Age category: Adult
Release Date:May 11, 2018
Wilhelmina Allende is a prima ballerina. When tragedy turns her beloved Paris into a gilded cage, she jumps at the chance to work with one of the most prolific choreographers she’s ever seen. But Zack’s style is way out of her comfort zone. So is his teaching method. And his humor. And his everything. He’s a charming little connard. It’s hard not to like him. Merde. What has she gotten herself into?
Zachary Coen’s first musical is opening on Broadway. Much like his life, it’s anything but conventional, so hiring Mina is simply out of the question. She’s too…classical. Too perfect. She’s all wrong for the role. Then he meets her in person and sees her cracks. Her broken pieces. How unique and beautiful each one is. And he can’t help but notice how her edges seem to fit his…perfectly.
Just when teaming up seems to be working, the monsters they’ve kept hidden threaten to rip it all apart.
Leaning forward, Mina stumbled hard. Her leg swung down fast, providing the sinister momentum needed to twist her other leg just so, that her poor toes split…again. Zack stepped forward swiftly to set her aright, but she swatted his hands away.
“Non!” Her eyes watered from the pain. “I don’t understand. What is this? Balanchine? Graham? Lucifer? Hades?”
“Calm down,” he said gently, visibly trying not to laugh at her theatrics, which just further irritated her. “That was actually not ba-”
“Stop telling me to calm down!”
Turning away, she tried to collect herself. Her toes were still smarting, and she mumbled softly to herself in French, trying to get out of her own head.
“I’m not exactly fluent in French from my touring days,” he offered unhelpfully, “but I think I caught enough to know you’re trying to psyche yourself up.”
“I’m a ballerina…” She tried to drown him out. “From the Paris Opera Ballet.”
“Yeah well, we all have to start somewhere.”
She spun around, her eyes stinging. (Annoyingly, she was a crier. Especially when angry.)
Superbe. Now would be the perfect time to cry. Right now, when she needed to look capable and competent and strong.
“Fuck me…You’re not gonna cry, are you, petite?”
The room grew eerily quiet. Still, but for the sound of her breathing. Heavy and deep, as if she was slowly drawing the energy from the air into her body. The heat of anger roiled through her. She felt flush with it, suffocated by it. She wanted to crawl from her skin until it cooled, but since she wasn’t a lizard, and he had to stand there with his stupid lock of hair falling over his forehead, staring at her like an insipid, crazy, fragile piece of glass…
A stream of French epithets slammed into him like a ship blown ashore in a tsunami. He recognized quite a few of the choice words (not that he needed a translator to understand
she wasn’t singing him a sonnet).
Finally, it was quiet again.
Oh, what’s this?
It seemed he’d just witnessed his first nuclear meltdown from this tiny ball of fire. And damned if it wasn’t the sexiest, most confusing shit he’d ever seen. The cloud of hyper focus evaporated, and desire hit him like an eighteen-wheeler. He trailed his eyes over her sweaty, seething frame with deliberate slowness. It was probably bad that he wanted to snatch her up and lick the pulse in her throat, to bite her pouty lower lip and suck her toxic little tongue into his mouth.
Definitely bad. He’d have to give his dick a stern talking to later.
For now, he smiled inwardly, stowing this particular button away to push as needed. The passion was clearly there. He had three weeks to whip his volatile star into shape and he’d do it by any means necessary. Outwardly, his expression remained passive, and his voice was flat when he spoke again.
She gave him a curt nod.
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About the Author:
Lynn Turner is dedicated to writing inclusive stories that explore what it means to be imperfectly human. She is convinced she would have made a great Gilmore Girl, that writing about herself in third-person is weird, and that Colin Firth is the best Mr. Darcy (don’t fight her on this). When she isn’t writing and adulting, she’s tackling her monstrous TBR list, TV-binging, traveling, or watching old Samantha Brown travelogue videos and wishing she had her job. She and her husband share their home in California with their two extraordinary children and their sometimes cat, Bowie.
You can find and contact Lynn Turner here:
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There is a tour wide giveaway for the bookstagram blitz for Pas De Deux. One lucky winner will win a signed copy of Pas De Deux plus author swag (see picture). Open International.