Page 125 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
During breaks, she'd lean against me, tuck her stuffed bunny into my hands, and make me hold it for her. She'd pull my hand, make mewatch her do the new moves she learned, then look up at me when she finished, waiting for me to say "very good." When I packed up my teaching bag, she'd crouch beside me, helping me with things, flipping that Giselle postcard over and over, asking where I got it.
"Vivi," she suddenly asked once, "do you have a baby?"
My hand paused.
"Why do you ask?"
"I like it when you hold me," she said, completely serious. "Like a mom holding a kid."
My eyes suddenly stung.
"And you smell nice," she continued, burying her face in my shoulder and nuzzling. "Every time I smell it, I feel so safe. Just like a mom."
I lowered my head and pressed my face against her hair. Her hair was soft, fine, carrying that sweet kiddie shampoo smell.
"Vivi," her voice muffled against my shoulder, "I really wish you were my mom."
My tears almost fell. I crouched down and pulled her into my arms, held her tight.
"I like you a lot, too," my voice came out a little hoarse. "So much."
"Then can you stay with me forever?" She looked up, those green eyes bright and shining.
I didn't answer. I just held her tighter.
After class, I packed up my teaching bag in the practice room. Carmen had taken Juliet off to bathe. The hallway was quiet, just the hum of the AC vents.
I put the ballet shoes in the bag, turned off the speaker, and picked up the water bottle from the floor.
The door opened.
I looked up and saw him standing in the doorway.
Dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms. His hair was neater than that day, but the shadows under his eyes were still there, like he hadn't been sleeping well either.
My hand trembled, and the water bottle dropped, rolled to his feet.
"I—" my voice caught, I cleared my throat, "I was just leaving."
"Wait," he said, voice low. "I want to talk."
"We have nothing to talk about." I bent down to get the water bottle.
He walked over and picked it up before I could, and handed it to me.
I took it without looking at him, turned back to packing.
"About Juliet," he said.
My movements stopped.
He glanced at me, and in that look was something I didn't quite recognize. Not anger, not accusation, something quieter, heavier, like water held down for too long.
"Juliet really likes you," he said. "This is the happiest I've seen her in five years."
I didn't speak.
"This weekend is her birthday," he continued. "I promised her you'd come."
