You Can Owe Me

This story stands alone, but it name-drops many characters from my other stories set among the denizens of Seaborne. So if you see a name and think it might be familiar, it probably is. Most of the named people in this story already have stories about themselves, elsewhere. Craig's fellow dancers show up in my stories Violet Eyes and Not The Preferred Technique, and make occasional appearances elsewhere.

This is an unconventional holiday story, but I'm entering it in

Lit's Holiday Contest

anyway. We writers work hard on these and are happy to offer you our stories. Make sure you read everyone's entries!

* * *

I'm not sure I knew what it was about him that first drew my attention. But I knew what it was about him that first

attracted

me.

The attention part was easy, for he was a fucking stud of a man. He looked about ten or fifteen years younger than me, a smooth-skinned guy with the bright eyes and easy smile of a man used to getting looked at by women. His hair, fluffed lacrosse-style in the back, framed an absolutely gorgeous face over a neck sturdy with what had to have been countless hours at the gym. Even in a casual pair of jeans and a fall jacket, the man's body was obviously a Renaissance sculpture.

So, sure, he was a goddamn hottie. And I wasn't the only mom at the Old Town Dance Academy whose attention wandered to the unknown dad. All of that occurred to me in total, a shotgun-blast of image and thought that defied any sequencing; that's why I don't know what it was that I noticed first. Probably the smile. Maybe the hair.

But what

attracted

me to him was much different, much harder to define. He strode in with confidence and sat with grace, making the cheap folding chair look like a throne. The man had a studied, haphazard carelessness that I found intriguing, even endearing. And, as the only other latecomer, he took the last chair still available: the one right next to mine.

I swallowed, staring forward as he took his seat, then decided I was allowed to tell him hi. Hell, the room was packed with other moms, half of them twisting around to let their eyes linger on him, who'd have killed me if I'd passed up the chance to speak to him. Of course, the other half probably would kill me

for

speaking to him.

Damned if I did, damned if I didn't. So I did. "Hey," I smiled, turning a bright smile toward him.

"Hey yourself." It came out deep, with a lilt of playfulness, that face of his turning my way with a subtle force that, I knew, could ruin any underwear in this room. "First time?"

I blinked. "What?"

"The Holiday Recital. My daughter was invited last year, but I don't remember you. Is this your kid's first time in the show?"

"Oh!" I felt my face burn and had to suppress a nervy giggle. "Yes. She's kind of new to dance," I burbled. "She's only been doing it for a couple of years."

"Cool," he nodded. And that was all we said for many minutes, maybe as much as a quarter of an hour, sitting side-by-side in our folding chairs as Miss Vickie came out and put our daughters through their paces. The town's Holiday Pageant was a big deal, and our kids had been picked to run through a ballet number. The music sounded familiar, so I risked another conversation with the dreamboat beside me.

"What song is this?" I twisted toward him a bit more than I needed to, and when he leaned back toward me with his breath on my face, I felt a stir I probably wouldn't tell my husband about.

"It's from the

Nutcracker

."

"Oh," I nodded, feeling like an idiot; of course. "Sorry to bother you."

"No bother." His teeth flashed once more as Miss Vickie snapped another dancer into the proper body shape, but I felt his eyes on me even after I shut my mouth. It blew me away when he whispered again. "It's impressive that you can sit like that."

"Um. What?" My flustered brain wasn't sure what it had heard. "How's that?"

"Nothing," he replied easily, reassuring me with an impossible pat of his thick fingers on my forearm. "It's just that I've never seen anybody sit in a folding chair like that."

I looked down, considering myself. He was probably right: in a world where people sit like normal human beings, I had my legs tucked up under my butt. I made sure that I felt comfortable. That I

looked like

I felt comfortable. I had no idea what to say, but I had to say something. "I've always sat weird, I guess."

He chuckled. I was acutely aware of eyes on us, the other moms aflame with jealousy. "It's not weird. It's impressive."

I joined him in his low laugh. "What can I say? I'm flexible." It came flowing out, completely random, and as soon as I realized I'd said it I clamped my mouth shut and felt a creeping heat prickle up my face. But his fingers merely patted my arm once more, confidently, and he turned his attention back to the rehearsal. That was it, a quiet conversation, lighthearted pleasantries.

So why was my face still burning?

