Chapter Two

Isaiah Blackwell was living the American dream.

Victor shut the door to his car, taking a moment to steady his nerves and settle the excitement in his belly. The house where Isaiah lived with his son wasn’t lavish, not like the huge mansions hidden behind gates that you often saw on television when famous professional athletes were profiled. No, this was a large home, but it was on a neighborhood street with tall trees and kids riding bikes on the sidewalk in the bright sunshine. It wasn’t the childhood he’d had, but it was the kind he’d dreamed about.

The rumble of voices and laughter spilled around the side of the house as he walked up the path to the front door and rang the bell. He shuffled the box of cupcakes in his hands, wondering again if he’d chosen the wrong thing to bring to the party. His friend Alan had insisted he needed to bring something and then vetoed alcohol, since this was a family party. As footsteps approached he really hoped he hadn’t gotten it wrong.

He’d liked Evan, a bright young man with a passion for the arts. And he couldn’t stop thinking about Isaiah. Quite a pair, those Blackwell men.

The door swung open, and he was face-to-face with the man who’d occupied his thoughts for the past three days. Isaiah was dressed in a bathing suit and tank top, his dark skin and mouthwateringly toned muscles exposed to Victor’s eyes for easy ogling. Football kept this man in top condition into his early thirties, and Victor allowed himself one all-encompassing look before he restored eye contact.

“I brought cupcakes,” he said, thrusting the box forward with a smile and a groan at just how dumb he must sound. “Thanks again for having me.”

“You’re welcome. Evan is so excited you agreed to come,” Isaiah said, motioning him inside. “I can’t guarantee he won’t talk your ear off the entire time.”

Victor laughed, his eyes adjusting to the interior of the house and picking up again on the southern lilt that coated each of his host’s words. It was like honey, and Victor had always had a weakness for sweets.

“Well, as long as he keeps me away from the cupcakes it will be a fair trade. I can’t eat any of that stuff while I’m performing.”

“Yes, I get that. Same for me when I’m training.” Isaiah paused as they moved through the foyer and looked him over. Head to toe and back again, slow and easy. Victor couldn’t help but recognize the appreciation he’d also registered at the ballet. It had been enough for him to Google the football star and his sexuality. It had been no surprise to learn that Isaiah was gay and out. Quietly out.

He’d also been married to a college professor who’d been killed by a trucker who’d fallen asleep behind the wheel three years earlier. From the pictures he found, Stephen Park had been a serious-looking guy with blond hair and glasses and a warm smile. Now it was just Isaiah and his adopted son, living in this house where they’d been a family.

Everything about that story proved Isaiah was not his type. A widower. A father. A man who kept a tight hold on his sexuality. But that didn’t stop his body from reacting to the scent of sunscreen and natural musk that washed over him when he stood this close to Isaiah.

Dangerous. Isaiah Blackwell was temptation. Worse than sweets.

“Bread is my downfall. Biscuits in general,” Isaiah continued, bringing Victor back to the present with his confession and shy smile. “My mama’s biscuits in particular.”

“I can tell you don’t indulge often,” Victor said, unable to stifle his obvious flirting. It was harmless, stupid to act like there wasn’t attraction heavy in the air between them. But he didn’t think through the comment that slid past his lips. “There’s no way you’d fit in those tight football pants if you did.”

The seconds ticked by in silence, and Victor wondered if he’d misread this entire situation and was two seconds away from getting his ass kicked out the door and onto the front walk. Then Isaiah laughed, not just the brief chuckle he’d allowed so far but a snort and then a belly laugh that shook his entire body, his hot gaze continuing to clash with his own.

“Oh hell, let’s get out to the pool before you get me into trouble,” Isaiah said, his deep voice rumbling in the open space as they made their way to the backyard.

The house was comfortable, the rooms open to one another and filled with comfortable furniture and the usual things that teenage boys left in their wake: backpacks, sports equipment, and shoes. This space was no different but was also scattered with cameras, tripods, and bags of art supplies. All the signs that an artist lived here.

The living room and kitchen were open and spanned the width of the house; a wall of French doors across the back displayed the patio, yard, and pool. People were everywhere, swimming, eating, and laughing in the California sunshine. The walls inside and every flat surface were covered with photographs of family and friends, some merely clipped to a display board on the wall next to the doors.

Victor paused to look at them. “So raw. The emotions grab you the minute you look at them.”

“They’re Evan’s,” Isaiah said, his voice low but warm.

Victor turned to observe him, examining the play of emotions across his handsome face, the dark stubble on his jaw and surrounding his neatly trimmed goatee. Fuck, he was sexy. “You must be so proud.”

“I had nothing to do with it. He’s one of a kind.” A shout of several voices and a splash drew their attention away from each other and back to the party happening outside. With a nod toward the door, Isaiah led them both out into the sunshine.

The beat of music spilling out of speakers washed over him with the heat of the day and the excited cries of welcome from Evan. The teenager dropped the hand of the older woman he was trying to lead through dance steps, ran over to them and grabbed Victor’s hand, dragging him back to where he’d just been.

“I’m trying to teach Grandma to do the whip nae nae, and she’s awful,” Evan explained, while gesturing toward an older woman in a billowy sundress and huge white sunglasses, her dark hair laced with silver.

