Portland Storm: The Second Period by Catherine Gayle

Author:Catherine Gayle [Gayle, Catherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary Romance
Publisher: Catherine Gayle
Published: 2016-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

“WAIT!” TANYA’S SHOUT came from the office as I was about to head back into the studio for my session with Devin. “Come back here for a minute. I need you to do a fitting with the costume as it is now, so they can make adjustments or whatever.”

I rolled my eyes, hating the idea of having someone poking and prodding and trying to make me look good in something I had no chance of looking good in, but still I changed course and headed into the office.

Even though I’d been sure I wouldn’t get any work out of that class I’d gone to with Devin, I’d been wrong. There was a big show he was putting together in a couple of weeks. Dancers from all over the city, coming from every dance background imaginable, were going to be involved—and he’d asked me to work with him on a specific piece, just the two of us. He wanted to pair his contemporary background with Latin ballroom to make something new and exciting, something different than you would normally see, and after he’d discovered what I could do in his class, he’d said there was no one better to do it with than me.

I wasn’t so sure about all that, but I was willing to give it a try. The simple fact of the matter was that however much I might enjoy teaching dance, there was nothing that could compare with actually dancing, using my body to do the things I’d spent so many years training it to do. Try as I might to convince myself that I wasn’t equally thrilled and anxious about being on stage again, I couldn’t push the jitters aside. I felt like jumping beans were filling my belly, and they didn’t seem likely to go away until the show actually happened.

Being properly costumed was simply one step on the path to meeting that end, and it wasn’t Tanya’s fault.

“Let’s hurry up and do it then,” I said to her with a forced smile, tossing my gym bag in the corner. “Where is it?”

A woman I recognized as the costumer who’d taken my measurements a few days ago stood up from her seat near the window, a garment in her hands. “Let’s go to the changing room.”

I nodded and indicated that she should follow me, and I headed for the hall. She grabbed a bag full of pins and other torturous-looking implements and hurried along behind me.

“Strip,” she said unceremoniously once we were behind the closed door.

I tugged the baggy tank over my head and let my jersey practice skirt drop to the floor, trying to be nonchalant about letting anyone see me in my underwear, even though I was anything but. She pulled the material of the costume—made of a shimmery, stretchy blue fabric that was way flashier than I was comfortable wearing these days—over my head, carefully adjusting it around my arms so I wouldn’t undo any of her work to this point. It came down over my body and she jerked it into place.

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