The Heights: Lakeshore, #1

The Heights

Copyright © 2018 by Amy Aislin

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Beta read by LesCourt Author Services

Edited by Brenda Chin

Copy editing by Labyrinth Bound Edits

Proofread by Between the Lines Editing

Cover and formatting by Champagne Book Design

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Titles by Amy Aislin

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Titles by Amy Aislin

About the Author

STICK SIDE SERIES

On the Ice

The Nature of the Game

Shots on Goal

Risking the Shot

WINDSOR, WYOMING SERIES

Home for a Cowboy

LIGHTHOUSE BAY SERIES

Christmas Lane

Gingerbread Mistletoe

LAKESHORE SERIES

The Heights

KEEPING HIM

Keeping Casey

Other books:

Elias

Ballerina Dad

As Big as the Sky

The Play of His Life

DYLAN, CATCH!

The ball went wide, splashing into the little fountain in the middle of the circular driveway. Four-year-old Dylan scowled at his twin brother before jogging to fetch the ball, bypassing the plastic yellow playhouse. Their older brother had set it up for them closer to the garage, then Dylan and Evan had pushed and dragged it next to the fountain so they could sit on its windowsill and soak their feet.

Evan, come look!

Evan joined him, and they peered at a tiny frog sunning itself in a wet patch on the fountain’s skinny lip.

It’s a frog, Evan said.

It’s a baby frog, corrected Dylan.

The frog, apparently uncomfortable being gawked at, hopped down to the grass, landing next to Dylan’s foot.

Eeee! Dylan screeched and scrambled backward, bumping into the playhouse.

He’s not going to hurt you, silly, Evan told Dylan. He’s just going home.

Car tires crunched over the small gravel patch at the bottom of the driveway. The brothers watched the rusty, brown car drive toward them, around the fountain, past the house, and park on the other side, facing the open gate it’d just come through. The gate wasn’t supposed to be left open, but after their parents had left for a party earlier, the guard manning it had disappeared when his pager beeped and must’ve forgotten to close it.

A woman exited the car, but she left it running.

Hi, Dylan.

Hi, Mrs. Dewey. Mrs. Dewey had a silly name, but she was nice. She worked at the library and always knew which books he’d like best. Dull brown hair came to her shoulders, and her washed-out blue eyes smiled at him.

I have some new books for you. Do you want to come to the library with me to see them?

Dylan wasn’t supposed to go anywhere without one of the guards.

One of them is a new songbook. She started to sing a nursery rhyme he’d never heard before, about a man named McDonald who had a farm and lots of animals. He took her outstretched hand.

Dylan, where are you going?

I’ll be right back, he said to Evan.

No, don’t leave! Evan’s voice was scratchy with fear, but it was okay. Mrs. Dewey was a friend.

Evan ran toward them, but his legs were too slow. Mrs. Dewey had already bundled Dylan into the backseat of the car, and they were off.

Turning to look out the back window, Dylan got one last glimpse of Evan’s tear-stained face as he raced after the car, arms and legs pumping, mouth open in a silent scream Dylan would never hear.

SEPTEMBER

THERE WAS NOTHING ABOUT THE event happening in the building across the street that screamed Ruiner of dreams! Yet for Nat Walker, it might as well have been written in neon surrounded with ugly number one foam fingers.

The tacky banner strung across the building proclaimed its grand opening in indigo capital letters on a pink background with silver and gold balloons. Completing the image was an archway in front of the door made up entirely of white and blue balloons and a chalk sidewalk sign that invited everyone in to meet the instructor between noon and five. Come in and enter the raffle for a free dance lesson!

Not only was it tacky, but it was loud. If there was one thing Lakeshore, Oregon, was not, it was loud.

Lakeshore was off the beaten path, tucked into Oregon’s coast like a child playing hide-and-seek. Just north of Newport, it had all the amenities while still retaining its small-town charm. It was home to people who commuted to and from Newport or Corvallis for work. Down-to-earth, outdoorsy folk who didn’t need a dance studio on Main Street.

Two weeks. That was all Nat had needed to get the cash together to buy the building across the street and expand the woodworking business he’d inherited from his dad. Instead, the cash-hungry real estate agent had sold it out from under him. To some kid from The Big Apple who opened a goddamn dance studio.

Sure, Lakeshore had its small pocket of artists, mainly woodworkers like Nat and a few pottery shops. But dance? The Lakeshore Community Center offered dance classes, so what did the town need with its own dance studio? It was a useless waste of space if you asked him.