I knew I should keep quiet, but something told me to try to explain myself. I didn't want him to think I was dangling some sort of innuendo, so as soon as Miss Vickie gave the kids a break, I aimed another smile at him, a reassuring one, the kind that would explain the little wrinkles beside my eyes. I uncoiled my legs to plant my feet on the floor. "See? Sometimes I sit like a normal person," I told him, feeling my eyes crinkle, "but I've always been a pretzel. I was a gymnast for years."

"A pretzel," he laughed lightly. "That's funny." He took a different kind of look at me now, more of an appraisal. I felt my back stiffen as I arched a little, quite unconsciously. "My mom put me in dance classes instead of gymnastics. She always said she should have picked gymnastics."

"Oh." I cleared my throat, vaguely shocked that such an attractive man was bothering to converse with me. Down on the floor, Miss Vickie gave her troupe a two-minute warning before the break would end; it was still flat-out uncomfortable, how many women were staring at the two of us. A part of me wondered whether he even noticed, or whether life had simply given him so much female attention that he was oblivious now. "She's wrong. Dance is much more useful."

"I guess," he shrugged. "It pretty much automatically makes me a Dance Dad, so there's that. Your daughter didn't want to get into gymnastics?"

"No, she does that too." I aimed my hand at the crowd of girls. "That's her. Riley."

"She's good!" He sat, pausing a moment. "Mine's Kaylee. She's only nine. Her mom keeps her most of the time, but the dance stuff is all me."

"Oh." I debated what to say about that. "My husband is not into dance at all. He handles all the football stuff with my sons. They're a lot older than Riley." I cleared my throat. "You must have had her when you were really young?"

"Let's just say her mom and I were not a fairytale. But Kaylee is amazing, so it was all worth it." I felt his glance on the side of my face; I knew I was still flushed. "I'm Craig, by the way."

Holy fuck. The man was introducing himself! To me! "Nicki." I shook his hand, my fingers tiny alongside his. "Well. Nicole, really, but I never liked that name."

"Yeah. My parents named me Craigorius."

I blinked over at him. "No shit?"

"I'm kidding." His chuckle soothed me. "It's just Craig."

"Oh." I felt the need to say something as the girls got back into Miss Vickie's starting position. "Too bad. Craigorius is dramatic."

"

Craig

can be plenty dramatic," he smiled, "especially if you ask Kaylee's mom." I joined him in a laugh at that; he was obviously not a man who took himself seriously. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Nicki."

"Oh, totally." I was not good at small talk, and it had been years since a man this attractive had had a conversation with me. This seemed like a tease. I felt a sudden poke of disappointment that I was married. "I, uh, wasn't expecting to run into anyone interesting here." I said it low, quick, mindful of the audience we had. "I'm used to gymnastics moms. Dance moms make me nervous."

"Dance moms," he replied, his voice as low as mine, "are vicious. I'd know: I was raised by one." We laughed again, the hatred stabbing me from all around: the fact that we were talking was clearly pissing the other moms off. "I don't think we're all that popular," he murmured, as if he'd read my mind.

"I don't think so, either." We beamed at each other for a moment, and I was still trying to think of something else to say, some way of keeping this going, when Miss Vickie loudly marshaled the girls and saved me.

Small talk. Who needs that shit? It was enough that I knew his name. My mind went into a sudden and quite unbidden daydream, one where I wasn't married, and ten years younger, and I asked him out... no,

he

asked

me

. When I was single, I'd never have approached a man who looked like that. He'd have had my attention, and my attraction, but I'd have been way too shy to get anywhere near a man so delectable.

I tucked my legs back up under my ass, conscious that he'd notice, and watched the rehearsal.

* * *

"So. Did you make any new friends?" I asked Riley as we drove through cold December rain. "I met Kaylee's dad..."

She glanced up from her phone. "Kaylee P? Or Kaylee M?"

I blinked at myself in the rearview mirror. Shit. A last name was exactly what I'd been fishing for. "I don't know? She's about nine?"

"Oh." Riley didn't care anymore. "Kaylee P. She was in the ensemble last year." She went back to her phone and did not look up again.

"Oh." Again, with the fucking small talk! It seemed I couldn't handle that with

anyone

.

* * *

Miss Vickie had found a Christmas tree for the next rehearsal, something for the girls to dance around, and it stood there with an incongruous menorah perched on top; the town of Seaborne was famously woke, as long as you ignored the brothels on the South Bay. I arrived just as Vickie was finishing the setup, making sure I was early; I realized that almost every other woman would be assuming Craig would be back again. So they'd all be coveting my chair, and I was not interested in letting any of them have it. I received many glares, mostly hostile, as the other moms filed in and noted the empty chair beside me.

