Though he was trying to act cool, Dylan was intrigued. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Her picture was always in our town’s paper, winning this award or getting some kind of big trophy.” Ace leaned back. “Dancing wasn’t really my thing, but I do remember that some of them were a pretty big deal.”
“Huh.” Which pretty much summed up the extent of how much he was thinking.
Meyer grinned at him. “Maybe we should put the word out that these dance lessons aren’t going to be the punishment all of us were expecting.”
Dylan shook his head. “Don’t even think about that, man. Besides, the bet had to do with dance lessons. I’m doing them.”
“Yeah, but nobody thought you’d find a young, hot dance teacher.”
Ace grinned. “You would’ve done the same thing, Meyer. We all would have.”
* * *
Dylan was still grinning about the conversation he’d had with the guys when he got home late that night after the game. He hadn’t seen that coming, but he couldn’t deny that he was happy about the way things were turning out. Ace’s information about Shannon had been illuminating, to say the least.
Now, he realized that of course Shannon had been a professional dancer in the past. No one opened a dance studio without some kind of success as a dancer.
But he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. How did a girl like her end up giving dance lessons in an old, remodeled building in Bridgeport, Ohio? There had to be a story there.
“What has you grinning like that?” Jennifer asked as she walked into the kitchen.
He noticed that she had her hair up in a messy knot that shouldn’t stay on top of her head but somehow did. She also wore her glasses and one of his old sweatshirts from college. More importantly, she looked like she was in pretty good spirits.
He breathed a sigh of relief. His little sister had had another good day.
Returning his head to the subject at hand, he replied, “Oh, I was just thinking about some of my buddies. They were all interested in my first dance lesson, and it turns out that Ace Vance is from the same town as my teacher. Small world.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Boy, that is pretty amazing. What were the chances?”
“I’m starting to think pretty good now. Spartan, West Virginia, needs to keep hold of more of its citizens or they’re all going to move here.”
“At least they’re all nice, right? I mean, you said the guys you know from there are nice.”
“They are. Stand-up guys. Shannon seems real sweet, too.” He sat down on a barstool. “I think you’d like them all, Jen. Maybe you should think about letting me introduce you to some of them. Who knows? Maybe they’d turn out to be a good friend.”
Her open expression turned guarded. “Dylan, you know I’m not ready to start meeting strangers.”
He was tempted to remind her that everyone was going to be a stranger until she was willing to talk to them, but he didn’t dare. He knew she was trying.
And every time he thought about how far she’d come, about the way she’d been two years ago, it felt like someone had just knocked him in the gut. Every time he thought about what had happened to her, either he felt like he’d been punched . . . or he had the overwhelming desire to punch his own fist through a wall.
“Let me know when you are, okay?” he asked lightly.
“I will.” She smiled.
He smiled back, liking that, for once, she wasn’t as self-conscious about the scar on her face that prevented half of her mouth from curving.
“So, what do you want to do about dinner? Any ideas?”
Looking pleased, she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a casserole dish. “I made a casserole.”
His little sister, all of twenty-one, cooked like she was Betty Crocker circa 1952. It was awesome. “What is it today?”
“King Ranch Chicken Casserole.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Chicken, green chilies, cheddar jack cheese. All kinds of good stuff.” Turning on the oven, she said, “It’ll be ready in forty minutes.”
“Perfect. I’m going to take a shower.”
“We can eat when you get out. I made a salad, too. Oh, and I got bored, so I made you some brownies!”
“Did we have brownie mix? I could’ve sworn we used the last box a week ago.” Chocolate was his weakness. Actually cookies and brownies and any kind of dessert was.
“I made them from scratch.”
“Of course you did.”
“It wasn’t a big deal. Don’t make it one.”
“I won’t, then.” He pushed everything he was thinking about how a girl like her shouldn’t be playing happy homemaker to an older brother. Her counselor had cautioned him about doing things like that. “How about this? Thank you for supper, Jen. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s nothing. You know that. Not compared to what you did for me.”
She walked out of the room too soon to see him wince.
Since he was alone, he closed his eyes and said a little prayer for small favors. Life wasn’t fair, but every once in a while things got easier.
At least there was that.
CHAPTER 3
“Every day brings a chance for you to draw in a breath, kick off your shoes, and dance.”
—Oprah Winfrey
“Did anybody cook tonight?” Traci asked as she walked in the door.
Shannon looked up from her dinner of bagged salad, crackers, and a slice of leftover pizza from two nights ago. “Nope.”
“I was afraid of that.” After taking off her badge and locking up her holster in the cabinet she had installed in the corner of the living room, Traci walked over to the kitchen. She was wearing dark fitted jeans, and a fitted oxford shirt with the Bridgeport Police Department logo embroidered on the chest pocket. As usual, she looked like the woman she was—someone organized, neat, and devoid of a lot of frills.
She was also looking like she’d lost her best friend as she started opening and shutting cabinets. “I had to sit in on a community meeting. It was full of a lot of hot air and nothing to eat. Not even a bowl of pretzels.”
“Bless your heart.”
Traci didn’t even roll her eyes at Shannon’s comment. “I’m starving. Like, I could seriously even eat whatever it was you made three days ago.”
Their current conversation wasn’t anything new. Soon after they’d started living together, the three of them had learned that they had something in common besides brown hair and brown eyes. Not a one of them could cook. Nothing of worth, anyway.