Clearly, the citizens of Lakeshore hadn’t gotten that memo. The town wasn’t small enough for everyone to know everyone else and their business, but it was small enough that Nat recognized some of the parents walking into the studio for its grand opening, little girls—and, sometimes, little boys—in tow.

I left three hours ago, and you’re still here glaring at Pointe Your Toes.

Nat’s older brother’s voice jolted him out of his musings, reminding him that yes, he’d been sitting in Life’s A Latte for over two hours. Also reminding him that Pointe Your Toes was a stupid-ass name. He grunted at John.

The owner’s a really nice guy, you know. John sat across from him, cup of coffee in hand. You’d like him too if you got your head out of your ass.

Wait, you’ve met him? Even worse, John had liked him? It was stupid, but Nat felt irrationally betrayed by that.

Of course. He came by the center in April when he first moved here. Wanted to make sure he wasn’t stepping on my toes by opening his own studio.

That was…actually really nice. Not that Nat would ever admit it, but for the new guy to seek John out, the director of the Lakeshore Community Center, in order to avoid unnecessary strife and competition? It was pretty ballsy. And decent.

John gestured out the window with his coffee cup. He probably doesn’t know that you had your eye on the place too.

Yeah, Nat was aware, but that didn’t make him any less angry. At the new guy, at his real estate agent, at the stupid balloons framing Pointe Your Toes’ doorway.

You could’ve asked him which buildings he was looking at, Nat pointed out.

I did. At the time, he hadn’t started looking yet. Besides, there are other empty buildings in town you can buy, John went on, apparently in big-brother-must-fix-everything mode.

None of them are on Main Street, Nat said. This is the only road that goes in and out of town. The one everyone took if they wanted to go north or south. What better place to own a store the tourists would see?

John shrugged. Give it time. A couple of years. Someone will retire and close up. Dad’s not going to haunt you if you open your shop later than planned.

Nat’s shoulders stiffened.

Anyway. John stood, shoving Nat’s shoulder as he did. I’ve got to get back to work. Maybe think about getting out of here, huh? Take your dog on a hike, get a new perspective.

Yeah. I will.

Nat tracked John as his brother waved to the barista behind the counter and left. He gave Nat a two-fingered salute when he passed by the front window, heading north to the community center up the street.

A hike most likely wouldn’t gain Nat a new perspective, but it’d certainly help clear his head. But first…

He downed the dregs of his hours-old coffee, stone cold and sharply bitter. Which, most days, was how he felt, so it was fitting.

He was across the street before he thought better of it, standing in front of the annoyingly happy balloon archway. Four months ago, this building had been vacant and two weeks away from being his. He’d had the designs done for the inside and had already crafted the sign that was supposed to hang above the door. Walker Woodworking. Now, from what he could see through the front window, the inside was renovated into one big room with a small alcove to the side for coats and shoes. The two buttery leather couches inside the alcove were currently unoccupied but were presumably there for parents who chose to stay while their kid was in class. Gleaming wood floors, mirrored walls, bright lighting, a sound system placed across from a door that led…to changing rooms? An office?

There were a dozen people inside, at least, mingling and munching on bite-sized finger foods. A long table was set up along one wall, most of it taken over by food and drinks. A small section held sheets of paper, probably informational brochures or registration forms.

The door opened and out walked a guy who was way shorter than Nat’s own six foot three and at least five years younger than Nat’s thirty. This guy was maybe five seven, slim but muscular, with an oval face, thin lips, short brown hair, and green eyes Nat labeled as Oregon green, the green of the grass that grew after a wet spring. His chin and jaw were covered with a layer of scruff, and his blue T-shirt was slightly rumpled.

He looked familiar, but Nat couldn’t place him. It was possible that Nat had seen him around town at some point if he’d been here for several months like John had said.

Um. New Guy—who had to be the owner of Pointe Your Toes, the guy Nat had hated sight unseen since this building was sold to him—tented his hands and drummed the tips of his fingers together. Can I help you?

Nat crossed his arms over his chest. Just admiring your balloons.

Oh? The guy looked up at his balloon archway as though he’d never seen it before. Okay. That’s…good? He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Do you want to come in? I have food. And coffee. And homemade chocolate chip cookies.

Goddamn it, why did he have to be charming and adorable? He was so far from Nat’s usual type of studious and mature that the first stirrings of attraction unfurling in Nat made no sense.