I tried not to make eye contact in return. There was no point. Besides, one other dad had shown up the other night, apparently flying as solo as Craig; let him get some attention.

Craig arrived a few minutes before the rehearsal started, his daughter bounding in ahead. I didn't bother concealing a smug smile as he headed for the chair next to me. "You're a pretzel again," he nodded. He wore clean tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie.

I shifted my curled legs. A better flirt would have made some sort of pretzel-related comment:

I was feeling salty,

maybe. Or something about mustard. Instead, I just blinked. "You're not."

"Yeah," he sighed, sliding into his chair, "it's that lack of a gymnastics background."

"It's never too late to start." I was slashing wildly with my conversational sword, just filling the silence and hoping for the best. He hadn't shaved today, and his scruff was a massive and unexpected turn-on. "They have classes. Or yoga, too; that's good for flexibility."

"I'm a busy man," he shrugged, spreading his hands helplessly. "There's never enough time in the day."

I pounced on the opening, grateful he'd given me one. "What do you do, Craig?"

He paused, studying the dancers a moment with a slight frown showing just between his eyes. "I have a few jobs. Mainly, I'm a house painter," he said at last, quietly.

I didn't laugh, though I wanted to. He clearly didn't want to admit to being something other than a lawyer or a doctor or something else impressive. I bet the 10% of the women in this audience who weren't stay-at-home moms all had masters' degrees, at least; it was that kind of town. I made myself nod. "I bet the medical insurance sucks in a job like that."

He gave me a quick glance, measuring, then seemed to decide I wasn't mocking him. "Nah," he said with elaborate indifference, "I just let my dog's vet take care of me."

I giggled. "That seems unwise."

He laughed with me, and my heart beat just a bit faster. "Anyone who can calculate anaesthetics for a horse could certainly handle me." There was a joke there, a crude one, but we both left it. "No, actually, I work through an agency, so the insurance is okay. And the tips are great. But I'm also a personal trainer."

My eyebrows shot toward my hairline. "What, like, at a gym?" He nodded, still watching me for mockery, but my mind was not on humor at that point. It was on him, his body. His muscles. The thought of him, working out, sweating, panting... A little desperately, I shoveled some words into the conversational silence. "That must be an amazing job, being around, like, motivated people all the time?" My brain raged at me:

what the fuck are you saying, Nicole?

"I don't have a job like that," I added, kitten-weak.

"Yeah?" He stretched his legs out under the chair in front of him. "You must be a house painter too."

I laughed too loudly. Women all around me were glaring again. I wondered, vaguely, whether any of them knew me well enough for my reputation to take a hit. "No. I'm in education. I was a teacher, but now I'm a curriculum coach."

"Sounds important."

"It's all the responsibility, none of the authority." I shrugged. "It's less work than teaching. I got into this when the boys were younger, because I needed better hours. Now I'm realizing it's a pain in the ass."

He nodded. "I wanted to be a teacher once. I almost made it through college, but then I found, uh, other ways to make a buck." He glanced at me for a moment. "Like I said, I have a few jobs."

"Yeah?" I did some math in my head. "You've been painting houses and training at the gym for, what, about ten years?" I was guessing he was maybe twenty-seven, tops. He'd had Kaylee at 18? 19? Yeah. No wonder he wasn't with her mom anymore. I wasn't the same person at 45 that I'd been at 18. Or even 30, for that matter. Back then, I'd been a quiet young mother with more interest in carpools and dinner than sex. Now?

Well, now, carpools were no longer a huge part of where I put my thoughts. Dinner, either.

Craig gave me a wry half-smile. "I'm older than I look, Nicki."

"Yeah?"

"I'm turning thirty-two next year."

I waved my arm theatrically. "You're a child." I did some more math. "I could have been your babysitter. I've been driving since before you were in kindergarten." I smiled to let him know I was teasing. "It's still like ten years of painting houses, Craig." I felt alive. We were connecting. I had no idea why, but this fucking hottie was giving me the time of day.

"I'm a

very

good house-painter, Nicki," he said seriously, looking straight at me with that Magnum PI expression of his. "And, again, I've had other jobs. I do all right."

