She arched an eyebrow. “Or other women.”

“Yes. That, too. I don’t want you dating men or women. Good point,” he said, in mock seriousness.

She wagged a finger at him. “You know exactly what I meant.”

As he said goodnight, he couldn’t help but hold tight to those words—what’s happening between us.

Labels or not, something was definitely happening. As he straddled his bike, and tugged on his helmet to ride home, he was determined to make sure nothing stood in the way of him loving this woman again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Not labeling what was happening was pointless.

They were clearly dating again. Shannon couldn’t even try to pretend it was anything but real, honest-to-goodness dating. As if they had just met, and were so taken with each other they had to see each other every day. That kind of dating.

It was scary and amazingly fun at the same time.

On Monday, she visited Edge in the morning with her assistant choreographer, Christine, to make notes on the space, since the layout was similar to the club in San Francisco. James showed them around, but Brent popped out of his office to say hello.

“Hey, Shay. Good to see you,” he said, as he walked to the other end of the club. While she wasn’t worried for her safety per se, or that clients would pull contracts if they learned her real name, she simply preferred the new one in business matters. The fact that Brent moved fluidly between the two warmed her heart. After they reviewed the plans for the show, Christine said she needed to return to the studio to rehearse the dancers, and James had other meetings to attend.

As Shannon walked to the exit, Brent caught up with her. “Can I interest you in lunch?”

“You can definitely interest me in lunch.”

Saying yes was easy. Saying yes felt right.

After they finished pho and chicken dumplings at an upscale Vietnamese restaurant on the Luxe’s property, he told her he had a gift for her.

“You really don’t have to give me anything,” she said as the waiter cleared their plates, even though inside she was delighted. She adored his zest for giving her sweet little things.

“I know, but truth be told, it’s not something I can control. My desire to give you gifts, that is.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans. “I come from a long line of gift-giving men. It’s in my blood and it can’t be bred out of me.”

He handed her a small, champagne-colored drawstring pouch. She’d never had much growing up, and she’d learned to live with that. But perhaps that was why Brent’s generosity had thrilled her so much—it was all so new and fresh and fun.

It still was. With quick, eager fingers, she untied the bag and plucked out a pretty rose-gold bracelet. She gasped. It matched the silver one that she wore every day. It wasn’t too gangly or too busy. Simple and stylish, it was just right for her, and for how she chose to dress these days.

“I noticed you started wearing bracelets,” he said as he stretched his arm across the back of the booth, looking so casual and confident, but also hopeful. He clearly wanted her to like his gift. “You never did before, but you do now, so I picked this out for you.”

“I love it,” she said softly, her gaze on him. “So much.”

His brown eyes seemed to sparkle at her response, and warmth rushed through her from knowing this simple give and take, this little back and forth, seemed to matter. It was only lunch, but it was suddenly more.

She held out her wrist, letting him clasp the jewelry on her. Instantly, the moment shot her back in time to another night when he gave her jewelry. A ring.

The night he’d proposed he’d taken her ice-skating. It was a sport she could still do well enough in spite of her injury. She’d shown off for him, gliding and spinning across the rink while he’d skated…well, the way most men who weren’t hockey players or professional skaters skate. Clumsily.

It hadn’t bothered him, though. He’d laughed at his own clunkiness. He was never one to embarrass easily, if at all. On a long circle around the rink, he stumbled like a cartoon character whose feet spun wildly beneath him, then he fell. It had been an awkward, flat-on-his ass tumble, and she laughed even harder as she glided over to him.

“Pull me up,” he said, still cracking up. She offered her hand, and tugged him. He made it to only one knee. All laughter had stopped and the moment had turned both serious and breathtakingly romantic at the same time when he said, “I meant to do that. And I mean to do this, too. I am so madly in love with you and I want us to be together now, and next year, and always. I want a life with you, and I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

She fell to her knees, tears streaking down her cheeks, and kissed his face. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Amazing how, in spite of what she saw happen to her parents, she’d never had a single doubt about Brent. She had wanted to be his wife as much as she had wanted to dance—a pure, perfect, passionate love. She’d loved him more than she’d thought possible.

As she gazed at the new bracelet on her wrist, she blinked away the memory, and the tear that was threatening to slip from her eye. The past was behind her. She couldn’t linger on what they might have had before. She knew the ending to that story. Besides, past love was no indication of future choices. Her mother had loved her father. All her parents’ friends and family had been shocked when her mother was arrested, because they could recall so many happy days between Dora and Thomas.

When had Dora crossed the line from loving mother to killer wife? Was there a switch that had flipped in her, or had the possibility always been there, latent through the years? Her mother hadn’t been a murderer when she’d walked down the aisle, or when she’d given birth, or when she’d attended Shannon’s early recitals. Shannon could still remember so many moments during her younger years, back when her parents cared for each other, before their marriage turned bitter, before her mother started cheating on her husband with a well-liked local piano teacher.

The past was meaningless. The present was the only thing that mattered.

But, even so, the hardened part of her fragile heart took some comfort in the fact that she was different from her mother. She loved this bracelet because it was from this man, not because of what it might have cost.

This present—her present—was something she could embrace right now. So she moved to the other side of the table, ran her hand through his hair and whispered, “I always loved your gifts, and I still do. Because they’re from you.”

* * *

On Wednesday, Brent invited Shannon to the Thai restaurant at the Luxe. There was something so freeing, in a way, about the pattern they seemed to fall into with lunch. He hadn’t intended it, but these brief moments in the middle of the workday, with a clear beginning and a clear end, were perfect for getting to know her again. That was what Shannon seemed to need to let him into her heart again.

Or to get to know him anew.

Because she turned the questions on him.

“Why did you leave comedy?” she asked as she rested her chin in her hands at the table and looked at him, a curious expression in those green eyes. There was no judgment in her tone—no caustic retort like the first night he’d seen her again. Just a simple question, and one he’d been asked by many others when he’d announced he was leaving his show.

But still.

His fork froze in midair over the chicken pumpkin curry. “Why?” he repeated, stalling for time.

She nodded. “You were so successful, so popular. It’s odd why you’d leave when you were the toast of the town. Inquiring minds want to know,” she said with a bat of her eyes.