I teach adult classes if you’re interested in signing up.

Stirrings reduced to a bubble of anger. This guy had stolen not just this building but Nat’s dad’s dreams of expansion, the ones he’d told Nat about before he’d died unexpectedly.

Nat frowned at him. Do I look like I want to sign up for dance lessons?

Um, no?

Why would you open a dance studio in Lakeshore of all places? Nat asked, genuinely curious.

Something wrong with Lakeshore?

No, but it has a population of less than seven thousand. You’d do better in Portland. Or hell, LA or New York. Yes, please go back to New York and take your studio with you.

The guy rested his hands on his hips, making him look like a tiny, annoyed terrier. I just moved here from the city. Why would I want to go back?

Because you’ll make more money.

Will I? The guy leaned back against his studio’s window as though he had all the time in the world. Lakeshore has no dance studios. Cities always have a handful at least.

Afraid of competition, are you?

The guy cracked up. He laughed so hard, he bent over to catch himself with his hands on his knees. The laughter lit his eyes and turned him from annoyed terrier to cute guy who made Nat look twice for the first time in a long time.

Seriously? he said after taking a breath. If I was afraid of competition, I would’ve chosen a different career path.

Nat opened his mouth to respond, but the guy held up a single finger before he could. Excuse me a sec. He turned to greet a mom and her daughter.

Had Nat just been shushed?

Look, the guy said once his potential customers had gone inside. If you’re not going to come in, would you mind— He made a shoo motion with his hands. —taking your scowl elsewhere? You’re very big, and I think you’re scaring some of the littler dancers with your…bigness.

Nat’s lips quirked. His bigness. He was tall, but he wasn’t big in the traditional sense of the word. His body was more on the lean side. The flannel shirt he wore over a T-shirt to ward off the mid-September chill must’ve made him look bigger than he was. Or maybe this guy thought anyone taller than his tiny stature was big.

Sure, Nat said. I can take my bigness elsewhere. Good luck with your grand opening.

He turned and headed for home. At the first intersection, he glanced back to find the guy still standing outside his studio, watching Nat walk away.

Quinn Carroll closed the door behind his last potential client and her twin girls and mentally patted himself on the back for a successful grand opening. He did a little happy dance on his way across the studio, then flopped into an exhausted heap on the floor, back propped against the mirrored wall. He still had clean-up to do, but first, he needed a minute alone to breathe while his brother, Shay, dealt with the party rental people outside. Quinn could see them through the window attempting to dismantle the giant balloon archway.

His own dance studio! This dream had been years in the making. He never thought he’d be fulfilling it in Lakeshore, Oregon, of all places, but here he was. Shay had lived here for over a year already, and Quinn had joined him a few months ago. As if the dream gods had been beaming down on him, this building had been up for sale right when he’d been ready to buy.

Now all he had to do was make enough money to stay in business. Shay could rhapsodize about the stats of businesses staying open past the first- and five-year marks, but Quinn didn’t want to know what he was up against. If he failed, he wanted to fail on his own terms.

He’d had money saved for the down payment, but now he had to make enough to pay the insurance, mortgage, taxes, bills, advertising fees, equipment, and staff. Not that he had any staff, but he hoped to at some point so he could offer more classes at different age levels.

Out on the street, the party rental people were pulling away from the curb, the disassembled balloon archway stored in the back of the truck, a few white and blue balloons peeking over the top of the truck bed. Shay came back inside carrying the outdoor chalk sign. He leaned it against the wall, then crossed the studio and took a seat next to Quinn. Letting out a long breath, he rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Dressed in dark jeans and a collared, green T-shirt, his blond hair was as perfectly styled as always and a day’s worth of scruff had grown in on his sculpted face. Shay was only thirty-three, and yet lines bracketed his mouth and eyes.

Thanks for your help today, Quinn said. On top of running his own business, Shay had spent hours over the past couple of months helping Quinn set up his own. It went well. Don’t you think?

Shay turned his head to look at him, gray eyes tired. You didn’t get as many registrations as you’d hoped.

Way to burst my bubble, asshole. Quinn perked up again. But that’s okay. I got seventy-two names for my email list and a lot of people took brochures and the class schedule.

Shay patted his leg. You did good, Quinn.

Quinn beamed. Damn right.

Shay slung an arm around Quinn’s shoulders. You really need an online registration portal, though, so people can sign up for classes remotely.

