Page 60 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Gen

Heart hammering in my chest, I sweep into my solo bow, Jean beaming at me from the end of the line that’s stepped back for me.

And the applause is still thunderous, louder and more exhilarating than I’ve ever experienced during a curtain call.

A crisp whistle pierces the clapping, and I squint past the stage lights, wondering if maybe it’s Sloane.

I pull deep breaths in through my nose, my tears kept miserably at bay by the attempt.

The best performance of my life is an understatement. I felt it in every pirouette, in every plié—understood with every movement of the orchestra that I was merely another instrument playing in perfect harmony.

Tears push past my waterline when I think about it, think about how I get to do this again.

How this is what I get to be . The line behind me rushes up and I grab the hands of two of the younger girls before we shuffle forward, anticipating another roar of shouts and praise from the audience.

They’re on their feet, but I can’t see their faces, and all I feel is pure delirium .

Flowers continue to fall on the stage as we all shuffle toward the wings, dancers turning toward each other in child-like glee, running off stage to quickly snap pictures before the final curtain. I look for Jean just as he leaps toward me, his arms open wide, pulling me into a hug of pure pride.

“Bitch!!” he squeals. “I hope someone recorded tonight because you were ethereal . An angel on earth. Like, we actually all died and went to heaven.”

My grin spreads wide and I feel the way my dimples deepen, feel the electric pitter patter of my heart.

“Final bows!” a tech shouts, the dancers around me filing back onto the stage.

The jingling of bells is the first thing I hear when I swing the stage door open, but Grant is all I can see. Snow blankets the world around us, like we’re in a snow globe, and it dusts his face, drifts across his lashes as he gazes into my eyes with quiet heat.

“You were fucking incredible,” he murmurs, his hand caressing my face.

“And beautiful. And stunning. I couldn’t take my eyes—” My eyes snag on something in his other hand, growing wide as I look at what he’s grasping.

It’s a pastry box—a box whose sight brings back smells and sights and feels back to the fore of my memory.

“Where did you get this?” Tears flood my eyes, threatening to spill past the waterline.

“Laurel’s.” So matter of fact, a smirk on his lips. “The train’s honestly so convenient. We should take it sometime.”

“You took the train all the way to New York to buy me the same croissants my dad used to buy me before a show?” I’m in utter disbelief that I could be worthy of someone who would do something like this for me.

“I did. I wanted to give them to you yesterday. My pathetic attempt at winning you back,” he adds, his smirk falling slightly at the mention of Connie.

“Not pathetic,” I say, catching his gaze and resting my hand across the roughness of his jaw. “Perfect. You didn’t have to do that.”

“There’s not a single thing I wouldn’t do for you, Genevieve,” he says, just for me to hear, his lips so close to mine when does, and I can’t help but close the distance. The moment our lips touch, everything else goes quiet.

Because Grant’s kiss is the bed you fall into after a long day; it’s opening an old album and seeing all your favorite people frozen in time; it’s the dream you try to force as you fall asleep, wishing for just a few moments of perfection.

His kiss is all of that, and every cell in my body is at rest now that we’re here.

Our tongues twine around each other, perfectly in sync, the dance they’re doing slow and indulgent as we remind one another just how right we are.

He dips me back and I let him, relish the sturdiness of his hand on my lower back, savor the taste of him, the heat of him, the woodsy smell of his aftershave when I run my nose against his jaw.

He takes my mouth again, and this time it’s bold.

It’s a claim, and there’s nothing restrained about it.

It’s him leading and me following and I just fall into it, letting him catch me as I relax into his hold—letting him have me in a way no one else has. In a way no one else ever will.

Neither of us want to stop, want this kiss to end, but we sense that we’re not alone at the same time. We break the kiss, but he lets his forehead fall to mine, not really caring that we have an audience .

“Okay…” we hear Liv croon as she approaches. “Show’s over. Seriously—get a room,” she jokes, and when we finally unwind from each other, we notice that most of the crowd has dispersed.

She pulls me into her arms, wrapping the thin limbs around me with shocking strength, and I return it, squeezing her tight. Sloane layers herself right on top and suddenly we’re all bouncing around in the snow like a bunch of preteens at a concert.

“I let my brother have his moment, but I want mine ,” Sloane says, holding my hands and standing back to give me a once over. “I need to paint you in that damn tutu. Seriously. How are you even real? And those spins!? The Pas de Deux?” She’s still rambling excitedly when I glance over at Ben.

He looks at me, his expression careful and guarded.

“That was crazy, Genny. Congratulations.” He must see the way my eyes soften at the old endearment, because he smiles, warm and reverent, and I feel so at peace.

There’s no guilt or reservation or any of that.

I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

“Okay, so later—” Sloane continues, full speed ahead.

“Later?” Grant asks with a dubious look.

“You can’t just hog her to yourself now that you learned your lesson and all that,” his sister whines, actually crossing her arms.

“Yeah, how dare you want to spend time with the woman you just reconciled with? How selfish,” Olivia adds, her sarcastic smirk spurring one of my own.

“You are never on my side,” Sloane complains with a small smile on her face. “They have hours before we can do anything together anyway. I have to go to the hospital and I won’t be out of there before eleven. ”

My stomach twists at the fresh memory of Connie hooked up to too many wires to count, her deep sea eyes exact replicas of these two people who’ve become integral parts of me. I didn’t speak with her; I let Grant do that, for as long as he could anyway.

He’s there for Sloane, and I’m proud of him just for doing that.

“Is there anything you need?” he asks her pointedly, and she rolls her eyes—her tell. “Sloane. I can’t help you with things you don’t ask for.”

“It’s just…” she starts to say, pulling in a deep breath. “The treatment plan. It’s expensive. Let’s just talk about it later.”

I feel Grant tense beside me and I run a hand down his arm, willing him to unfurl whatever angst is building inside him.

“Yeah,” he says on an exhale, his smile forced, but I see the good will in his eyes. Know he’s trying. “You ready to go?”

“Home?” I ask him, maybe too eagerly, but the heated gleam in his eye tells me there’s no such thing.

I’ve lived in a dozen different houses, three different cities, but I’ve never had a home.

Never had a place I knew I could call back to, that would receive me, want me, give me shelter when I needed it most. And I used to think it was because I didn’t have a place , that it was because my life had been one in motion, one of upheaval.

But it was never about the place. It’s always been about the people, and now, I have mine.

“Home.”