Dancing on a Moonbeam (Bedford Falls Book 1) (9 page)

"I hate crying." She sniffed and wiped her cheeks. "This is your fault."

At least he had the grace to look ashamed. "I really—"

"How could you do it? Do you even understand what you've done?"

He held his hands up. "I don't—"

"You could cost me my dance studio."
 

His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"This." She stuck the violation in his face.

He leaned his head back as though trying to focus on it. He took it from her, his eyes narrowing as he read it. Then he mumbled a curse under his breath and lowered the page. "Listen, I didn't want this to happen."

"And yet you ratted me out."

"I didn't rat you out." He frowned. "Well, I guess technically I may have."
 

"Technically? The work is all stopped, and I don't know when it'll start up again." She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab him and shake him. "You may not realize this, but it's more than a dance studio. It's the potential of who I am, and you're trying to take it away from me."

"Look"—he held his hand out—"I'm going to be gone in a couple weeks, and then you can do whatever you like."

"It's not that simple, because I may not be able to renovate if they decide not to give me the permits now that I've broken the law." Her voice raised, but she didn't care. She pointed at him. "You're a selfish man, and you suck."

"I'm sorry—"

"No, you're not. Don't lie to me." She stood toe-to-toe with him, staring him in the eye.
 

"I'm just—"

"I'm sick of lying men, and I'm sick of another man deciding my destiny for me. That fucker Charles did it, and now you're trying to do it. But you know what?" She poked him in the chest. Then she poked him again for good measure. "I. Won't. Allow. It."

He gazed down at her intently.

She scowled. "Well? Are you going to stand there like a lump?"

"I'm listening to the melody of your voice."
 

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to mess with me?"

"Who's Charles?" he asked suddenly.

She startled out of her anger by the change of subject. "My ex-husband."
 

"I hate him already," he said, reaching out as if he were going to touch her.

Oddly, she still wanted him to touch her, which was more startling than his question, because he was the last person on earth she should want.

Eleanor took a step back, gathering her anger around her. Better that than kissing a perfidious fucker. "I won't be cowed, you know."

"I wouldn't imagine that you would," he murmured, putting a hand in his pocket.

"And I won't be stopped. This is war." Glaring at him, she marched back to her house and slammed the door as loudly as she could.
 

And then she slammed it again—twice—before she flipped him off in his general direction. "Take that, Mr. Grumpy Pants."

Chapter 12

No mariachis crooning.

No hammering.

No shouting.

The only thing Max heard was blissful silence.

He ran his hands over the keys on the piano. He played a few lines from Chopin, into a Gnossienne, and then into a theme he'd written a few years ago for a Robert Redford movie.
 

For some reason, the song reminded him of his stunning next-door neighbor. Eleanor. It was rolling and understated, with bold moments. It moved with the same grace she did, fluid and nimble.

Forget the neighbor, no matter how gorgeous she is.
 

Right. Like that was going to be easy. He'd been oddly stimulated yesterday after she'd found him at the pond.

But he hadn't liked when she'd accused him of being like her ex-husband and ruining her life. Not wanting to be like her ex-husband was a valid reaction. Feeling bad because he'd filed a complaint about her construction problem puzzled him.

Especially since he hadn't filed the complaint—Liam had filed it in his name.

Forget all that, he told himself. Like his dad always said, the music was more important, and what was done was done. It'd work out. It was just a complaint, and he wasn't planning on following up on it. Eleanor would be fine.

Listening to his mom, he took a breath and then launched into the beginning of the melody he'd been playing with for the movie.
 

A staccato pounding interrupted the sixth measure.

He stopped playing and stared at the front door. Normally he'd have been angry at having his work time interrupted, but he knew who it had to be.

"Eleanor," he murmured, letting her name roll on his tongue. He got up and went to the door, eagerly, even though he knew she was probably going to yell at him some more.

Probably? He shook his head. If he were a gambling man, he'd say it was guaranteed. He supposed he could have ignored her and kept on working, but he doubted she'd go away.

Answering the door simply because she wouldn't go away wasn't entirely honest. Truth be told, he wouldn't mind listening to her again. She was a melody that he couldn't get out of his head, that played over and over, enchanting him.

Not that he thought she'd appreciate being called an earworm.

He opened the door.

She stood there, frowning at him. She looked like she'd just come from yoga, in black leggings. Her hair was coiled at the nape of her neck. On her top, she had a pale pink sweater that looked soft.

He wondered what she'd do if he touched it. Except it wasn't the sweater he wanted to touch—it was her.

"I came to tell you how much of a bastard you are," she said, brushing past him to enter. "In case you didn't understand that part of the conversation yesterday."

He hid his smile, knowing she wouldn't appreciate it. "Please, come in. Make yourself at home."

She marched into the living room and looked around. "It's been remodeled in here."

He heard her accusatory tone and shook his head. "Not under my watch."

Turning to face him, she glared at him. "What's your deal? Does it make you happy to waltz into town and Grinch all over people's dreams?"