“I need a hip replacement, not a dance lesson,” she complained, trying to wave off her grandson and the other kids.

“You need to learn from a real dancer, Grandma.”

“He’s a ballet dancer, boy. Not some fool on the YouTube.” She pointed at Victor, smiling as she turned the gesture into a motion for him to come close enough for her to squeeze his hand. Victor leaned in to the touch; he’d spent enough time with fake people during his career to enjoy it when it was real, like now. “I’m Esther Blackwell, and we didn’t invite you here to teach me a dance lesson.”

“I’m Victor Aleksandrov. It’s nice to meet you,” he replied, pulling her around and spinning her out slowly.

She gasped, giggled, and whooped out loud when he pulled her back to his body and did a little two-step and then spun her out again until he ended it in a low dip. The crowd broke out in applause and catcalls and general whoops from the teenage crowd. A quick glance at Isaiah found him laughing, still holding those damn cupcakes and standing next to a man who looked weirdly familiar.

“Don’t waste those moves on me. I’ve watched you on the news so I know I’m not your type,” she said with a smile and side hug as she led him over to her son. “My son’s single.”

Isaiah moved like he was chasing the ball down the football field, shoved the cupcake box into his mother’s hands, and gently nudged her toward the table of nearby food. “Okay, Mama, go put these away for me and stop harassing our guest.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do, Isaiah Parker Blackwell,” she fired back but without any heat to her words.

“Yeah, don’t tell her what to do, Isaiah Parker Blackwell,” echoed the man standing to his right.

“Shut up.” Victor watched as Isaiah punched out with his right hand, nailing the big man in the gut.

The guy looked so familiar, but Victor couldn’t place him. It wasn’t because he resembled Isaiah; he’d seen his face somewhere before. The guy caught Victor watching and smiled.

“Hey, I’m Isaiah’s cousin, Mick Blackwell,” he said, pulling a petite woman with glasses and dark brown hair streaked with gold to his side. “This is my wife, Piper.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” He reached out and shook their hands and then it came to him. No wonder this guy looked so familiar. “I love your movies, man.”

“Thanks. We caught your show. You are a fucking badass on that stage.” Mick grunted again when Esther came up behind him and whacked him on the back of the head.

“Mick, watch your language with the children here,” she said, handing him a bottle of lemonade. “I assumed you don’t drink alcohol during dance season. Isaiah doesn’t when he’s training.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” He looked around at the faces around him, ending with a salute to Isaiah and Evan. “Thanks again for inviting me. This is a beautiful home.”

“You got a home of your own when you go back, Victor?” Esther asked, her smile warm and her gaze genuinely curious.

“No. I have an apartment provided by the State near the ballet in Moscow. It’s nice, but it’s nothing like this.” In fact, it was a nice place but it was cold. He was never really there and hadn’t wanted to be. “I grew up in public housing, and then I lived at the ballet school. So, no home like this.”

“I lived in public housing too, until my dads adopted me,” Evan added, his eyes moving from Victor to his father with obvious love. Isaiah beamed back at him, and Victor’s belly warmed, his heart skipping a beat or two. Temptation. Sweet temptation.

“So, you know how lucky you are to live in such a nice place, yes?” Evan nodded, smiling when his dad nudged him with an elbow.

“Will your family be happy to see you?” Esther pulled his attention back, continuing with her gentle interrogation.

He hesitated, and Isaiah stilled, his eyes filled with concern with whatever Victor had let show on his face. Isaiah opened his mouth to say something, but Victor cut him off. He didn’t mind telling his story. All anyone had to do was Google to find out almost everything.

“I don’t have any family back in Russia,” he said, shaking his head slightly when Esther’s face crumbled with concern. That pain was an old one, and he’d buried it with his mother. “My parents died years ago, and I think I have some family in Chechnya, but I don’t know them.”

“Oh, honey.” Esther leaned in again and pulled him into a big hug. She was soft and warm and smelled like sunscreen and cupcake frosting, and he closed his eyes briefly and just enjoyed the sensation of being mothered. It was childish and maudlin, but he indulged himself in the moment. When he opened his eyes, Isaiah was staring at him, his own gaze filled with something a lot like understanding.

“Thank you,” Isaiah mouthed silently at him.

Victor shifted, smiling self-consciously when Esther pressed a kiss to the side of his head and ruffled his hair. They didn’t break eye contact, that weird connection that had erupted between them at the ballet going strong. It wasn’t something he wanted to give up, the strange mix of attraction and understanding.

“Grandma, stop hogging Victor. I want to show him my school project idea,” Evan said, tugging on Victor’s T-shirt sleeve. Victor dragged his eyes away from Isaiah and over to the young man brimming with excitement. His dark eyes were lit up from within, the passion of doing something you loved mixed with his innocence made him smile. “I was hoping you could help me.”

Victor slid a glance over to Isaiah expecting to find him looking at Evan but he was looking at him and the concentration focused on him made his heart stutter. There was heat and awareness and a silent “thank you” that raised goose bumps on his arms even in the heat.

Oh man. Those Blackwell men. Did he really have any other choice?

He smiled at Evan. “Of course. I’d love to.”