It’s said the artist is born of a damaged soul…
Wilhelmina Allende is a prima ballerina. When tragedy turns her beloved Paris into a gilded cage, she jumps at the chance to work with one of the most prolific choreographers she’s ever seen. But Zack’s style is way out of her comfort zone. So is his teaching method. And his humor. And his everything. He’s a charming little connard. It’s hard not to like him. Merde. What has she gotten herself into?
Zachary Coen’s first musical is opening on Broadway. Much like his life, it’s anything but conventional, so hiring Mina is simply out of the question. She’s too…classical. Too perfect. She’s all wrong for the role. Then he meets her in person and sees her cracks. Her broken pieces. How unique and beautiful each one is. And he can’t help but notice how her edges seem to fit his…perfectly.
Just when teaming up seems to be working, the monsters they’ve kept hidden threaten to rip it all apart.
**Possible trigger warning: The hero is a child sexual assault survivor. He uses a coping mechanism throughout the story, and is triggered in a scene toward the end. (It does not get explicit, but it is not glossed over.)**
Excerpt from Pas De Deux: A Christmas Short
San Francisco, December 23rd
The city was a lot like Paris in winter: cold and gray scale and very, very wet. But there was a sparkle about the gray this close to Christmas. Tonight, it felt as if magic had struck the raindrops as they fell, lighting them up like millions of tiny lanterns before they coated everything in an iridescent sheen.
Or…thought Mina with a wistful smile, breathing in slowly through her nose…like millions of dancing fairies.
Exhaling through her mouth, her shimmering eyelids drifted down over the peach and rose perfection of her exquisite costume. Capped sleeves of metallic floral lace from France glistened subtly when she moved. Her torso was wrapped in hand-pleated chiffon, and her tutu was a stunning feat of ivory tulle appliqués tucked between veiled silver lamé panels. The entire thing dripped in Swarovski crystals so that, when the light hit her, she glowed from the stage.
Absolument like an enchanted fairy.
Her heart sped up as her partner gripped her fingers in his strong, olive-toned ones, and her gaze flickered to his beautiful deep brown eyes. Thick black lashes swept down, then up again, a teasing dark brow lifting.
Marco was a fan favorite at the American Ballet Theatre. All the male principals were, really, each devastatingly handsome and charismatic in his own way. They certainly did not exist in the shadow of the ballerina. When Mina had joined the company a year ago, the dynamic had been a culture shock. Ballerinas had to compete for the public’s affection with perfect male specimens of humanity. It was a challenge—and a thrill.
Her chemistry with Marco hadn’t been instant, but with his warmth and unfettered passion for dance, it had grown over time in rehearsals. And he was such a skilled dancer—executing his steps late, but with a quickness that matched Mina’s timing effortlessly. Now they were like old friends who’d been dancing together for years. It helped, in a production as enormous as this with so many moving parts—one hundred and sixty of which were children under twelve being wrangled by a no-nonsense ballet master—that she felt no pressure, just a childlike excitement to play such a beloved role.
Enfin, perhaps not just excitement.
A nervous energy gripped her, too, and suddenly the cameras and crew she’d relegated to white noise in the background with all the other backstage madness sharpened her senses. Goosebumps rose on her skin, and a pressure point on her neck intensified, beating an erratic rhythm against the bite mark Zack had left there days ago, the last time she’d returned to New York from a tour stop. It was still there, expertly camouflaged with makeup, heating her through and sending shock waves of pleasure to her extremities.
All of them.
She held back a whimper of anticipation.
He was watching. Live. And she knew very well that he was jealous.
Marco seemed to sense her strange mood shift, tightening his fingers on hers and broadening his easy smile. His teeth were as gleaming white as his tights. “Ready, partner?” His thick Italian accent bathed the words in chocolate and wrapped them in golden foil.
She couldn’t help but smile back, nodding once, and he squeezed her fingers again.
Tchaikovsky’s rippling arpeggios on the harp signaled them from the orchestra pit, and Mina looked out from her place in the wings, to where the Kingdom of Sweets in all its sweeping, beyond-candy grandeur awaited.
And then the Sugarplum Fairy took to the stage for her grand pas de deux with her handsome cavalier.
***
Brooklyn
Hell if Zack knew the purpose of The Sugar Plum Fairy. She was a ten-minute bit part at the end of The Nutcracker, and her prince—good looking as he was—didn’t even warrant a name. Mina was the highest-paid ballerina in the world now, renowned for obliterating centre stage, whether she was delicate, romantic Giselle, or quick-witted Swanilda. Last year when she’d gotten the lead in Swan Lake, it had been the pinnacle of her already-impressive career. It was still a favorite talking point for the media—including in his own interviews, once everyone caught wind that they were dating—because of its impact on representation in the industry. And because she was fucking brilliant in it.
So when she’d come home to their New York apartment in tears a few months ago telling him she’d gotten the part? He was admittedly a little thrown off. What could possibly top the Swan Queen?
Every performance since the season began, she took pleasure in answering that question. This performance was being broadcast nation-wide for a Christmas special, and the camera caught Mina’s expression in high definition just before she walked onstage with that stud, Marco. The subtle grin. The sparkle in her eye. That extra sway in her stylistic steps.
She knew he was watching. And she wasn’t gonna hold anything back.
Lynn Turner is dedicated to writing inclusive stories that explore what it means to be imperfectly human. She is convinced she would have made a great Gilmore Girl, that writing about herself in third-person is weird, and that Colin Firth is the best Mr. Darcy (don’t fight her on this). When she isn’t writing and adulting, she’s tackling her monstrous TBR list, TV-binging, traveling, or watching old Samantha Brown travelogue videos and wishing she had her job. She and her husband share their home in California with their two extraordinary children and their sometimes cat, Bowie.
