Life Before Damaged Vol 8: The Ferro Family (Life Before Damaged #8) by H. M. Ward

Author:H. M. Ward [Ward, H. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781630350819
Amazon: B014OJVII0
Publisher: Laree Bailey Press
Published: 2015-07-31T23:00:00+00:00

FROM BIKER BOOTS TO DANCING SHOES

November 2nd, 3:28pm

Cars and yellow cabs pass by, honking incessantly. Tall skyscrapers surround us and throngs of people walk past as if they are all late for something. This city is always moving. It never stops.

If paparazzi are following us, they are very discreet about it, which is fine by me. Occasionally, Pete holds my hand, lacing our fingers together. I try to ignore the way it makes my stomach flip. I'm lonely and desperate for physical attention—even attention in the form of holding hands with a notorious womanizer and philanderer, even if it's only for the paps' much-needed pictures. I can't help but feel comfort with every little stroke of his thumb on the side of my hand.

As we pass a small secondhand store, something in the window catches my eye. I stop for a closer look. Pete hasn’t noticed and keeps on walking. He’s about two stores away, so I jog over to him and pull on his hand, stopping him.

“Hey, Pete? Do you remember at the merger gala when you asked me to teach you more swing dancing? Were you serious about that?”

Don’t give the toothy smile, Gina. Act casual. I lace my fingers together and hold them in front of me, while I rock back on my heels slightly. Pete’s brow rises as he steps towards me. The pit of my stomach goes into a freefall and the teeth try to come out. CHEESE. Damn it. Close your mouth! The result is horrendous. The corners of my lips tug up and twitch as if I had a hamster banging on my teeth and trying to escape from my mouth. Sexy!

Pete is a breath away, looking down at me. “Yes, I was serious. Why?”

I make a sound only dogs can hear as I pull Pete towards the store. Walking backward and holding onto both of his hands, I give him the full tooth grin. He follows hesitantly, eyebrows scrunched. It’s the kind of store Pete wouldn't be caught dead in if not for the very insistent ballerina bossing him around.

“Come on then, big spender. We’re getting you some dancing shoes.”

I pull him into the shop, where we weave our way through a mix of secondhand and brand new merchandise. The air is thick with an undertone of moth balls and musty moisture. The scent takes some getting used to. I usher Pete to the back of the store and push him down onto the bench before I start rummaging through boxes.

A clerk helps us out and twenty minutes later, we step out of the store, shoe bag in hand and a smug look on my face.

“Now, lesson number one—biker boots are not dancing shoes.”

Pete stops next to me, wraps an arm around my shoulders, and pulls me into his side. “You know why I agreed to this, right?”

I look up to him, grinning like a kid. “Because I have awesome taste, and you’ll look fabulous in your new saddle shoes!”

Pete shakes his head.

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