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sexy neck.
    She’d lost the T-shirt and was in the light-weight white slip that skimmed over her hips and stopped midway down her thighs. She was toned and tanned and breathtakingly proportioned, with legs for days and the most perfect little peach ass.
    Jaz introduced herself and then took her position. The music started—Taylor Swift’s “Say You’ll Remember Me.” I couldn’t help grinning. Up until now, everyone had gone for heavy, classical pieces. This was different; it would be remembered.
    Slow, controlled movements began. Standing split, perfect grand jeté followed by split backflip. I nearly clapped right there and had to sit on my hands. She was captivating; the years at Boston Ballet had propelled her from a great dancer to fucking phenomenal.
    As her movements took her down to the floor, I craned my neck to see better, even though I could view the entire stage perfectly. Time stood still as a flood of memories and emotions took hold, and I thumbed a tear from my eyes. Geez, I hadn’t cried since I’d realized Jaz wasn’t coming to New York when I’d lost her six years ago.
    She was a star who belonged on the stage or in the sky—at the very least a really high pedestal. Boston Ballet Company had been a blessing for Jaz. I’d been selfish, wanting to keep her all to myself.
    As the music came to an end, I had to refrain from jumping up and cheering. She gave the selectors a courteous nod, they thanked her, and she left the stage. What the fuck was wrong with these people? They should have given her the lead role on the spot. Crawled on hands and knees to kiss her perfect little feet and beg her to take the part.
    Jaz raced down the steps at the side of the stage and skipped over to me, beaming from ear to ear.
    “How was it? I think I messed up the a la seconde fouette combination; the last two turns were wobbly. I always lose my center when it matters.” She giggled nervously. “Maybe they didn’t notice.” Jaz plonked down on the seat beside me, a dramatic contrast to the graceful dancer I’d just watched.
    “You’ve always had trouble with that,” I commented casually. Her smile dropped. “I didn’t notice though,” I blurted out. “I’m sure they didn’t either.” I squeezed her hand, then relaxed but kept holding it. “You were incredible, Jaz. The best so far by a long shot.”
    Jaz wrapped her arms around my bicep and cuddled up. I flexed a little. No harm in playing to my strengths and showing some muscle definition.
    “You’ve bulked up so much since Boston,” she commented, huddling in closer.
    “Yeah,” I said with a shrug. “Been working out a bit.”
    After another hour of watching routines that varied from classical ballet to contemporary and interpretive dance, the first round of cuts was complete. All the remaining dancers were called up on stage, and again Jaz kissed my cheek before jogging up the stairs at stage right.
    Now they were paired up and the choreographer, Pierre, called up his partner so they could demonstrate a short routine that they would then teach the dancers. Jaz watched intently, her eyes glued to the couple as Pierre lifted his tiny dancing partner and tossed her around.
    Out of pure bad luck, Jaz had been partnered with the guy in the crop top and white tights. He seemed physically strong enough to lift her with ease, but she needed someone who danced with power to match her own, and this guy just didn’t cut it.
    Jaz picked up the steps easily, having memorized part of the routine after watching it through only once, but her partner struggled. When he was supposed to support her as she pirouetted and leaned back, he was completely in the wrong position, and Jaz went crashing to the floor in a heavy thud.
    Pierre clapped his hands loudly. The music stopped in an instant.
    “You!” he bellowed at Jaz’s partner. “Off. Go. Now!” With a flourish of his hand the dancer was told in no uncertain terms which way he was expected to go, which