If The Ring Fits...: Ballroom to Bride and Groom / A Bride for the Maverick Millionaire / Promoted: Secretary to Bride!. Kate Hardy
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spread his hands. ‘But I need to get you used to dancing the cha cha cha in something other than trousers. I’ll come with you to the wardrobe department tomorrow, because they’ll need to match my outfit to your dress.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Something short and flirty, I think.’
That was bound to mean short sleeves. Panic flooded through her. ‘Can’t I have something floaty, like last week?’
‘You can’t do a Latin dance in a ballroom costume,’ Liam said. ‘And if Jane the comedienne can wear a short skirt, given that she’s a fair bit, um, curvier than you, then you’ll be fine.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘People will look at your feet and your smile, I promise.’
Obviously he thought she was panicking about her thighs. ‘I’m not worried about my legs,’ she said.
‘Then what’s wrong?’
She couldn’t bring herself to tell him. The words stuck in her throat. The easy way out would be to show him the scars, but she just couldn’t do that. ‘I don’t mind a short dress, but I’m used to long sleeves.’
‘Not for a cha cha cha.’
‘I’m superstitious,’ she said.
His expression told her that, given she’d picked a green dress last time, he didn’t believe a word of it. But, to her relief, he didn’t push her on the subject.
On Wednesday morning, their practice went well and Polly’s smile was genuine. But her smile faded when they went to the wardrobe department and she realised that none of the costumes on offer had long sleeves.
‘I really need long sleeves,’ she said to Rhoda, biting her lip. ‘Please.’
‘There aren’t any—not with the cha cha cha dresses.’
Polly thought back to costumes she’d seen on the show in previous years. ‘What about something with cuffs?’
‘Ah—now, cuffs we can do,’ Rhoda said.
The relief made Polly’s knees go weak. Rhoda came back with a blue sequinned dress, the same dark blue as Liam’s eyes; it had a fringed short skirt, a silver belt, and matching silver cuffs that Polly could see immediately would be deep enough to hide her scars. ‘Those silver shoes you had for the foxtrot—they’ll work for this, too,’ Rhoda said.
‘Thank you. That’s absolutely brilliant.’
‘My pleasure, love.’ Though Rhoda looked concerned, and Polly had the nasty feeling she was going to be the centre of backstage … not gossip, exactly, but conversation.
She’d just have to hope that they’d find a more interesting topic.
Liam’s outfit consisted of dark trousers, and a sheer dark blue shirt, shot through with silver and navy blue sequins.
‘Flashy,’ she teased.
But the shirt also brought out the beautiful colour of his eyes; it really suited him. And she loved the swishy skirt of her dress.
‘You know I’m going to ask—’ Liam began when they’d left the studio.
‘No.’ In panic, she pressed the tip of her finger over his mouth. And then she wished she hadn’t. His lips were warm. Soft. And the contact with her skin made her tingle all over.
‘Please don’t. It’s something I don’t want to talk about, OK?’ Her voice was shaky, and not just because of dredging up her past. Touching Liam made her knees go weak.
‘Is it something that’s going to affect your dancing?’
‘No.’ Not unless she had to wear short sleeves. ‘If you promise not to ask me, I’ll cook you a pizza for dinner tonight.’ The second she stopped speaking, she panicked again. Now he’d think she was asking him out on a date. And she wasn’t—was she?
‘That is, to say thanks for how much you’ve taught me this week,’ she added swiftly.
‘It’s my job,’ he reminded her.
‘And good work gets a bonus. In this case, pizza.’
‘Home made?’ he asked.
‘Well—no. But I make a mean brownie.’
‘Cake.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Done. What time?’
‘Seven?’
‘Great. See you then.’
Liam rang the doorbell at seven precisely; a few seconds later, Polly opened the door and her eyes widened as he handed her a bunch of bright pink gerbera.
‘How lovely.’ She beamed at him. ‘Though you didn’t have to do that.’
‘Hostess gift,’ he said. Just in case she thought there were strings attached.
‘Thank you. Come in, and I’ll put these in water.’
She rummaged through a cupboard in her kitchen. ‘No vase. Stupid. I’ll get one tomorrow.’ She found a measuring jug, filled it with water and put the flowers in it.
Her smile had turned super-bright again, and guilt flooded through him. ‘Sorry. I wouldn’t have brought them if I’d known they’d upset you.’
‘No, I love them. But they’re the first flowers since …’ Her voice tailed off.
He filled in the gap. Since her wedding-that-wasn’t. ‘I used to buy flowers for Bianca every Friday,’ he said, and could’ve kicked himself. Why was he telling her that and making it worse?
‘Harry wasn’t one for flowers. I used to buy them for myself. Ones like this, that make everything look bright and happy. I must’ve left my vases at his place. Not that I want them back now.’ She flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I knew you’d be dead on time. The pizza will be here in ten minutes. Let me get you a drink. Wine?’
He handed her a bottle. ‘My contribution. It should still be chilled.’
‘Thank you.’ She poured them both a glass. ‘Do you want the grand tour? It’ll take all of two minutes.’
She was talking way too much and way too fast, Liam thought. Nervous. Yeah. So was he. Which he really hadn’t expected, because he was fine when he was teaching her. But being here, in her space—that shifted the balance. Changed things. ‘The grand tour will be great.’
‘Obviously this is the kitchen,’ she said. ‘Bathroom. My room.’ He noticed that she kept that particular door closed. ‘Living room.’
There were photographs and knick-knacks on every windowsill and shelf, along with plenty of books and films. Too busy for his taste, though it was spotlessly clean.
She’d clearly noticed him scanning the room. ‘You think it’s cluttered, don’t you?’
‘I’d put everything in cupboards,’ he admitted. ‘But each to their own.’
He followed her back to the kitchen, and looked at the photographs on her fridge. ‘I assume these are the Monday Mash-up boys?’
‘Yes. And this is Fliss, my very best friend, and Shelley and Carrie. They’re the chick-flick chicks—their husbands all hate the kind of girly films we love, so we go without them and eat a ton of ice cream afterwards.’
There were plenty of photos of her with friends, he noticed, but not with anyone who looked enough like her to be a sibling or cousin, and none of her with anyone older. She hadn’t mentioned her family at all.
And there was the fact that she insisted on wearing long sleeves. Had there been some terrible car accident or something where she’d lost her family, and maybe she had scars on her arms from the accident that reminded her of what she’d lost? He hadn’t seen any scars today, but then again the cuffs that went with her dress were quite deep.
But