He parked near the side entrance, gathered the garment bag and the rose, and disappeared inside. I waited one minute. Then two.
I should have left.
Instead, I climbed out of the car.
I should have left.
Music drifted faintly through an open window — a piano, slow and gentle. I followed the sound down a quiet hallway until I found a narrow window looking into a large studio.
Then I froze.
Elliot stood in the center of the room. A woman rested one hand on his shoulder, their other hands clasped together. They moved across the polished floor in careful, deliberate rhythm.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
They moved across the polished floor in careful, deliberate rhythm.
She smiled at him. He smiled back. She reached up to straighten the front of his shirt, then laughed at something he said.
My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Inside the studio, the music stopped. The woman clapped her hands. “No,” she said, amused. “You’re getting there, but your timing’s still off.” She reached for his hands again. “Let’s try it once more.”
How many times had they already done this?
How many “late nights” had actually happened right here?
How many late nights had actually happened right here?
