Angel Falls (Angel Falls Series, #1), Babette Jongh [books for 6 year olds to read themselves .TXT] 📗

Kar-Wash-King. If I could think as much of him as he thought of himself, I might be tempted, because being alone was sometimes, well, lonely.

Lizzie, the best dog ever, trotted to the pressed-metal staircase sandwiched between the Angel Falls Informer and the Gulf States Bank. She turned and sat on the first step, waiting for me to follow. I couldn’t. I stared through the window of the newspaper office, afraid if I blinked, this mirage of masculinity would disappear. But I blinked, and he was still there.

He turned toward me as if he felt my presence. Caught staring, I should have felt embarrassed, but when a slow smile carved dimples into his lean, tanned cheeks, all I could do was smile back and keep on looking at him while he looked at me. The two of us, suspended in time.

The editor’s ancient secretary was patting his arm, trying to get his attention. He took his hand—his ringless left hand—off the old woman’s shoulder and held up a hang-on-a-second finger.

Then he came outside.

Onto the sidewalk.

With me.

He took my hand in his, and I nearly hyperventilated. His appreciative glance devoured me from my skimpy sundress and the leotard I wore beneath it, to my ballet tights, to my Keds, then back up to my face. His eyes weren’t gray, as I’d imagined before. They were the light amber of well-aged whiskey.

“You must be Miss Alexander, the ballet teacher.” His voice was deep and rich as double-dark chocolate, threaded with a Scottish accent as smooth and sweet as butterscotch caramel. The sexy voice matched the sexy rest of him.

“Please, call me Casey.” Breathless, I sounded like I was having an asthma attack.

“All right, Casey.” My name sounded exotic and beautiful with those deep Scottish tones wrapped around it. “Glad I caught you on your way upstairs so I could introduce myself. I’m Ian Buchanan.”

Ian Buchanan. A sexy name to match the sexy voice to match the sexy rest of him.

It’s fantastic to meet you, I’d like to go out with you, I’d love to get naked with you... All those possible responses raced across the ticker-tape scrolling through my mind. Thank God none of them made me open my mouth. Instead, I came up with an uninspiring but appropriate reply. “Hello.”

The door to the newspaper office opened. “Mr. Ian.” Wilson, the beefy young guy who ran the presses, stepped outside. His blond hair and liberal use of hair gel made him look like a peroxided rooster. “Mr. Shaw asked if you’d come into his office now.”

Ian gave my hand a little squeeze and let go. “We’ll talk later.” Then he followed Wilson back inside. What we’d talk about was a mystery. How he knew me was less of a mystery, because not only did everyone in this town know everyone else, everyone knew everyone else’s business, too. And they didn’t seem to mind talking about it. There wasn’t much else to do in a small southern town.

Lizzie and I raced up the narrow flight to the second floor studio. At the top of the iron landing, I unlocked the Capezio-pink door, and we ran inside.

I leaned against the wall and figured out how to breathe again. Lizzie spun in circles, nails scrabbling on the wood floor. I clapped my hands. “Woo-hoo! We just found the Holy Grail!”

Lizzie stopped spinning and sat poised in front of me, vibrating.

I stroked her silky head. “Lizzie girl, that’s my new boyfriend.”

Based on one look? My mother’s voice invaded my head. You don’t even know the man. Ring or not, he might be married.

“Shut up, Mom. At least he’s not married to my best friend.”

Lizzie panted agreement. She didn’t care what my mom thought, either. She knew I was right.

It was past time for the Universe to toss something good my way, and maybe this was it. Maybe he was interviewing for a job at the newspaper office. Maybe my long months of abstinence and awkwardness and angst were at an end. “Lizzie, I’ll bet you a dog treat he’s—”

At the magic words—dog treat—Lizzie zoomed into the classroom and gave a little yip, meaning, “I can’t reach the treat jar by myself.”

“Don’t pitch a conniption, I’m coming.” I followed Lizzie into the sunlit studio. She waited by the vintage stereo cabinet, where the treat jar lived. I handed over the bone, and her stub tail gyrated like a fluffy helicopter propeller. She took it to her pink paisley ottoman under the windows, then settled down to munch.

I glanced around the room I’d spent the summer scraping, sanding, and painting, and now my ballet studio—Casey Alexander’s School of Dance—was ready for its first fall-semester.

Pearl gray walls made the big classroom look even bigger. High-gloss white trim shone like satin ribbon. The double row of wooden barres beneath the windows gleamed like honey. Framed dance posters hung between tall narrow windows, and the mirrors on the opposite wall sparkled from yesterday’s scrubbing. The faded, wide-planked floor still smelled faintly of the lavender scented floor cleaner I’d mopped with. It was almost as pretty as any New York studio.

Lizzie yipped, announcing an arrival.

“Casey,” a small voice chirped. “I’m a ballawina now!”

I knelt down and braced myself for impact, arms wide to catch the three-year-old hurtling toward me. Dressed in head-to-toe pink, her blonde ringlets swept into a tiny bun, this child twisted my heart into a knot that made every beat hurt.

I kissed her cheek and inhaled her strawberry baby shampoo scent. “Hey, Amy.”

She should have been mine.

I closed my eyes, not sure where the insidious, jealous thought had come from. Children weren’t at the top of any to-do list I’d ever made. But when I was still young enough to think I could have everything, I had dreamed of a faraway future of making babies with this child’s father.

“Hello-o.” My once-best friend Melody followed her daughter into the room. Melody looked like a fashion ad in a mommy magazine, with her expertly cut-and-dyed dark sable bob, a red-striped formfitting tee—bought