My smile in reply was a little nervous, something about his manner telling me we were digging deeper than we should. I barely knew the guy. So I nodded, and made a comment about the menorah on the tree, and we watched the rehearsal together.

And when it was done, as the moms around us cast resentful looks at me from beneath their false eyelashes while they shrugged into their Canada Goose parkas, such overkill when December in these parts only hit about 30 degrees, Craig cleared his throat. "You must know your way around a gym."

I glanced sharply at him, but he was smiling. Like him, earlier, I'd been wondering whether this was mockery; I knew I was hardly the waif I'd been when I'd been his age. "Huh?"

"The gymnastics. You probably spent a lot of time lifting." He patted my shoulder, seeing I might be offended. "And because, well, you look like you go to the gym a lot."

I stood, gnawed my lip, and decided he was giving me a compliment. No, I was no waif, but I was proud of my workouts anyway. "Few times a week," I nodded, still wary. "Why?"

"My gym has an open house next week." His eyes met mine, serious and warm. "I'd be happy to get you in there."

"Holy shit," I blurted. The man was inviting me to a gym! To

his

gym! "That's... wow. Thanks!" I swallowed, flattered but more than a little scared. A few more seconds passed amid the clash of the chairs and Miss Vickie's shouted reminders for next time. I frowned. "Why?"

His hand patted me again, feeling massive and comforting. Warm. Delightful. "It's nothing. Don't come, if you don't want to. I'm really just trying to drum up business, and maybe hook you up at the same time. But no pressure, Nicki."

I shook my head, feeling my face glow scarlet. "It's going to be a busy week," I said quickly. "I'm planning a party."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows lifted. "A Christmas party?"

"It's Christmas-themed, yes. But... well." My brain dredged around for the right words to use. I most definitely

did not

want to tell Craig what kind of party I was planning. "It's for my niece."

"Ah. A birthday?"

"She's getting married. So we're throwing her a little event." That was all I was going to say about it, ever. I brushed my hair back. "Thanks. Really. But I'm busy. Maybe after the dance recital? Once my party's done?" I watched as he dug into his jacket pocket and produced a little white rectangle.

My god. The man was going to give me his card

...

"Anytime." He pressed the card into my hand. "Just call the desk. I'm Craig Petry. Drop my name and I'll get you a free pass, anytime." He chuckled. "We have a jacuzzi. Perfect in December."

"Do you!" I hoped I didn't sound like a tween on her way to her first concert. "Shit, that sounds great." The corner of my eye told me Riley was ready to go home. "Thanks, Craig. Really. I appreciate it."

"Not a problem." He waved to his daughter, flashed me one more smile, and that was that.

* * *

"You're preoccupied." My cousin Emily frowned across the table at me. "Wake up, Nicki."

"Sorry." The women at the table were thick with lipstick and overdone hair, leaving me to feel distinctly dowdy. "What were you saying?"

"I'm saying," Emily announced, "that it's time for Julie and I to leave now, so that you and Heidi can plan the more risque festivities." Emily had always acted wealthy, speaking at least $3,500 richer than she should. Heidi gave me a knowing grin. She was the maid of honor, and she had let it be known that she had definite ideas about bachelorette-party entertainment. I'd been invited to help because she knew I'd once hired a stripper for our other cousin's party.

Fucking complicated, planning a wedding.

"See ya." Julie, the bride, smiled at me. She'd inherited Emily's great ass, but the two of them put together barely had a chest as large as mine. So I usually dressed a little slutty around them, at least up top. "Thanks for helping out, Auntie Nick!"

"Sure thing." I wasn't really her aunt, but the geneology on that side of the family got complicated and flexible. A host of divorces, remarriages, and adoptions meant everyone basically called me "auntie," which was fine. I gave her a hug and faced Heidi's gloating smile. I didn't know Heidi all that well, but from what I'd seen so far, the girl had scant filter and a strong libido.

"So." She looked like a trick-or-treater as she thumbed along her phone. "I've got it narrowed down to two groups of dancers. Both of them do full nude." She twitched her eyebrows. "I think Emily should be gone for that part."

"I definitely agree."

"Yeah. So the two groups available are Sweet Cream, or the Dirty bASStards." Clearly she had both websites open; her lips twitched cutely as she stared at the screen. "Gotta say, both seem very, very, very... open." Her grin spread. "To new experiences."