Dancing on a Moonbeam (Bedford Falls Book 1) (16 page)

Any woman in Bedford Falls would have loved to have Travis Scott show up on her doorstep. He had the kind of dark, curly hair women dreamed about running their fingers through.

Eleanor wasn't like the other women in town.

She thought about Amadeus Ravel Massimo next door and felt a shiver of something she hadn't felt in—

Well, never.

But now wasn't the time. She put a smile on her face and opened the door.
 

"Hey, Eleanor," Travis said. "I just driving by and thought I'd stop to see you in person instead of calling."
 

Remembering the way Barbara had departed yesterday, she stilled, fear spiking her heart. "Is there a problem with the permits?"

"Not at all. I'm going to finish the process now. I just wanted to make sure you were okay with the crew coming back in the morning."

"Oh." She wilted against the doorjamb in relief. "For a second I thought you were going to say there was a problem."

He smiled. "Everything's all set. You don't have to worry about anything."

Easier said than done, given the history of this "simple" project. It'd started as a remodel of the carriage house at the back of her property: some sanding, fresh paint, and mirrors. But it'd turned into a complete gutting that had come to a standstill when the Bedford Falls building department had shut the project down because of Max's complaint.

"We'll see you tomorrow," Travis said, waving as he went to get back in his truck.

As the contractor left, another car pulled up, and her best friend Robbie got out.
 

"What the hell did you do to your yard?" Robbie exclaimed as he slammed his car door. He strode to the side of the yard and gaped, hands on his hips.

"I'm clearing a path." Joining him, Eleanor pointed to the back of the house, where the shed was being transformed into her dance studio. "I'm going to put a sign out here to lead people to the back, but I want to make sure there's a definite walkway."

Her best friend held up one of the plants that she'd yanked out. "This is a buddleia."

Was it? "Well, you'd know, since you're a landscape architect."

He stared at her, shaking his head. "You killed it. My best friend is a plant murderer. Do you realize what sort of moral dilemma this creates for someone in my line of work?"

"Now I feel bad," she said, huddling into herself. It was more than a line of work for him: it was a passion. He loved plants and the outdoors. "I may have been a little angry when I did it."

Robbie set the plant's remains down with care and came over to sling an arm around her shoulders. "I know. But next time, call me and we'll figure out a different way to expend your anger. Deal?"

"Deal." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'm happy you're my friend."

"You're not bad either, shorty." He made a face. "Except when you go postal on your yard. Good thing you have me to help you fix it."

It was a good thing she had him, period. She squeezed him around his waist. "Want to come in for a cappuccino?"

"Yeah." He shook his head one more time at the havoc she'd wreaked on her yard and followed her to the front porch. "You have a package," he said at the same time she saw the brown box under the bench by her door.

Her heart sped up with excitement as she bent down for it. "Open the door, will you?"

"I'll carry it."

"It's light. I can do it," she assured him, striding into the kitchen. She set it on the table and pulled out a box cutter from a utility drawer. "I've been waiting for this to arrive for days."

"What is it?" Robbie asked, standing next to her and peering at the box.

She opened the flaps and carefully pulled out the orange and red tulle. "A tutu."

Her best friend's face lit up. "You're going to dance again."

"It's not for me," she clarified quickly. "It's for Max."

"Max?"

"Amadeus Ravel Massimo, my next door neighbor." She grinned at the layers of fire. "Max."

"All that name, and he calls himself Max?" Robbie shrugged. "What happened to him being a bastard for calling the building department on you?"

"Actually, it turns out he didn't call them. Liam McCullough did, but he gave Max's name." She hugged the tutu close. "He offered to withdraw the complaint, and I offered to help him get his music on track."

"I don't understand this, but okay." He shook his head. "He wears tutus?"

"Not yet, but he'll wear this one." She lifted her smile to Robbie. "Especially when I tell him it's a magic tutu."

Robbie crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. "You got him a magic tutu after knowing him for one week. I've known you over thirty years, and you've never bought me a tutu, magic or otherwise. Who is this guy? Do I need to be jealous?"

She ducked her head to hide the flush on her face as she put the tutu away. "He's staying in the Reynolds house for a few weeks. He's composing a soundtrack for a movie, and he mentioned that he was a little stuck, so I thought I'd get him a tutu to help unleash his creative juices."

"Because getting a neighbor a tutu is completely logical."
 

She went to the refrigerator and took out the milk. "One shot or two?"
 

"You aren't going to distract me so easily."

Putting on an unconcerned expression, she pulled out a cup. "You want some hazelnut syrup? I bought the fancy kind from Italy you like."

Robbie leaned across the counter. "What I'd like is to know how well you know your neighbor's creative juices."

"
Robbie
." She made a face, hoping she looked grossed out. Because if she looked as curious about Max's creative juices as she felt, her best friend would never leave her alone.
 

"What? I know Lily's at school." He came around the counter and nudged her shoulder. "Come on. Tell me what's going on. Although I'm kind of leery of knowing if your foreplay includes him wearing a tutu."

