I take a sip of water, hoping with all my fluttering heart that it will do something, anything to calm me down.

Why did this have to happen?

Last night, I had a goal. Come to the House of Stars, take that stage in front of me, and dance like a Vegas showgirl who could ignite the city. Instead, here I am sitting on the floor against the stage, chugging water and hoping that Gemma won’t ask me what’s wrong.

This is my big break. My opportunity. My shot at my dream. This might be my one and only chance, and Brandon from high school might ruin it all.

Brandon from high school. On the few occasions I found over the past years to think of or mention Brandon, he was always ‘Brandon from high school.’

Shit, listen to me lie to myself. I think about him all the time but in a pretty specific way. I had a nerdy crush on him, which turned into a ravenous fantasy as I matured into a young woman. His eyes are the ones I see when I touch myself between my legs, or even when I’m with other men. The thought of no one else can get me as wet and wild as him. That was just fantasy Brandon, though.

But now, holy shit was Brandon, a hunky specimen of a man.

Thinking about it now, I want to shake my head. Little high-school Taylor pops up in my mind, laughing too loudly with a slightly too-round face and sitting at a table with her nerdy friends. To all appearances, she looks happy with her group of similar friends, but her eyes stray from them to another table. Half the football team sits at this table, but she has eyes for only one—Brandon, the chiseled star of the football team.

Brandon had always had the muscle of Greek gods, but now, as a grown man.... there are no words. Earlier, when I’d seen him standing with eyes upraised, the light gleaming against the sinews of his shoulders and sprawling tattoos across the canvas of his brawny arms, all I could think about were my lips and tongue exploring those tight curves.

That’s still all I can think about now, and it’s ruining everything. How am I supposed to dance well when the gorgeous man who has been my masturbation fantasy since high school magically appears in the same room?

If Rick could have mentioned this cousin of his was named Brandon, I might have put two and two together and at least been mentally prepared to see him today. And the eyes, I should have guessed with the eyes. I guess they run in his family.

I haven’t danced in a long time; it’s been a while since I could afford real lessons, either with money or time. My arms and legs move at odds with one another. I’m rediscovering that muscle memory is nothing like remembering facts and working with numbers.

I sigh. Those are excuses I’m using to convince myself that I’m not scanning the room for Brandon when I should be watching Zinzy, the retired dancer Cullen hired to choreograph and to show us the ropes.

“Spill,” Gemma commands me, plopping down beside me.

“I think I need to drink this, not spill it,” I respond dryly.

“You know what I mean. You don’t have the best rhythm, but you’re better than this. Are you nervous or something?”

“No,” I state firmly. “I’m just taking a bit to get back into it. I’ll pick it up.”

“Okay. Use your hips better. They’re your sexiest feature.” Gemma flashes a smile at me as Zinzy announces the end of our break.

We return to the stage, some of us to the poles and some of us standing freely. “Taylor, switch with Kalen,” Zinzy orders. “Let’s see how you move without a pole.”

I detect no hidden connotations in Zinzy’s voice, but I can’t help but notice that I’m the only one she asked to switch. All I do is smile as I relinquish the pole to Kalen.

“Okay, let’s start at the beginning of the routine. It’s about the same with or without the pole, so Taylor—” Zinzy glances at Cullen, who has just beckoned to her. “Dance how you’ve learned for the pole and watch the others to see what the differences are for the moment.” Her face softens as she smiles. “Don’t worry about getting it right because you don’t know the routine yet. I just want to see how you move.”

“Okay,” I say, trying to sound confident and okay with the change. Three hours of dancing has hardly familiarized me with the routine for the pole.

Determined, I shake the thought of ‘Brandon from high school’ out of my head, and throw myself into it when the music starts. Almost immediately, my determination boils into frustration. Watching the other dancers makes it nearly impossible to focus on myself, so my moves are no more graceful than before the break.

The longer I dance, the more frustrated my heart burns and the less sexy I feel. Why can’t I do this?

Zinzy stalks about the dancers, occasionally clicking pause on the music and addressing the dancers as a whole and sometimes pulling aside or stopping a dancer to speak to her in low tones. Again, I’m the one whom she stops the most—Zinzy even takes my place twice, modeling the moves for me and slowing them down.

When the last song beats to an end, I feel a sudden, hot pressure well behind my eyes. I clear my throat, down half a bottle of water, and the tears dry before they can fall.

