that!” She grabbed for the handle of the roller bag as well, flinching when her fingers settled on top of his. What was
wrong
with her? She wasn’t usually this jumpy.
She wasn’t usually in Eden Falls, Virginia.