MAKAYLA TARRANT HAD done some embarrassing things in her twenty-four years on the planet.
Falling off the stage as an awestruck seven-year-old at her first ballet recital? Check.
Flashing a nipple courtesy of a wardrobe malfunction during her stage debut at sixteen? Check.
Stripping in front of sleazy strangers at a dive bar in Kings Cross to ensure her mum had the funeral she deserved? Check.
But nothing came close to the mortification making her muscles spasm as she strutted into the most important audition of her life to date and discovered the casting director was Hudson Watt.
Her best friend growing up.
Her confidant.
Her go-to guy.
The only guy she’d ever really trusted.
Until that night five years ago when he’d seen her naked on stage and her world had imploded.
She hadn’t seen him since. Not after the hateful accusations exchanged. He’d misjudged her without giving her a chance to explain. She’d cut him from her life without a second’s remorse.
Okay, so that was a lie. At a time when she’d been reeling from her mum’s unexpected death, a time when she’d needed her friend the most, a time when she’d done the unthinkable to make sure she could afford a decent funeral, Hudson had morphed into a judgemental monster and she’d lost the best friend she’d ever had.
Back then, she’d pretended she didn’t care when in fact she’d grieved for her lost friendship almost as much as for her mum.
‘Next,’ Hudson said, impatience lacing his tone as he flipped pages on a clipboard.
Makayla didn’t move. She couldn’t, her feet heavier than her heart as she hovered left stage, wishing she had the guts to turn around and make a run for it before he saw her.
But she needed this job, desperately. Her roommate, Charlotte, was on the verge of leaving and Makayla’s pay cheque from working part-time at Le Miel, the hippest patisserie in Sydney, wouldn’t cover rent let alone anything else.
She’d auditioned eighteen times for various dance roles over the last few weeks. Nada.
Embue was the coolest nightclub in a city brimming with trendy hotspots and the moment she’d heard they were trialling live shows she’d applied, determined to nail her first dancing role in months. A determination that was rapidly fading when faced with the prospect of dancing for Hudson.
Crap.
What the hell was she going to do?
At that moment, he raised his head and her chance to flee unobserved vanished.
Shock widened his eyes, his lips parting in surprise before compressing into a thin line. A frown slashed his brows. No great surprise he wasn’t pleased to see her, considering what she’d called him the last time they’d met.
‘Hi, Hudson,’ she said, injecting enough fake enthusiasm into her voice to convey nonchalance, but her hand shook as she raised it in a wave. ‘Long time no see.’
She inwardly cringed at her blasé, clichéd greeting as she forced her legs to move, heading for centre stage. Where she’d be under the spotlight. Exposed. Vulnerable.
Hell.
After what seemed like an eternity of him pinning her with a laser-like glare, he nodded. ‘Mak. So you’re auditioning for the lead dancer?’
Mak...only Hudson uttered that one short syllable in a way that touched her deep, like a warm hand strumming her spine in a long languorous caress. His voice seemed lower, huskier, than the last time she’d seen him...when he’d hurled vile assumptions at her and their friendship had crumbled.
‘Mak?’
Damn, he’d caught her daydreaming. Now that the option to flee had gone—she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how rattled she was—she squared her shoulders.
‘Yes. I’d love to be lead dancer in Embue’s new production. Thanks for the opportunity.’
She didn’t give him a chance to respond, shooting the music co-ordinator a quick nod to start her track.
She’d be okay once the song started. The dread making her gut churn would fade. The nerves making her muscles seize would ease. It had to. Because she couldn’t fail this audition. Not with so much at stake.
As the first booming bass beat of a Lady Gaga hit blasted from the sound system, an instant wave of calm washed over Makayla.
She could do this.
Music and dance and moving to a rhythm, she understood.
Men who abandoned her when she needed them most, not so much.
As the tempo increased, she began her routine. Steps and twirls and kicks, a high-energy routine designed to dazzle. She let the music take her, her feet pounding to the beat, her arms slicing through the air in perfect synchronisation.
It had always been like this, from the moment she’d seen her mum dance on stage in a nightly Kings Cross revue, a wide-eyed three-year-old mesmerised by the glittery costumes, the make-up and the applause.
She’d adored her mum, had wanted to be exactly like her. Emulating her grace and elegance and vibrancy on stage. But Makayla also wanted more.