Like No One Else. Maureen Smith
gestured expansively toward the thick Belgian waffle and fried chicken wings piled on her plate, along with a side order of buttery grits. “How do you eat the way you do and still keep that itty-bitty waist?” he said wonderingly.
Tommie laughed. “I’m a dancer.”
Zhane snorted. “So am I, honey, and there’s no way I could maintain this svelte figure if I pigged out the way you do. As if the waffles and wings weren’t fattening enough, you had to order grits, too?” Incredulous, he shook his head, neat black dreadlocks brushing his shoulders. “Your metabolism must be fierce.”
Tommie grinned. “At least for now. Knock on wood,” she said, rapping her knuckle on the smooth cherry table. She ate a forkful of waffle and let out a deep, appreciative sigh. “Mmm, that is sooo good. You don’t know what you’re missing, Zhany.”
“Oh yes, I do,” he retorted, lifting a cup of creamy coffee to his mouth. “High cholesterol, high blood pressure, clogged arteries, diabetes, obesity, and heart disease. If you don’t believe me, just look at my family. Every last one of them belongs on that reality show for fat-asses who need to lose weight—The Biggest Loser.”
“Oh, don’t be such a killjoy,” Tommie chided, even as she happily went to work on a chicken wing.
Zhane just smiled indulgently and shook his head at her. He was an attractive, dark-skinned man in his early thirties with the trim, lithe physique of a dancer and the moody temperament to match. He and Tommie had crossed paths for the first time shortly after she’d moved to Houston. She’d been at the grocery store, unconsciously doing a series of pliés while she waited in a long checkout line, when an amused voice behind her had drawled, “Built like an hourglass, but moves like a prima ballerina.”
Tommie had whirled around, hands on hips, a stinging retort on the tip of her tongue for the impertinent stranger. But one look at the dreadlocked black man dressed in drag, and she’d quickly realized she wasn’t being hit on. The appreciation glowing in the stranger’s dark eyes had been that of one dancer admiring another. They’d quickly struck up a conversation, each delighted to learn that the other had performed on Broadway. Zhane, now a member of the Houston Metropolitan Dance Company, had invited Tommie to a friend’s costume party that evening, and they’d been inseparable ever since.
Every Tuesday morning they met at the Breakfast Klub, a hip soul food restaurant best known for its signature dishes—catfish and grits, and wings and waffles. The surroundings were simple yet stylish, with the works of local artists showcased on the walls and both smooth jazz and gospel drifting from the stereo. Even at that early hour the place was packed, every table and booth occupied. On Saturdays the line went out the door and wrapped around the small building.
“Why don’t you blow off your classes today and go to the Galleria with me?” Zhane suggested, spreading raspberry jam on his toast. That was all he’d ordered—coffee and toast. A waste, Tommie thought. “There’s a sale at Neiman Marcus.”
Tommie groaned. “Why are you torturing me, Zhany? You know I can’t go shopping with you. Even if I could cancel the rest of my classes today—which I wouldn’t—I’m on a budget.”
“A budget?” Zhane sounded scandalized, as if she’d just announced she was becoming a Republican.
Tommie laughed. “Yes. A budget. I need to be frugal with my finances. I still want to make a few renovations to my building, and pretty soon I’ll be hiring another instructor, who sure as hell ain’t gonna work for free.”
Zhane sniffed. “Too bad. I saw a pair of Jimmy Choo peep-toe pumps that had your name written all over them, honey.”
Tommie whimpered pathetically.
Zhane chuckled. “I know you’re enjoying doing your own thing, sugarplum, but in case the teaching gig doesn’t work out for you, you know Richard would love to have you on board.”
Tommie snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know,” she muttered, thinking of the dance company’s artistic director, who made a point of seeking her out every time she attended one of Zhane’s performances, smiling and gazing at her in a way that made her skin crawl. Tommie was no fool. She knew Richard Houghton was interested in a helluva lot more than her dancing skills.
“What do you have against Dick?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Zhane grinned at his own double entendre. Several other diners, overhearing the question, glanced over at them and snickered.
When Tommie glared at Zhane, he laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Girl, don’t worry. Nobody’s gonna mistake your fine ass for a fishmonger. As I was saying, I can’t understand why you don’t like Richard. He’s smart, talented, reasonably attractive. His family is loaded, and unlike most of the male dancers I know, he actually likes women. What more could a straight girl ask for?”
Tommie shrugged, nibbling on the strawberry that had topped her waffle. “I’m sure Richard is a decent guy. But he just doesn’t do it for me. To be perfectly honest with you—and I’ll kill you if you repeat this to anyone—he gives me the creeps.”
Zhane’s perfectly manicured brows shot up in surprise. “What do you mean he gives you the creeps? In what way?”
“Well, the way he stares at me makes me uncomfortable.”
Zhane guffawed. “Honey, please! Have you looked in the mirror lately? Men stare at you all the time. You should be used to it by now.”
“I know,” Tommie muttered, wishing she’d just kept her big mouth shut. “But it’s different with Richard. I don’t know how to explain it. The way he looks at me…It’s like he knows a secret about me, or thinks he does. It’s creepy.”
Zhane grinned. “Maybe he does know a secret about you. I heard you were a naughty little girl up there in New York.”
Tommie smiled, but it was forced. Zhane’s teasing remark had hit a little too close to home, reminding her of the reason she’d fled New York in the first place. Although Zhane was the least judgmental person she knew, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the terrible scandal that had led to her release from the Blane Bailey Dance Company. The one time she’d almost confided in Zhane, she’d quickly talked herself out of it.
Shame was a powerful captor.
Noticing her strained expression, Zhane frowned. “Oh, honey, you’re serious about this, aren’t you? Richard really does make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s not a big deal. Really. Forget I said anything.”
Zhane looked unconvinced. “If he ever says or does anything inappropriate, sugarplum, just say the word and I’ll kick his ass for you.”
Tommie laughed, though she knew that Zhane could back up his threat. He’d grown up in the Third Ward, one of the poorest, most crime-infested communities in Houston. Throughout his childhood he’d been forced to defend himself against neighborhood bullies who’d routinely picked on him because he was different. It hadn’t taken Zhane long to realize that the only way he could survive the bullying was to fight back. So that’s what he’d done—and had been doing ever since. Once at a club, Tommie had watched him go off on a big, mean-looking biker who’d made the mistake of calling Zhane a queer behind his back—something the man had undoubtedly regretted by the time Zhane got through with him.
Chuckling at the memory, Tommie drawled, “Thanks for the offer, sweetie, but that won’t be necessary. Besides, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for getting you kicked out of the dance company for assaulting the director. I’d never forgive myself.”
But Zhane was no longer listening to her. He was staring across the crowded room, an appreciative gleam filling his dark eyes as he announced in a theatrical falsetto, “Hottie alert.”
Smiling, Tommie followed the direction of his gaze. And froze.
There, standing near the front of the restaurant, was Paulo Sanchez.
Her heart