“You love it.”
“I do.”
“Funeral, Prescott.”
“Jesus, fine. Bury me.”
“Wow. Impressive.”
“Next to my parents.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“On the ranch.”
“Makes sense.”
“And my wife.”
She nods solemnly.
“Is this depressing enough yet?”
“When René plays this game, it’s a lot more fun. Elton John is there, and drag queens are pallbearers.”
“Now that’s a funeral I’d go to.” I sip more wine, and my blood starts to heat. “Damn, is this strong?”
“A little. You feeling it already, lightweight?”
“I’m just…warm all over.”
“Nice,” she says with a giggle. “Are you a mean drunk?”
“Not tonight,” I say, pushing blonde strands away from her shoulders.
She hops out of my lap and takes the other side of the seat to face me. “I want to look at you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, it’s been a long time. You look good.”
“So do you.”
She sips her wine and looks at me wistfully. “Can you believe how far we’ve come since that day at the gym? I mean, we talked about me dancing here in New York and you going pro as a fighter, but now we’re actually living it.”
“If it weren’t for you, I don’t have any idea what I’d be doing.”
“That’s not true. You already had that inkling. You were boxing again. It would have come to you even if I hadn’t hit you over the head with Tony.”
“He’s great, Harper, as far as trainers go. He’s got me with an agent. I signed the contract on the plane here.”
“That’s awesome.”
“I’m going to make some real money on this fight. Not enough to make me rich but enough to keep the ranch going for months.”
“When do you get a title shot?”
“Depends on how I do. There’s a lot to it.”
“You’ll get there, I know it.”
I shake my head. “You have that much faith, huh?”
“Yeah, I do. You’re going to be incredible.”
“You dance for a living. That’s incredible.”
She nods with a smile. “To us.” We clink glasses.
“We’re mighty full of ourselves tonight,” I say with a grin.
“When you work your asses off like we do, aren’t we allowed to have a little pride?”
“Sure.”
“We can be humble tomorrow and thankful tonight, but we can admit our status: badasses.”
“Speaking of,” I hop off the seat, still clad in my boxers and drain my glass before setting it down. Pulling my jeans from the floor, I pull out the box and make my way back to her.
“What’s this?”
I place the box in her hand. “I saw it in the window on one of my runs.”
“I didn’t get you anything.”
“You didn’t have time between taking my head off and handing me my nuts.”
“Sorry.”
“Me too.”
Her chin wobbles as she opens the box, and I weigh her reaction.
“It’s…” She lifts the platinum and embarrassingly small ruby necklace from the box.
“A rose. I know the star of the show gets them after a performance, right? So, since I can’t be at yours, I thought maybe if you wore this after, you would know I wanted to be the one to hand it to you.”
“I’m never the star.”
“But you are. You just got your first solo.”
She lifts her hair as I take the necklace out and fasten it around her neck.
Her eyes shimmer with tears as I take my seat across from her, and she cups the necklace in appreciation. “Thank you.”
“Don’t cry.”
“It’s the wine. It’s strong.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, it’s because it’s the perfect gift.” A tear glides down her cheek as her eyes bore into mine. “I still love you, Lance.”
Her confession steals my breath, striking deep. She leans over and kisses me.
“Jesus, Harper,” I murmur before deepening the kiss, tasting her regret. Her words mixed with the salt dissolving on my tongue light me up with the hope I’ve been desperate for.
She pulls away and palms my jaw. “I feel bad, I got you nothing.”
“That can be rectified.”
She raises a suspicious brow. “Is this an ass thing?”
“No,” I lift the word with my chuckle. “But is that on the table?”
She slaps at my chest. “Absolutely not!”
“Okay, okay, doesn’t hurt to ask.”
She smirks. “I might consider it.”
“Really?”
“Sure, if I can do it to you first.”
“Shit,” I shiver. “We’re good.”
“Hey, that’s where your G spot is, René says—”
“That’s enough, Harper.”
“Good.”
“Fine.”
We share a laugh.
“Now, what is it you want, my grumpy boxer?”
I pour some more wine in both our glasses. “I want you to dance for me.”
“What?”
“It’s been too long since I’ve seen you dance. I mean I’ve watched clips but—”
She palms my jaw. “Say no more. You want me to do it now?”
“Can’t think of a better time.”
This excites her. She tosses back her glass and hands it to me.
“Okay, what are you thinking? Fast and furious or,” she waggles her brows, “slow and sexy?”
“How about your number in the show?”
“Yeah?”
“Hell yes.”
“Okay,” she jumps up from the window seat, her face animated. “You know I told you it’s called Retro, right?” She makes quick work of connecting her phone to the large set of speakers in the room before pushing her coffee table out of the way. It’s the only large room in the apartment, which I can now see had to be the selling point.
“Okay, so we all got 80s movie theme songs to dance to.”
“Yeah? What’s yours?”
“It’s the “Love Theme from St. Elmo’s Fire.” Have you heard of it?”
“Nope.”
“I hadn’t either, but I loved it. Oh shit, I need some panties on.”
“Not necessary.”
“That’ll be just way too graphic, even for us, Prescott.”
“Fine. Five-minute pass.”
“You’re such a twisted pervert.”
“I haven’t seen or licked that pussy in two years. We’ve missed each other.”
“Primitive indeed, geesh.”
She disappears for a few seconds and comes back wearing shorts along with silky red ballerina shoes wrapped around her ankles.
“We said nothing about the addition of clothing.”
“Shut up, Prescott,” she says, stretching an arm across her chest, “do you want your present or not?”