Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother novel Chapter 67

Falling for my boyfriend’s Navy brother

Chapter 67: Penny

Asher pulls up in front of the studio, his hand resting casually on the gear shift, eyes scanning the building like it’s something he’s preparing to infiltrate. I give him every turn, every street, like second nature, I’ve done this route a hundred times. It’s never felt this heavy.

The studio is in the nicer part of town–like, the kind of place where parking signs are etched in brass and the sidewalks have never seen a single piece of gum. My heart is beating so hard I feel it in my teeth.

He looks over at me once the car’s in park. “You gonna be okay in there?”

I swallow. “Yeah. I mean… I don’t know,” I glance at the front doors, the huge glass panes reflecting just how wrecked I look inside. “Would it be super weird if I asked you to come with me?”

His brow lifts, but not in judgment. More like… surprise. I rush to fill the silence.

“You don’t have to. Obviously. I just–I might throw up or faint or combust and I’d rather not do that alone.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then he nods. “Alright.”

Just like that.

We both get out. The second my feet hit the pavement, I feel my stomach drop. I can’t do this. I can’t. But then Asher’s voice is lew behind me.

“Breathe.”

And I do. Shakily. But I do.

We walk up the massive front steps. The studio has one of those pretentious wooden spiral staircases, like a fairytale castle mated with a mansion. Every creak of the polished wood echoes as we climb, and my pulse is louder than my footsteps.

When we reach the top, the doors to the main studio are open–and it’s chaos.

Not just chaos. Absolute, nuclear–level anxiety meltdown.

There must be thirty dancers in here, all pacing, whispering, stretching nervously. Some are crying. Some are pretending not to cry. The air practically trembles with tension.

I scan the room and immediately spot Mila, perched on the windowsill like she owns the place and is simultaneously on the verge of losing it.

“Mila!” I call, rushing over.

She jumps down and meets me halfway, pulling me into a tight hug that smells like lavender body spray and panic.

“Oh thank god you’re here,” she says, squeezing me. Then, as she pulls back, her eyes flicker to something–or someone–just over my shoulder.

Her mouth opens.

Her jaw drops.

And then, full volume Mila: “Holy fucking shit. Who is that.”

I feel the heat rise in my face. “That’s Asher,” I say quickly. “Tyler’s brother.”

Mila does not blink. “Jesus Christ. Is there a third brother I don’t know about? Do they all look like Greek gods or is it just a Hayes family freak thing?”

“Mila,” I hiss.

“What? I’m nervous and coping through thirst.”

1/3

Chapter 67: Penny

Asher, for his part, looks unbothered. Maybe mildly amused. Definitely used to attention. 1 greture beteren en

“Mila, meet Asher. Asher, Mila’s my best friend.”

“Pleasure,” Asher says, giving her a small nod.

Mila mouths holy shit at me behind his back.

I try not to die.

Turning back to her, I ask the real question: “Has anyone heard anything yet?”

Mila shakes her head. “Nothing. Madame still hasn’t shown up. People are freaking. Apparently, that girl from Silver Pointe–go already done like three galas–didn’t even get lead this time.”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“Yeah. So if she didn’t get it? We’re screwed.”

And just like that, every ounce of oxygen leaves the room.

Mila’s still muttering something about Asher’s jawline being a crime against humanity when the studio door creaks open again–this time with purpose.

Madame’s assistant steps inside.

The room falls into a kind of unnatural silence, like someone just hit mute on a soundtrack. The assistant isn’t that tall, but the commands the room the way Madame does–calm, collected, terrifying. She holds a folder in her hand. And that folder might as well be radioactive. Everyone knows what’s in it

“The results have arrived,” she announces, her voice clipped, proper. “Madame will be out momentarily. I ask all dancers to form a single line along the mirror wall. Anyone accompanying a dancer–please step aside to the back.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid.

I glance at Asher beside me, and he’s watching me, eyes unreadable. Then he looks toward the back wall. It’s not crowded–just a few parents, a boyfriend or two, and some random siblings–and he looks like he’s about to ask if I’m okay with it. But he doesn’t speak. Just lifts one eyebrow like a silent question

I nod, heartbeat loud in my ears.

He gives the barest nod in return and walks off toward the wall, planting himself next to a woman with a ballet bun and permanent frown. He crosses his arms, leans back like he’s totally fine being surrounded by frantic dance moms and hormonal dancers. Unbothered. But still watching me.

Mila tugs my arm. “Come on, Pen.”

We move to the mirror wall, the hardwood floor cool under my feet even through my shoes. Everyone automatically falls into position like they’re prepping for an audition all over again. Toes out. Heels in. Posture sharp. It’s not a performance, but our bodies are conditioned. Even anxiety won’t mess with that kind of muscle memory.

I stand shoulder to shoulder with Mila, our reflections warped a little in the floor–length mirror.

“Now is not the moment,” she says under her breath, “but like… why is he here and not your boyfriend?”

I don’t answer right away. I keep my gaze focused forward, locked on the far wall like if I don’t look anywhere else, I won’t have a full–blown panic attack.

“Tyler had class,” I murmur. “He couldn’t come.”

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