A Daddy By Christmas. Teri WilsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
he hoped so.
“I think I’m going to take the rest of the afternoon off, after all.” He stood, buttoned his suit jacket and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
This office was his sanctuary. He’d always felt more at home at his desk, glued to the market’s highs and lows, than he did at his luxury penthouse with its sweeping views of Central Park and the Natural History Museum. But today it felt different, strange... He wondered if it would ever feel like home again, and if it didn’t, where he was supposed to find peace.
“Call the nanny and tell her I’m on the way to fetch Lolly.” Maybe he’d take her to see the tree at Rockefeller Center or for a carriage ride through the park. Something Christmassy.
Like the Rockettes show at Radio City Music Hall?
His jaw clenched tight.
“Yes, Mr. Kent. And I’ll look into the puppy situation and send you a list of available dogs that might be a good fit.” Mrs. Summers looked up from her tablet. “Would you like me to try and find another Yorkie mix?”
He heard the woman’s voice again—so confident, so cynical in her assessment of his character.
You really don’t seem like the Yorkie type.
What did that even mean?
Did she picture him with something less fluffy and adorable, like a bulldog? Or a snake? More to the point, why had that assumption stuck with him and rubbed him so entirely the wrong way?
“Anything. I’m open to suggestions,” he muttered. Then on second thought, he said, “Scratch that. I want a lapdog—something cute and affectionate, on the smaller side. A real cupcake of a dog.”
Mrs. Summers stifled a smile. “Of course, sir.”
“The sweeter, the better.”
The afternoon following Chloe’s odd encounter at the animal shelter, she tucked her new puppy into a playpen containing the candy cane–striped dog bed and a dozen or so new toys and then trudged her way through the snow-covered West Village to the Wilde School of Dance.
It was time to face the music.
She couldn’t keep lying to her family about her job. Just this morning, she’d thought she spotted her cousin Ryan walking through Times Square while she’d been on flyer duty. She’d ducked behind one of the area’s ubiquitous costumed characters—a minion in a Santa hat—but there was no hiding her blinking antlers.
Luckily, the man in the slim tailored suit hadn’t been her cousin. Nor had it been her brother, Zander. To her immense relief, she also ruled out the possibility that he was the man who’d proposed to her yesterday—Anders Kent. This guy’s shoulders weren’t quite as broad, and the cut of his jaw was all wrong. His posture was far too laid-back and casual. He seemed like a regular person out for a stroll on his lunch break, whereas Anders had been brimming with intensity, much like the city itself—gritty and glamorous. So beautifully electric.
Not that she’d been thinking about him for the duration of her two-hour shift. She quite purposefully hadn’t. But being on flyer duty was such a mindless job, and while she flashed her Rockette smile for the tourists and ground her teeth against the wind as it swept between the skyscrapers, he kept sneaking back into her consciousness. The harder she tried not to think about him, the clearer the memory of their interaction became, until it spun through her mind on constant repeat, like a favorite holiday movie. Love Actually or It’s a Wonderful Life.
Chloe huffed out a sigh. If life was even remotely wonderful, she wouldn’t be so hung up on a meaningless encounter with a stranger. Which was precisely why she had to stop pretending everything was fine and come to terms with reality. She was no longer a professional dancer. She might never perform that loathsome toy soldier routine again, and if she didn’t humble herself and come clean with the rest of the Wildes, they were sure to find out some other way and her embarrassment would be multiplied tenfold. Emily Wilde was practically omniscient. It was a miracle Chloe’s mother hadn’t busted her already.
Sure enough, the minute Chloe pushed through the door of the Wilde School of Dance, she could feel Emily’s eyes on her from clear across the room. Her mother was deep in conversation with a slim girl in a black leotard—one of her ballet students, no doubt—but her penetrating gaze was trained on Chloe.
Here we go.
Chloe smiled and attempted a flippy little wave, as if this was any ordinary day and she stopped by the studio all the time. She didn’t, of course, making this whole situation more awkward and humbling than she could bear.
When was the last time she’d set foot inside this place? A while—even longer than she’d realized. She didn’t recognize half the faces in the recital photographs hanging on the lobby walls, and the smooth maple floors had taken quite a beating since she’d twirled across them in pointe shoes as a teenager. The sofa in the parents’ waiting area had a definite sag in its center that hadn’t been there when Chloe spent hours sprawled across it doing her homework after school.
Was her mother still using the same blue record player and worn practice albums instead of a digital sound system? Yes, apparently. The turntable sat perched on a shelf in the corner of the main classroom, right where it had been since before Chloe was born.
At least Emily was no longer teaching back-to-back classes all day, every day. Chloe’s sister-in-law, Allegra, had taken over the majority of the curriculum. From the looks of things, Allegra’s intermediate ballet class had just ended. She waved at Chloe from behind the classroom’s big picture window as happy ten-and eleven-year-olds in pink tights and soft ballet slippers spilled out of the studio, weaving around Chloe with girlish, balletic grace.
Her throat grew tight as a wave of nostalgia washed over her. Everything was all so different, and yet still exactly the same as she remembered.
She’d grown up here. In total, she’d probably spent more time between these faded blue walls than she had in the grand family brownstone on Riverside Drive. If family lore was to be believed, she’d taken her first steps in her mother’s office between boxes of tap shoes and recital costumes. Just months afterward, she’d learned to plié at the barre in the classroom with the old blue record player.
Chloe’s first kiss had happened here, too—with a boy from the School of American Ballet Theatre during rehearsals for Romeo and Juliet. It had been a stage kiss, but her heart beat as wildly as hummingbird wings, and when the boy’s lips first touched hers, she’d forgotten about pointed toes and the blister on her heel from her new pointe shoes.
The kiss might have been fake, but the warmth of his lips was real, as was the feeling that this school, this place that she knew so well, was etched permanently on her soul. She’d always come back here. It was her home.
I should have come back sooner.
She’d meant to. But somehow days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, and then her father died. Walking in her childhood footsteps after his heart attack was just too painful, so she’d taken the easy way out and stayed away. She’d thrown herself fully into the Rockettes and, like everything in her life, the family dance school took a back seat to her career.
And now here she was—jobless, with no close friends, superficial relationships with her family members and no love life whatsoever now that Steven had so unceremoniously dumped her after the Thanksgiving parade mishap.
Perfect. She’d somehow become the horrible character in a Christmas movie who required divine intervention to become a decent person again. Except there wasn’t an angel in sight, was there?
Again, Anders Kent’s chiseled features flashed in her mind. She blinked. Hard.
“Chloe!”