"It's not foreplay." She smoothed her hair back as she pressed the button for the espresso. "I already told you that I'm just helping him with his music. It's the neighborly thing to do."

"Uh-huh."
 

She glanced at him. "Why do you sound so skeptical? Like I can't be a muse?"

"Don't even insinuate that," Robbie said, suddenly dead serious. He pointed at her. "I've always believed in you, and you know it."

She pursed her lips as she put together his cappuccino. She dusted some cinnamon on it and handed it over. "Here."

Taking it, he looked her in the eye. "I love you, too, and I accept your apology."

She nodded.

"But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop asking you about Amadeus."
 

She rolled her eyes. "There's nothing to tell."

"Except that you bought him a tutu," Robbie said. "Which may not signify anything to other people, but I know how much tutus mean to you."

Because tutus had power. Putting one on was like putting a jeweled crown on. After she'd gotten married and retired from the Joffrey Ballet, she'd given away all her tutus. She told herself it was to make room in their crammed home, but really she couldn't bear seeing them every day. It was a tangible reminder of everything she'd given up.

She rubbed her chest, trying to stop the flow of regret that flooded her. It was too late for regret—what was done was done. "You know who stopped by to see me?"

"Fine, we can change the subject." Robbie rolled his eyes. "Who?"

"Barbara Fehr."

Pausing mid sip, Robbie studied her. "Why did Brunhilde stop by? To see Lily?"

She loved Robbie for many reasons, one being that he still called her ex-mother-in-law that. "No, she came to rub it in that the building department stopped my project."

"Elle"—he gestured at her with his cup—"be watchful with her. That woman can cause a lot of problems in town, and she's not nice."

"I'm out of her son's life," Eleanor pointed out. "She has what she wanted."

Her best friend shook his head. "She wouldn't have bothered coming around if there wasn't something."

She thought of the way Barbara insinuated that Eleanor was dirtying the Fehr family. But that was ridiculous—she'd changed back to her maiden name. A little shiver of unease crawled over her skin, but she had to be overreacting.
 

"I've got to go," Robbie said as he finished his coffee. He gave her a cheeky grin as he rinsed his cup. "Stop by Crystal Clear and see Luna. Maybe she'll give you a love potion for Amadeus."

Eleanor pushed him playfully. "She doesn't do love potions."

"Not that you know." He widened his eyes comically and put the cup in the dishwasher. "Besides, I bet you don't need one."

She felt a flush creep up her neck. "I have no idea what you mean."

He leaned into her face and tugged on her ponytail. "Your nose is growing, Pinocchio."

Chapter 4

The simple text from Eleanor was all Max needed to stand up at attention.
On my way.

He stared out the back window, waiting for the moment she appeared through the border that divided Liam's and her property. He didn't have to see her to remember the movement of her, fluid and graceful. She was music personified, a corporal melody that sang true in every motion of her body.

He gripped the door handle. It was insane to take up her offer to help him figure out his movie score. She wouldn't be an inspiration—she'd be a distraction. It didn't help that there was the added pressure of Landot lurking, ready to take Max's place.

He saw the moment Eleanor noticed him by the way her footing faltered. But then she put her adorable chin in the air and marched to him, determination in every beat of her steps. "I'm here to get you on track," she declared when he opened the door.

Funny, because she made him feel derailed, especially when she was dressed like that. He wasn't sure what was more tantalizing: the leggings that showed off her every shapely inch or the fitted long-sleeve shirt that flaunted her lean curves. "Shouldn't you put more clothes on?"

She glanced down at herself. "Like what, a winter parka? It's sixty-five out today."

He wasn't sure a parka would make her less tempting. He pictured her in one. Nope—he shook his head—it was the same, because he'd just want to strip it off her, as well as the other layers.

"Where do you work?" she asked, looking around. "At the piano?"

He imagined her sitting next to him on the bench, close enough that he could feel the rhythm of her heart.
That
was only going to inspire him to lay her across the top of the piano and make a different kind of music.
 

Between that and the urgency to get the score done, an unfamiliar feeling rose in his chest, something jittery that made him need to move, or get air, or both. So he took her hand and tugged her out of the house. "Come on. I need a cappuccino."

She dragged her feet. "I thought we were going to work. You have a deadline."

"A cappuccino will fuel me, and it helps me to get out and walk a bit," he lied. "I'll drive."

Shrugging, she stopped resisting and followed him along. "How's it going with your writer's block?"

He glanced at her as he pulled out of the driveway. "I never get writer's block."

"It's not something to be ashamed of," she continued blithely. "I understand it. My dad's a writer, so I've seen the havoc it can wreak."

There were only three things that wreaked havoc in his life: Cohen, the close proximity of Eleanor’s body to his, and the animal instinct that made him want to lay her down and eat her up, head to toe. He gripped the steering wheel harder. "I don't have writer's block."

"So you've fixed whatever's wrong with your score?"

"No." He'd been too obsessed with the theme song he'd been writing for her. But now he really had to get the score done. He was at the end of his rope.

"Hmm."

He shot her a glare. "What does that mean?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe your block isn't the music. Maybe it has to do with something else."