“Taylor, can I speak to you?” Zinzy calls.

I nod and follow her to the bar, water weighing heavily in my stomach.

“Okay, Taylor,” Zinzy begins. Her face usually remains stern as she corrects the dancers, but now she looks tired.

I cross my arms over my stomach and wait.

“I’ve been in this business a long time. Dancing was my life when I was a showgirl, and it’s still my life now, even if I am behind the scenes.” Zinzy glances around the partially-renovated nightclub. “Here’s the point. I’ve been at this a long time, both as a dancer and instructor, and I’ve worked with all sorts of dancers. I mean I’ve seen naturals who were meant for entertainment, and I’ve seen girls who were good at lots of things— but, dancing wasn’t one of them.”

I nod. Zinzy needs to get better at explanations if this is her idea of getting to the point.

“You’re one of the second type, Taylor. You’ve got the body, flexibility, determination, and looks, but you just don’t have what it takes to be a showgirl. You lack natural coordination and any rhythm whatsoever, and without either those or a lot of prior training that you don’t have, I can’t continue training you to be a dancer at House of Stars.”

My mind freezes. “I—” My lips are dry. I lick them and start again. “I thought I didn’t need experience. I thought you were going to train me.”

Zinzy doesn’t take offense at the accusation in my voice. “Cullen hired me to train stars. To make you into a star, I would need a year at least—probably more.”

The pressure is back. My eyes begin to ache, and I resist the urge to blink rapidly. My mouth opens, but I say nothing because I know that if I do, the voice will get stuck in my tightening throat.

“I can recommend one or two good instructors, Taylor,” Zinzy offers quietly. “If you train and apply yourself, you may be suited for the stage in a year or so.”

I raise faltering eyes to Zinzy’s and draw myself up. “No, thank you,” I say. My voice does not break. “I’ll just go. Thank you—” Furious to hear a slight quaver in you, I crush the word and reform it in my chest. “Thank you for training me.”

I turn away, ignore Gemma’s questioning eyes and the stares of the dancers when I snatch up my purse and begin the mile-long march of shame to towards the mocking, red exit sign over the door.

I can do this. I can do this. I can—

My pace becomes a headlong rush that takes me careening into a hard body about as immovable as the Bellagio down the street.

I hadn’t hit Brandon hard enough to fall, but the big hammer in his toolbelt slammed into my gut, making me want to spill them right in front of him. I double over in pain before I see what, or rather who, I smacked into. As I look up, I see his smile coupled with strong, steadying fingers wrapped around my upper arms. Our eyes meet, and everything I’ve felt and thought about him rushes through me. I feel the tips of his fingers grip my arm just slightly tighter, but sensation nearly melts the strength from my legs.

For a moment, I stare into his eyes, and the horrible vice in my heart and the ache behind my eyes evaporates. They’re so cool and calm like the eye of a storm at sea, and for a brief, tiny moment I’m in the center, shielded inside a circle of tranquility surrounded by a tempest.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice deep, strong, and apologetic.

“I-I’m—” Reality rushes back. “I’m fine. Sorry.” I stumble back and out of his grip. I feel free of his trance, but even more, lost without it. I shake my head - none of this makes sense.

I duck around him. My hands push open the doors before my feet begin to run. I grip my stomach, feeling like I need to heave as I make it around the corner of the block before I start sobbing. Actually, I’m pathetic. My entire life just collapsed in shambles, but I still prefer to choke on my sobs rather than let any of the passing people hear.

I flag down a taxi and manage to tell him where to go without breaking down too much. The man must have some experience with teary-eyed women because he nods. Earlier today, Cullen agreed to give Gemma and me a ride back to our new apartment, but I can’t stand the idea of waiting around a place I’m not wanted.

My phone vibrates in my purse, sending a fallen tear trailing down the side. I ignore it and scrub the heels of my hands against my eyes. They come away wet. The vibrating stops, then start again. I don’t need to answer it to know that it’s Gemma, so I ignore it once more.

The taxi stops in front of my building, and I pay, swipe my access card, and walk inside. Most people use elevators, so I take the stairs. As my footsteps echo through the emptiness of my heart, it occurs to me that I ought to be grateful I didn’t have to wear heels today.