Yeah, I know. It was supposed to be ready by now, but there were some bugs with the form my tech guy didn’t anticipate. He’s still working on it. Speaking of things I still need. He glanced over his shoulder and up slightly, to where the hooks for the ballet barre were bolted into the mirrored wall about waist-high but were currently empty. My barre was supposed to be here a few days ago.

So where is it?

I don’t know. The person I hired keeps ignoring my emails.

Shay scoffed. People suck.

And that pretty much summed up how Shay felt about everyone except for Quinn and their parents. And Quinn’s best friend, Ian, although Shay liked to pretend otherwise.

I know a guy.

Huh? Quinn licked his thumb, then used it to wipe a smudge from the mirror. For what?

To build your barre.

Yeah? On such short notice? Classes start in nine days.

We’re friends. I’ll ask him to make one ASAP. Just send me the specs.

Sweet! This was turning into an awesome day. Except for the scowly guy who’d stood on the street staring into the studio with hatred written all over his face earlier today. Scowly Guy hadn’t come right out and said it, but Quinn could read between the lines: dude didn’t think Lakeshore needed a dance studio. Well, whatever. Quinn was here to stay.

Scowly Guy was broodingly hot, no doubt. Over six feet of broad-shouldered, sinewy, underwear-model-worthy hotness, dark brown hair falling over his forehead in casual disarray. He was all hard angles, with thick, dark brows that arched over his hazel eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones. In fact, the cheekbones were the sexiest thing about him, but added to the whole package? He was like those Firecracker popsicles Quinn had loved as a kid—cool and drool-worthy—and Quinn wanted to lick. All over.

Too bad Scowly Guy had a stick up his ass about kids, or dancers, or dancing itself, or balloons, or whatever. He hadn’t seemed to like Quinn at all. Though Quinn had gotten a teeny, tiny smile there at the end, barely an upward tilt of the lips, but enough for a dimple to poke through.

Maybe Scowly Guy was a serial killer and he’d been scoping out his next victim.

Do they make serial killers in Oregon?

Shay, used to Quinn’s weird off-the-cuff questions, said, Don’t see why not.

Hmm.

Quinn checked out his studio while bopping his head in time to Max-A-Million’s Fat Boy playing softly on the sound system. The faux-wood floor held some debris from outside—gravel, dirt, and a few crumpled leaves—as well as a couple of napkins and a wayward pen. There was a pink barrette on the floor of the open-concept closet/alcove. The lighting mimicked natural light, complementing the daylight coming in from the huge bay window at the front of the studio.

Soon there’d be coats and shoes in the closet, toilet paper on the floor of the washroom, dance attire taking up space in the changing room, scuff marks on the floor. Quinn couldn’t wait.

What are you thinking? Shay asked.

A feeling of accomplishment settled in Quinn’s soul, a sense of rightness that reminded him of how at home he’d felt in Lakeshore since arriving in early April. Eerily at home.

I think I’m gonna like it here.

Shay narrowed his eyes on him. "Don’t you dare start singing that song from Annie."

Quinn did. Because little brothers were made to annoy big brothers.

A WEEK LATER, SATURDAY AFTERNOON found Nat wrapping his latest project in bubble wrap in his workshop when a car that sounded minutes away from death pulled into the driveway. He went out to greet his visitor and was both surprised, and yet not, at the identity of the individual who stepped out of the car.

When Shay had asked him for an emergency favor—could he pretty please craft a ballet barre for his brother in less than ten days?—it hadn’t taken Nat long to put two and two together and figure out that said brother was his very own nemesis.

Okay, maybe nemesis was a strong word. Poor guy still didn’t know that Nat was pissed at losing the Main Street building, pissed at him. Which he was aware made no sense, but feelings made no sense, so whatever.

And he was surprised because, for some reason, he’d thought it’d be Shay coming to pick up the barre.

So this was Shay’s brother, Quinn. When Shay had moved to Lakeshore over a year ago, he’d commissioned Nat for some everyday household pieces. A couple of bed frames, kitchen and dining room tables and chairs, a couple of side tables. They’d become friends over the course of the projects. Shay’d been excited about Quinn’s move to Lakeshore and had talked at length about how great it’d be to have him close by again. He’d failed to mention Quinn was a dancer.

And that he was adorable as fuck.

Nat met Quinn at his car and gave the tire a kick. "What