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Chapter 2

Chris

I’ve performed in front of thousands of people all over the world. Danced the Prince in Nureyev’sSleeping Beautyat the Palais Garnier. Even nailed the hauntingly beautiful—and extraordinarily difficult—pas de deux from the third act ofDon Quixoteat the White House. And not once—not even performing for the leader of the free world and his entire family—did I have stage fright. An adrenaline rush? Sure. But nothing even close to the sheer, unadulterated, almost crippling panic I feel now, standing next to the Revson Fountain in the middle of Josie Robertson Plaza in my teal, wool-blend Tom Ford suit, waiting for the guy I’m pretty sure I’ve loved since I was eighteen.

I check my watch for the hundredth time. Only fifteen minutes until curtain, and the crowd outside the Metropolitan Opera House is getting thinner by the second. If David doesn’t show up soon, I’m going to have no choice but to go in without him.

Fuck. I’m an idiot. I can’t even text him, since I was too busy making a big, dramatic exit to remember to ask for his cell number.

Goddamn drama queen.

But I can send him a Facebook message. If he hasn’t blocked me after I practically mauled him yesterday. You’d think I never kissed a guy before. Which, of course, I haven’t. Except for that one time. With him.

I pull out my phone and shoot him a quick—and I hope not too desperate-sounding—message. When I’m done, I close the app and glance at the time on the screen. Five more minutes have ticked by. Time to head inside.

Alone.

“Nice suit.” David’s voice makes my head snap up and my pulse stutter. “Made it easy to spot you.”

An intoxicating mix of relief and euphoria floods my veins.He’s here, my heart sings.He came.

“What can I say?” I tug at the cuff of my jacket, suddenly wishing I’d gone with my more traditional navy Hugo Boss. “I like to stand out in a crowd.”

“You always did.” He blushes. “Stand out, that is.”

“Thanks. I think.” I take a second to study him. He looks good, too, in a pair of pale blue linen pants and a simple, classic white button-down. He’s tried to tame his normal mess of dark curls, and while the end result isn’t entirely successful, I’m touched that he made the effort for me. At least, my foolish heart hopes it’s for me, and not the ballet.

The ballet.My eyes dart to the main entrance of the theater, where the last few stragglers are rushing to get inside before the lights dim. “We should go in. The show’s about to start.”

“Sorry.” He blushes again. I’d forgotten how easily he did that. And how fucking adorable it is. “The 1 train was running late.”

“You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“I almost wasn’t,” he admits as we start toward the theater. “I changed my mind about a thousand times in the past twenty-four hours.”

“So what was the deciding factor?” We’re walking side by side, stride for stride, and my hand aches to reach for his. I shove it into my pocket instead, not because I’m afraid of guy-on-guy PDA but because I’m determined to take things slower than I did last night. To wait for David to make the next move, follow his cues. “My charm? My good looks?”

“Neither. It was something you said in the alley.”

I hand over our tickets to a smiling older woman in a red vest and a “Live, Love, Ballet” pin who directs us to a staircase on our left and tells us to enjoy the show.

“What did I say?” I ask as we head up the stairs to the balcony.

“I guess it wasn’t so much what you said, it was what you did. You took a risk. Came all the way here. Apologized. Asked me out. I figured the least I could do is give you the same consideration.”

“Ask me out?” I tease, knowing that’s not what he means. “Spoiler alert: my answer is yes.”

He laughs, and it sends ripples of warmth through my body. I’ve always loved David’s laugh. Easy. Hearty. Infectious. David’s the guy you want in the audience at a comedy club, the one whose rich, booming laughter gets everyone else going.

But this laugh is different. It’s softer and sweeter. More importantly, it tells me that, as nervous as he is about this date, he’s starting to relax. And that’s what I want. David to relax so we can get past this awkward are-we-or-aren’t-we stage.

Because if I have any say in it, we are. We totally are.

“No, take a risk,” he says, his eyes suddenly serious, their intensity a stark contrast to his laughter. “Give you a chance, like you said. It’s only a date, right? We’re not talking lifetime commitment. Hearts and flowers and all the crap.”

“Right,” I agree, mentally crossing my fingers behind my back for lying. Every relationship has to start somewhere, right? Or restart, given that ours began almost ten years ago. “Only a date.”

“One date,” David repeats, as if he’s trying to convince himself of something. “How hard can that be?”