Page 37 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

He flinched.

She gasped and withdrew. “I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”

Prescott frowned at his fingers. “No. The scars are a bit tender, not painful. But you don’t—you don’t want to . . .”

She slid her hand over his, the taut pink skin, the ridges of scars, the bumps where fingers had once been. “I asked, didn’t I?”

“You did.” His voice rasped. He pushed back his chair, enveloped her hand in his, and led her past the railing and onto the sleek wooden floor.

Time to lighten the mood. “I always dreamed of dancing with Prescott Duke.”

He chuckled and drew her into his arms. “You need better dreams, Maggie Oliver.”

The warmth of him, the nearness of his face, the strength of his arms, the grace of his feet. Her breath—where had it gone? Somehow she managed a chuckle, managed to move her feet in a foxtrot as the orchestra played “Begin the Beguine.”

Dancing with him was even better than she’d imagined. He led with considerate authority, with style and skill.

A smile rose from the joy of it. “I loved watching you dance in the studio and on the screen. The combination of manly athleticism and elegant grace.”

“Which magazine did you read that in?”

She smiled at his teasing. But had she read it? Possibly. “Regardless, it’s true.”

Prescott twirled her past the stage. “Melvin said he discovered me because of my feet, how I moved in the ring. He also liked my looks, had me come in for a screen test.”

His velvet voice would have sealed the deal. “Melvin spotted your talent.”

Prescott’s countenance darkened. “He says he didn’t see talent in my script.”

“Well, I did. So what will you do next? With the script?”

His thick tuxedo-clad shoulder lifted beneath her hand. “I don’t know. I was hoping Melvin would pitch it.”

“Is there anyone else you could talk to? Ask their opinion? You must know lots of people—producers, directors, studio heads.”

“I do.” His eyes darted as if cranked by the gears turning in his mind.

“First we need to type up your script.”

Another shrug, paired with a grimace. “I don’t have a typewriter, can’t type.”

“Silly goose.” Maggie squeezed his shoulder. “I do and I can. Eighty words per minute.”

“I can’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t ask. I volunteered.” Her mouth rounded. “Tomorrow. Are you free? Are you attending a church in San Diego? Come to ours. Grandpa would love to see you again. Sandwiches for lunch, then I’ll type.”

His feet slowed as anticipation battled with hesitancy on his face.

With gentle pressure on his shoulder, she urged him to resume the pace. “Please let me. I believe in this story, and I believe in you as a writer. If nothing else, you deserve your best shot at this dream.”

All sorts of emotions warped his face.

Maggie laughed. “Oh no. Now everyone will think I’m making you cry. Dance.”

With a self-conscious laugh, he spun her around, and her skirt fanned to the side.

Contentment settled inside. This might not be a romantic date, but neither was it a business meeting.