Page 18 of Loan Wolf (Green Valley Shifters: Generations #1)

18

CLARA

C lara put her leftovers in the minifridge and showered the sweat off herself at the hotel. She had a slight bruise on her arm from a tumble on their expedition. Or possibly from the not-very-gentle sex at the lookout. She was also starting to sport a farmer’s tan, and she knew that Twiller was going to scold her about protecting her skin.

“A ballerina has to be a flawless flower,” she told her reflection mockingly. “No one wants to watch a tomboy lurching around the stage.”

She stuck her tongue out in the mirror and got dressed without putting sunscreen on. The heavy lunch and the hard workout made the bed look tempting, but Clara stepped through dance exercises instead. She knew that Twiller would ask her if she’d done them that day.

Halfway through her weighted lunges, the hotel door gave a little snick and her stepmother came in, laden with bags. Clara dashed to help her. “What is all this? You know we live in New York, right? And they have shopping malls there?”

“They have a couple of cute little art stores here now,” Patricia said with a laugh. “I couldn’t resist.”

She unloaded her treasures on the bed, and Clara exclaimed over the kitchy little dolls and embroidered hand towels. “That will be for Mabs and Jake. The dirty deeds dishtowel is for Andrea. She just about died laughing when she saw it and I managed to buy it without her noticing.”

“Will she hang it in her house?” Clara wanted to know.

“Andrea absolutely would, and Shaun certainly won’t stop her. I’m starved, do you want to get some late lunch?”

“I just ate. Tendy’s.”

“Oh, aren’t they good? I went out with Jamie yesterday. Did you go with Trevor and Aaron?”

“No, I went with…Gabe.” Clara regretted saying it as soon as the name was past her lips.

Patricia stopped packing away her gifts. “Gabe?” she said skeptically.

“He owns the bike store,” Clara said offhandedly.

“I’ve…heard a lot about him. You went out with him?”

“We had lunch together. Separate checks.”

“Oh, not a date, then.”

Clara found herself bristling over how relieved Patricia seemed by that distinction. “What would be wrong with dating Gabe?” she wanted to know.

“It’s just…he’s…”

“Got tattoos?”

“Well, he’s been arrested,” Patricia said reluctantly.

“For graffiti,” Clara scoffed. “When he was fifteen.”

“I’m sure there’s more to his reputation than that,” Patricia said.

“Reputations aren’t everything,” Clara protested.

Patricia didn’t argue, but Clara knew she hadn’t won the conversation. “Linda told me you were going to be dancing at the revue this weekend.”

“And apparently, you told Twiller.” Clara didn’t mean to sound as sharp as she did. “I saw her at lunch.”

“She’s very invested in your career,” Patricia reminded her. “She dropped everything she was doing to come help you.”

Guilt swamped Clara. She was an ungrateful worm. Twiller truly cared about Clara, in her own strict way, and she’d dedicated so much time and energy to teaching her. It was awful of Clara to resent her for it.

“I’ll want to practice on the stage before the revue,” Clara said peacefully. “I’ll see if she can come help me polish the choreography.”

She exchanged a hug with Patricia and pulled up her phone to make the call; Twiller didn’t like texts.

“Of course, darling,” Twiller said mildly. “I’ve already talked to Linda Turner and reserved the space for this evening and tomorrow. Five o’clock sharp. There’s a full dress rehearsal Friday morning at eleven. This is probably the biggest show this backwards little town will ever see.”

Clara bit back the automatic defense that rose up in her throat. Why would she defend Green Valley? She hadn’t lived here since she was a little kid, and she’d called it backwards more than once herself. “That sounds great,” she said, just as blandly. “I’ll see you at five.”

It wasn’t until she’d hung up that she remembered she’d told Gabe she’d be back around closing time, which was also five. The bike rental contract was still in her pocket and it had his number on it. After starting and deleting a few messages, she wrote,

This is Clara. I’ll be practicing at the theatre when you close.

It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but it wasn’t not an invitation either. He could make of it whatever he wanted.