I doubt I’ll ever feel an emotion as wholesome as thankfulness again.

My phone buzzes against my hand as I blindly rummage through my purse for keys. Annoyance gives me the strength I lacked to answer. “What?” I snap. I don’t sound like my world has dissolved. I think.

“Where are you?” she demands. “Are you home?”

“Yes.” I don’t think my throat has ever closed off a word so fast. Home. I can’t pay my half of the rent for my ‘home’.

“Stay there,” Gemma orders, her voice stern. “Don’t you dare go to a bar or anything.”

My fumbling hands finally managed to open the door. I made a noncommittal noise that was definitely not a sob.

“Taylor. Please, trust me. Don’t go anywhere.” She hangs up.

I’m fairly sure Gemma failed English in high school. Otherwise, she would know the definition of ‘comfort.’

Throwing my purse and phone onto the couch, I grab the first thing I find in the kitchen that might drown out the sound of my tears and thoughts. An ice pack and Cheetos. Pacing the apartment doesn’t help. Watching TV doesn’t, either. Kicking one of the unpacked boxes makes me cry harder because now my toe hurts too.

I woke up this morning with a chance to live my dream. It took me less than a day to blow it. Except… was it because of me? I know I’m a good dancer, and so does Gemma. I just got so distracted. He distracted me. Brandon from high school… who happened to grow into more of a beautifully sculpted man than I ever thought possible…

My pacing feet carry me around the apartment at least a thousand times before the sounds of a key scratching at the lock drag me out of my hole of self-deprecation and ocean of tears. I turn, opening my mouth to speak to Gemma—

And turn around just as quickly, rubbing frantically at my eyes. “Mr. Roberts,” I greet the co-owner of House of Stars after a moment. My voice sounds thick to my ears, but at least I didn’t make a weird gasping sob in the middle of it.

“Hello, Taylor. I want to talk to you.” His footsteps move closer and Gemma’s keys jingle and clank as she drops them somewhere.

“No, it’s fine,” I say, blinking away a fresh set of tears through sheer willpower and turning to face him with a small smile. “Really. Zinzy t-told me why I’m not a good fit for your club.”

“I know she did,” he says wryly. “I should have known she would be so direct and asked her to wait until after the day was over. I’m not here to talk about dancing.”

I wait, but his expectant expression requires an answer. “You’re not?”

“Dancing isn’t the only thing you’re good at, or so Gemma tells me. I’m here to offer you a job—at the club, of course—in the accountant department.”

“I’m not an accountant,” I say miserably. “I’m only a quarter of the way through one class.”

“I know,” he assures me. “I already have a senior accountant and an assistant accountant, but they could use an extra hand. It would be more of an internship than an actual job, but I would pay you, of course. It wouldn’t be as much as you would have made as a dancer, and you’ll have to continue to take accounting courses and earn your degree while you work. Are you interested?”

“Yes,” I say eagerly almost before he finishes, squashing my hesitancy. Right now isn’t the time for pride.

“Are you able to come to a staff meeting now? I can give you a ride if you can get freshened up” Cullen smiles at me and adjusts his suit meaningfully.

If Cullen can wear a suit that costs more than three month’s rent on this apartment, I can certainly throw on something that looks presentable in a business setting. “Of course. Thank you, Mr. Roberts,” I address him formally.

Since I can’t tell how I feel right now, I don’t try to figure it out. I end up throwing on my most professional business suit because one skirt has a tiny wrinkle from hanging slightly askew and the other doesn’t match my most formal jacket. I don’t have time to style my hair, so I just brush the tangles of exertion from it and let it fall around my shoulders. Switching from comfortable flats to heels hurts my feet, which ache from dancing all day, but I won’t be wearing them for too long. Lastly, I choose a purse that matches my outfit more closely.

“Ready,” I inform Cullen, transferring the contents of my casual purse into the more formal one.

“Let’s go.” He sends a smile at Gemma, then holds the door for me.

Cullen doesn’t speak to me on the way to his car or on the streets of Las Vegas, but I’m glad for the silence. By the time we reach the club, I’m fully composed and in control. The dancers should have left by now, and I can handle stares from anyone else.

Oh, how wrong I am. I walk through the parking deck entrance, follow Cullen’s lead through the club to the newly-delivered tables and chairs, and find myself transfixed by Brandon’s icy, hypnotizing eyes.