Waltz This Way (v1.1) Read Free

attention. All it really did, or had ever done, was make her cringe. God, she hated her middle name, even if it was because her mother’s mother was a Eunice— and someone Melina had really loved. It still sucked.
    The use of her middle name also sent a shiver along her spine.
    Something wasn’t right. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m distracted. It’s been a crazy week, and Stan’s been gone a long time. So I’ve been a little cranky.”
    “Looks like he’s gonna be gone a whole lot longer.”
    “Say again?”
    “Girl, would you please sit still and just listen to me. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, Mel! You were always a fidgeter. I need to talk to you. Now be still and quit fussin’.”
    Her fingers stopped moving upon command, her stomach jolted.
    “Stopping. Because now you have me worried. Are you sick, Dad?”
    Her worst fear since her mother had died five years ago was losing her father, too.
    “Good, and no, I’m not sick. Not unless you count my God damn acid reflux and bursitis. Oh, and my knees. They drive me to drink.”
    “It isn’t your knees that drive you to a Schlitz, Dad, and you know it.” Mel smiled, pulling her own knees up to her chin. Well, almost up to her chin. If she could just lose those last fifteen pounds, she’d be closer to her fighting weight.
    Okay. Maybe the real number for her fighting weight was twenty-five total pounds, but she was trying to remain realistic at forty. And twenty-five pounds wouldn’t allow for the occasional Choco-Bliss or ranch dressing on her salad instead of the fresh juice of a lemon.
    “Listen, breadstick, you got trouble comin’ your way.”
    Just as those words sank in, Mel heard someone yell, “It’s her!”
    Her head popped up at the thump of feet on the pavement, coming from across the street. A throng of cameramen and smartly dressed reporters headed her way like a pack of salivating dogs.
    The paparazzi. Here?
    Huh.
    She wrinkled her nose in total distaste. Shitty bastards. How had they found her? Stan kept her dance studio like some would a dirty little secret. She suspected he let her keep the studio open to keep her from complaining about his long stints away from home.
    Stan had little tolerance for what he called her wish to save deprived children with a silly waltz. He’d declared the caliber of dancers she was drawing beneath him in almost as many words.
    While Stan had been a well-respected, famous choreographer in the world of Russian ballet, he wasn’t a household name until Dude, You Can Dance. Now everyone wanted a piece of him, and anyone who was directly related to him. They especially wanted a piece of the woman who was married to him because Mel fought so hard to stay out of the limelight. She was an enigma and a constant source of speculation.
    Not that Stan was all that interested in having her share his limelight. He didn’t want to do that with anyone. He especially didn’t want to share it with Mel because he said lately she looked like she’d eaten too much borscht.
    Which had hurt. But then, even if she wanted Stan to love her for who she was on the inside, Mel had to admit, the outside was a little like a can of freshly opened dinner rolls— sort of oozy in some places.
    Lightbulbs were suddenly flashing, and microphones were shoved in her face as she attempted to slide to an upright position in the midst of the chaos. “Melina! What do you have to say about Stan and Yelena?”
    Her father’s squawking fell on deaf ears as her phone slid from beneath her chin. She shoved it into the pocket of her ankle-length sweater.
    “So what do you have to say about Yelena?” someone repeated.
    Yelena. Like the newest choreographer Yelena from Dude, You Can Dance who had a body so hard even a wrecking ball couldn’t crack it?
    Like the Yelena with no last name, Yelena?
    What could Mel possibly have to say about her, and what did she have to do with Stan? Other than the fact that he was her boss as executive producer and head