Dances with Fire: a Military Firefighter-Turned-Dancer Romance (Book 2 of Reno in Flames series)

Spencer rested his hands on the barre, the wood smooth beneath his palms. He drew in a slow breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth, steadying himself the way Brook had taught him.

With her help, he’d pieced together a short sequence—something that felt honest, almost right—but every time he reached a certain point, his body locked up. The movement stalled. The memory behind it refused to surface… or maybe refused to be tamed.

Was it even possible to show what he’d seen—what he’d done?

He’d known this idea would dredge things up. That had been the whole point. To drag the demons out into the open. To fight them with motion instead of silence.

But now he wasn’t so sure.

Maybe bringing Brook into this had been a mistake. Maybe he should’ve kept his nightmares to himself—especially from someone like her. Someone so light. Untouched by the kind of darkness he carried.

But she was so easy to talk to…

Until now.

“Hey.” Her hand settled on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Her touch sent an immediate awareness through him. Her hands were so small compared to his. Every time he held them, something in him wanted to press them flat against his chest—his bare chest—just to feel the contrast. The connection.

He pulled away from that thought—away from the offer of comfort—and stalked toward the gym bag he’d tossed in the corner.

“This was a mistake,” he said.

“No, it wasn’t,” she said. “It isn’t.”

He bent and yanked his jean jacket from the bag, the denim rough in his grip. “I never should have involved you in this. It’s too…” He exhaled sharply. “Too dark.”

She crossed the space between them. “The fire brought you here for a reason,” she said. “You need to do this. Like Roman. Like me.”

That stopped him.

Like her?

He turned, his attention snapping fully to her.

She stepped closer. “The first piece I created when I moved here was an attempt to make sense of my time in New York.”

Awareness prickled along his spine. “What happened in New York?”

“I told you I auditioned a lot but never made the cut.”

“Yeah.” He still couldn’t wrap his head around that. She was too good. Too magnetic.

She let out a slow breath. “I didn’t make the cut because I refused to have sex in exchange.”

“What?” The word tore out of him, heat flooding his chest. His grip tightened on the jacket until the fabric bunched in his fists. “Bastards.”

“Don’t be angry,” she said. “I’m not. Not anymore. Dance helped me get there. It helped me let it go. And it brought me here—to my own studio, to a life I’m building doing something I love.”

He stared at her. She didn’t have much, but she had purpose. Connection. A sense of peace that felt out of his reach.

God, he wanted that.

“What was it called?” he said.

A faint crease formed between her brows.

“The piece you wrote about the sexual harassment,” he clarified.

“Oh.” Something flickered in her eyes—pride, maybe, or something deeper. “It was called Goodbye New York.”

He turned the words over in his mind, reshaping them, testing their weight.

Goodbye Nightmares.

“Your story matters,” she said.

“I don’t know, Brook.” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration scraping at him. “The only people who really get it are the ones who’ve been there. The brotherhood of the military is something I carry whether I want to or not.”

“Don’t you see?” she said, stepping closer. “We want to understand. We want to see your world—even just a piece of it. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

She placed her hand over his where it clenched the jacket too tightly. “Let me in,” she said.

Her eyes held his, full of quiet determination—something that reached for him on a level deeper than logic.

Could he do that?

Could he let her see the raw, ugly truths?

If not her… then who?

“I can handle a brush with the dark stuff,” she added softly.

Of course she could.

And so could he.

After all, he was still here. Still breathing. Still feeling.

Her fingers tugged at the jacket, and this time he let it go. The denim slipped from his hands and fell to the floor.

“It’s harder than I thought,” he admitted, his voice rough.

“I figured.” She stepped in and wrapped her arms around his torso, fitting against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. She rested her cheek against his chest, sending warmth through his veins.

“But you need to finish it,” she murmured. “For yourself.”

His arms came around her, pulling her closer. He rested his chin against the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her.

Somewhere along the way, she’d become more than just a dance partner.

More than a friend.

She was a beacon in the storm. A light he didn’t want to lose.

And she was right.

He needed to finish what he’d started.