Cora Carmack - All Lined Up

And as Dad told Carson at the end of the season, “We’re just getting started.”

I feel that way, too . . . like my life has just really begun.

I exit the stage, in a hurry to change out of my costume and go meet them. I don’t bother messing with the hair that’s twisted into a tight chignon at the back of my head. Nor do I bother removing the dark eye makeup; I’m too impatient.

I pull on a skirt, a tank top, and some flip-flops, and find Carson waiting for me in the hallway that connects the dressing rooms to the auditorium.

I throw myself into his arms, and he catches me, swinging me around once before letting my toes rest on the floor again.

“You are amazing,” he breathes into my ear. “I love you. So much.”

I’m still breathing heavy from the dance and my mad dash to get changed, but that doesn’t stop me from pulling him down for a kiss.

He cups my neck, kissing me slowly until my breathing settles and it’s my heart’s turn to race out of control.

“Your dad will want to see you,” Carson mumbles against my mouth.

“He can wait. I’m not quite done here.”

He laughs. “We’ve got plenty of time tonight.”

“Shut up and kiss me, quarterback.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It’s another five minutes before I’m willing to part with Carson and our isolated hallway to join the other dancers and the lingering crowd out in the auditorium.

The rumor about Carson’s ill treatment of me hadn’t lasted more than a week or two after we made our relationship public at homecoming. He was too sweet for anybody to believe it for long, and now we’ve traded out that nasty gossip for the unending attention of being the school’s golden couple.

Maybe it’s because most of the athletes don’t stick with one girl long enough for people to know they’re a couple. Or maybe it’s because the quarterback and the coach’s daughter just make a good story. Either way, I cherish every second of alone time we can get before we’re back under the watchful eye of the gossip mongers . . . and my father.

Though when we enter the auditorium, he’s not waiting for me like I expected. I scan the room, waiting for him to come striding out of the crowds, but I don’t see him. I’m just about to tell Carson that maybe I shouldn’t have made him wait quite so long, when I catch sight of his familiar hulking back.

It’s not until Carson and I walk up the aisle next to him that I realize who has him deep in conversation.

Annaiss. My dance professor. The one who first mentioned the San Francisco program to me.

She’s dressed in a pretty purple dress, and her dark hair is silky and shiny. She’s smiling, and when dad says something, she laughs and puts a hand on his forearm.

I raise an eyebrow at Carson and he smirks. “Way to go, Coach.”

I flick his shoulder. “Ew. He is my dad . Not Ryan or Silas or Torres. And she’s my teacher .”

He rolls his eyes, and when I go to flick him again, he catches my hand and laces our fingers together. “Come on, Daredevil. Let’s go say hello.” I let him drag me forward and he adds, “Be nice.”

Annaiss spots me first, and she inches back just a hair. “Dallas, I think that might be the best I’ve ever seen you do that routine. You’re going to grow leaps and bounds in San Francisco.”

Carson squeezes my hand, and I smile. “Thanks, Annaiss. I’m looking forward to it.”

I leave in less than a month, right after final exams, and I’m at that point where I’m both wishing for time to speed up so I can leave already, and hoping it will slow down so I can spend a little more time with Carson before I have to leave him for six weeks.

I stand in front of Dad, and we’re both still feeling out how this new supportive version of him works. He’s never going to be the supernice and encouraging kind of father. He shows his support through yelling and making people do sprints and push-ups. I’m a little afraid that one day he’s going to learn enough about dance to actually put me through my paces, and then I’ll definitely be in trouble.

He wraps one arm around my shoulder, and pulls me in for our usual awkward side-hug.

“You were the best one up there, kiddo.”

“It’s not really a competition, but thanks, Dad.”

He gives me a look and I know he’s probably thinking, Everything is a competition .

“You two have big plans tonight?”

I barely restrain my blush, because yeah . . . we’ve definitely got big plans.

“We do,” I say. “Carson’s cooking for me.”

He laughs. “I’m trying to anyway.”

Dad claps Carson on the shoulder. “Good luck. It can’t be any worse than the food she grew up on.”

“That’s for sure,” I mumble.

“Hey, now,” Dad says, and Annaiss laughs, low and throaty, and oh my God, I have to get out of here or I’m going to be sick. I finally understand how Stella feels when she gets all awkward around Carson and me.

“We’re going to go,” I say. “But thanks for coming, Dad. It means a lot.”

He places his usual kiss on my head, which would hurt if I hadn’t inherited his hard head.

I say goodbye, and leave him to do whatever it is that he’s going to do, which I refuse to contemplate for my own sanity.

Even so, I spend the ride to Carson’s complaining.

“She has to be like eight or nine years younger than him. That’s weird, right? I mean . . . weird .”

Carson won’t even reply. He just laughs harder the more worked up I get.

“I mean, that’s the equivalent of me dating some pimply preteen.”

I think Carson might actually be in danger of a collapsed lung from laughter.

“Or that would be like me dating someone in his late twenties. Like Coach Oz.”

Carson pushes his truck into park a second too soon, and the whole thing jerks, sending me into my seat belt.

“Let’s not joke about you dating one of my coaches, hmm?”

Stella always goes on and on about how hot Coach Oz is, and it drives Carson crazy. He slides out of the truck and rounds the front to come open my door.

I unbuckle my seat belt and say, “It’s the same thing, though! Imagine how pissed Dad would be.”

“Yeah, I’m having no issue imagining that kind of anger.”

“I mean, Coach Oz—”

I don’t even manage to finish my sentence before Carson hauls me out of the truck and over his shoulder. He stalks over to the stairs to his apartment, and starts up them with me still in his arms.

“Man, you really don’t like it when I mention Coach—”

Something firm whacks at my backside, and I gasp.

“Carson McClain, did you just spank me?”

He just does it again in response before pushing his front door open and carrying me inside.

“Jeez! It’s not like I’m actually interested in—”

He pulls me back over his shoulder, depositing my feet on the floor, and presses me back against his closed door. He hovers above me, his eyes dark and his chest brushing mine with every breath.

With his arms braced on either side of me, he asks, “Are you done teasing me?”

I smile coyly. “That depends . . .”

“On?”

I duck out from the cage he’s formed around me and take a few steps toward the hallway leading to his bedroom.

“On whether you can wait a little while longer for dinner.”

I don’t actually wait for him to answer before I turn around, peeling off my tank top on the way to his bedroom.

I hear him groan and a thunk that’s most likely his head hitting the door. His quick footsteps follow, and I’ve just pushed open his bedroom door when he overtakes me.

He pulls me up, cradling me in his arms as he steps through the doorway. I squeal in response, and I don’t manage to hook my arms around his neck before he deposits me on the edge of his bed. His room is pristine and smells like vanilla from a candle on his bedside table. His bed is perfectly made, and a bundle of tulips rests against the pillows.