The flutter of a butterfly, the fluid grace of a hummingbird, had nothing on the movements of Jamie Russo.
Sean couldn’t help the thoughts as he stood tucked into the corner at the rear of the auditorium as Jamie proved her mettle. His heart soared, watching her chase her dreams. He’d thought she’d given up when he got the medallion in the mail. It’d taken him a week to muster the courage and determination to talk to her, to not soak in pity. But when he went to the studio to make amends, her best friend sent him here. Did this mean she’d found a way to pay her tuition? He’d give anything to see her get this.
She’d once said that he was a hypocrite for not even having a dream, but fixing motorcycles had aroused in him a deep sense of satisfaction. Warmth spread through him when he realized they were both hunting down their dreams. If only… if only she hadn’t shoved him away.
William Wolfe had experienced rejection. For him, war and burn injuries tore from his hands what he thought he wanted—the love of a woman. The wrong woman. Sean could relate. His deployments, his injury sent his fiancée into the arms of another. At the time, Sean had let that wound fester, infect his soul. He’d heard it said that God never wastes a hurt. True enough, Sean stood watching something he wanted even more than marrying a shallow socialite.
A woman’s voice rang through the auditorium, dismissing them but not before informing them that those accepted would receive an e-mail notice within a week. As soon as the white-haired matriarch left, the dancers rushed out the back with an electric hum.
Sean hurried after them, anxious to catch a glimpse of Jamie’s face. She’d make it. He had no doubt. She was a fighter and an amazing dancer. His phone belted out “American Hero” as he stepped onto the main floor, and he answered it. “Sean Wolfe.”
“Mr. Wolfe. I hear you got the Harley working. Have you reconsidered my offer?”
Sean sighed as he stared down the narrow corridor where the dancers huddled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Riordan. The bike’s not for sale.”
“I’ll increase my offer.”
Sean chuckled. “Sorry. I’m not willing to give it up.”
“Thirty-five thousand is my last offer.”
Almost choking, Sean fisted a hand over his mouth. “That’s obscene. It’s not even worth that.”
“It is to me. And listen—this isn’t the only bike I’d like you to fix. Partner with me. I’ll track down the good ones, you fix them, and we’ll split the profit.”
He had to be kidding. The deal was ludicrously slanted in Sean’s favor. Getting to restore bikes and make money? “I’d be willing to work together, but this Harley’s not for sale.”
Hoots and hollers mingled with groans and sobs, cutting off the conversation. Sean said good-bye and looked for Jamie amid the group. His breath backed into his throat.
Jamie turned sobbing, hands pressed to her face.
No. It wasn’t possible—she had to make it.
A tall guy—no wait, that was her dance studio instructor. The same one who’d told Sean to get lost weeks back—pulled her into his arms.
Everything in Sean closed up. That embrace looked… intimate.
The guy rubbed her back. A girl hugged Jamie, smiled, then strode toward Sean.
Sean fisted a hand as he edged into the girl’s path. “So… she didn’t make it? What’s wrong?”
“Officially, nobody’s made it—yet. Those who are accepted get e-mailed, but Madame Faultier told Martin she was handpicking Jamie.”
Just then, Jamie stepped out of Martin’s hold. Her gaze collided with Sean’s. She drew herself straight and came toward him, the guy on her heels.
“Why are you here?” Jamie asked, her voice cracking.
“To see you live your dream.”
A tear rolled down her cheek, and it took everything in Sean not to wipe it away. “Well”—she sniffled—“I did. And now it’s dead.”
“But—”
“I can’t afford it. I told you.”
“Then why are you here, auditioning?”
Martin eased in. “Hey, now—”
“Stay out of this.” Sean hated the growl in his voice, but he wasn’t going to back down either. He hesitated, taking in her wet eyes, trembling chin, and knotted brow. She’d made it. And she was upset. Which meant she didn’t have the funds, though he’d hoped a way would present itself for her.
“Don’t you see?” More tears. “Now I have to humiliate myself—again—and tell them I can’t go. I should never have come for the callbacks. But I just…”
“Jamie—”
“This.” Anger vaulted over her grief. “This is why I didn’t turn in my application.”
Sean stepped closer, but at the same time, so did the guy behind her. Their eyes locked, and Sean sent him the hardest look he could muster. He dared this guy to challenge him. When Martin’s shoulders lowered, Sean refocused on Jamie.
“Listen,” he said, as he cupped her face. “You belong here, Jamie. You do. I could see it while you were dancing.”
“But I don’t have—”
“Let God handle that, okay?” He lifted her chin so she looked into his eyes. “Trust me on this. It’ll get paid. I don’t know how, but it will. Don’t throw away your dream.” He inched closer. “This time, it’s about you.”
She caught his wrists and tugged them free. “I want to believe that. It’d be… wonderful.” Jamie sniffled again. “But I have to be realistic. I know I have what it takes, but now I need to get a job and figure out what to do with the rest of my life.”
“Jamie—”
“It’s okay, Sean.” She nodded. “I’ll be okay. But I have to go.”
Panic streaked through him like a branding iron. “You’re just walking away?” His pulse ratcheted. “Just like that.” From this? From me?
“I have to, Sean. I can’t live hoping and”—her lips quirked—“dreaming my life away.”
Each molecule of air felt like a ten-pound weight. “Who’s the one who told me I was too chicken to dream?”
More hesitation. Then she straightened. “Good-bye, Sean.”
“Good-bye?”
A tremor ran through her chin. She turned and faded into the shadows with the entourage of dancers.