"Did you just use Grinch as a verb?"

She shrugged. "It worked, and you're avoiding my question."

"I don't have anything against your project." He'd been pissed that Liam had lodged a complaint, using his name without his knowledge. His friend hadn't understood why Max wouldn't be jumping for joy—solitude had been restored.
 

Only having an irate woman on his hands wasn't peaceful, even if it was kind of exciting. Max sighed. "Listen, I just wanted peace and quiet to write my music."

"That's what you don't get." She walked toward him, her eyes lit. "It's not a little project. It's my future."

Her eyes got him every time. What was it about them? He'd seen more striking ones—he worked in the film industry, after all. A lot of actresses had stunning features.

It wasn't the beauty of Eleanor's eyes though that grabbed him, he realized. It was the emotion in them. The passion. He wanted that passion directed at him.

Correction: he wanted that passion directed at him in an intimate way, not in the bite-his-head-off way like it was now. He debated telling her that Liam was the one who'd tattled on her, but he couldn't sell out his best friend.

"Why are you glaring at me?" she demanded, hands on her narrow hips. "I'm the one that's furious here."

He shook his head. He should tell her to go away. He should go back to his score. Only he wanted to know why renovating the dilapidated shack was so important to her, so he said, "Want some tea?"

She gaped at him. "You're offering me hospitality? Are you planning on poisoning it?"

"If you died, you'd plague me as a ghost, and then I'd never get any work done." He headed to the kitchen, knowing she'd follow.

She did, studying him like she wasn't sure what to expect of him.

He filled the pot with water and flipped the switch to boil it. Then he opened a drawer and looked at all the teabag choices. He decided on apple cinnamon for himself and chamomile for Eleanor. Maybe its calming properties would work on her. "Do you like muffins?" he asked.

"No." She pulled out a stool from the counter, watching him like she expected his head to start spinning. "What are you doing? I came to chew you out, and you're making me tea and crumpets?"

"I don't know what crumpets are. I was going to have a muffin and I thought you'd want one too." The day before when he'd gone to the café for his cappuccino, he'd bought three muffins because he couldn't decide between the blueberry, the carrot pineapple, and the orange white chocolate. He held up the bag. "I don't think you understand what a white flag this is. These muffins are amazing."

She crossed her arms. "I'm not ready for a truce. I want to yell at you."

"You can yell at me." He pulled out a plate. "You can do anything to me as long as I have one of these muffins. How could you not want one?"

"I don't eat things like that."

"What? Delicious things?" Could have fooled him by the longing gaze she gave the bag. "Clara must put crack in them. I don't get how they can be so tasty."

"Clara says she bakes with love," Eleanor said grudgingly. "But I don't want to talk about love. I want to talk about why you're a fucker."

He grinned. "Tell me how you really feel."

"Okay." Instead of ripping into him, she slumped back against her chair, looking lost. "I used to dance."

He knew better than to say anything. He poured the boiling water into the cups and set one in front of her.
 

"I started dancing as soon as I could walk. I was a year old, and my mom would take me to ballet class. At first the teacher thought I was too young to be included in the class, but Mom insisted that we'd sit there and watch until the teacher believed I was ready."

He'd been the same with the piano. His dad was fond of showing people the picture of him at fourteen months, performing at his first recital. "How old were you when you started?"

"I wasn't two yet. I was so excited. I loved the tutus." She smiled sadly. "There's power in tutus, you know."

"I can't say that's something I'm aware of." He set two muffins on the plate and slid them closer to her before sitting at a stool too.

"Maybe that's your problem." She stared longingly at the pastries but just picked up her tea. "Maybe you need a tutu instead of absolute silence."

"Composers wear tails, not tutus."
 
Except maybe Mozart, but he wasn't going to point that out.

"I'd loan you one to try, but I don't have any," she said. "I gave all mine away years ago."

She sounded so wistful that he wanted to go out and buy her one. Only that wasn't his business, so he told himself to chill and reached for a muffin instead. "If you believe in them so much, why'd you give them away?"

"Are we being honest?"

He shrugged, breaking his muffin in half. "Seems like it's too late to stop."

"I couldn't face seeing them if I wasn't dancing." Her gaze was open and sad. "Dancing was my entire world. It's all I wanted to do. Other kids wanted to play with their friends, I wanted to be on the stage. It was what I understood. It was what saved me when my mom died when I was ten."

His heart squeezed at the sorrow on her face. He wanted to sit her on the piano next to him and play her "Tiny Dancer" and then kiss the pain away.

He stilled.
 

He wanted to kiss her.
Period.
 

He rolled the idea around in his head. Except that he was going back to Los Angeles in a couple weeks, it wasn't a bad idea.

"What?" she asked.

Shaking his head, he looked at her. Her eyes were luminous and her lips were temptation in physical form. Not that she'd appreciate hearing that. "Are you sure you don't want a muffin?"

"Positive." She licked her lip as she glanced at them.

"Why did you stop dancing?" he asked to steer the conversation toward a more comfortable subject for her.