A/N: It's been two years since my last SQ story ended and I've had no spark to write them again, sadly. So you can imagine my surprise 10 days ago when I was hit upside the head with this idea. Then I heard SQ Week was on the way. Obviously, this story was meant to be. I hoped for it to be done in time for the final day, but it is not. It's about 75% done. I'll post chapters every few days, which will buy me enough time to finish and not feel rushed. Unending thanks to Angie, who has been an amazing sounding board, beta, cheerleader, and friend — you wouldn't have this story were it not for her. Wonderful to see you again, I hope you enjoy.

The black Mercedes smoothly rolled to a stop in front of the old mill building, a mix of dirt and gravel crunching underneath $3,200 worth of tires. Regina Mills glanced out her driver's side window, casting a wary eye on the structure, which had clearly seen better days — a generous assessment.

Three worn stairs led to a small porch, such as it was, which needed a good sanding and staining. A faded white door sat on the porch, standing out among the red brick facade. The entrance was one of a dozen around the complex, a maze of buildings that currently housed a variety of small businesses; one whole building, still empty, displayed an impressive collection of broken windows on the third floor. A sign sporting fading black letters above the door weakly proclaimed "Step In Time Dance Academy." Dance Academy, Regina sniffed to herself. The night before she had shown her best friend the building on Google Maps. "Looks like a serial killer factory," Kathryn quipped. "If you see a clown anywhere on the grounds, run."

Regina checked herself in the rear-view mirror — crimson lipstick still perfectly in place, muted floral scarf tied smartly over a black raincoat. Summer had ended two days earlier, and Mother Nature wasted no time in sending temperatures south. A light mist fell, bringing a wet chill to the air, the clouds and overall grey of the day adding to the somewhat depressing surroundings.

"So, sweetheart," she began, trying not to betray her true feelings on the undertaking at hand. "Are you ready to go in? Sure you want to give this a try?" Her rich voice held that optimistic-yet-cautious fake tone that anyone over 7 could ferret out, yet lucky for her, Henry was only 5.

"Yeah!"

She couldn't help but smile at the small, yet enthusiastic, voice that piped up from the booster seat in the back. Nor could she stop the wide smile that lit up his whole face, brown eyes huge and ready for adventure.

"OK, let's go."

Holding hands, they navigated the empty parking lot and Carefully, Regina thought, walked up the stairs, which looked like they could give at any minute. Yet they didn't make a sound and were surprisingly firm under her black dress boots. Once at the top, Henry made for the door and entered, with nary a glance behind him.

Regina followed suit, and was quickly assaulted by a riot of color. While the outside looked nearly abandoned, the inside — from the smell of it — sported a fresh coat of paint, bright buttercup yellow. Two rows of metal folding chairs lined the long hallway, with 8x10 headshots hung on one wall proclaiming, STAFF. Drop-ceiling tiles above featured hand prints of all sizes, in all colors. The entrance to a large rehearsal room sat opposite what served as an office, a window and counter cut out of the wall.

"Afternoon, may I help you?" A smiling voice interrupted Regina's review, the brunette starting a touch. To the right, she found a grey haired woman sitting at the front desk, eyes smiling at her over glasses that dropped halfway down her nose.

'Yes, sorry. I'm Regina Mills. My son Henry is joining the 4 o'clock mini hip hop class."

The woman, who looked every bit a grandmother from central casting — glasses chain included — expertly tapped away at a laptop, never taking her eyes off Regina. "Nice to meet you, I'm Eugenia Lucas, everyone calls me Miss U." Regina smiled politely, mentally noting she would do no such thing. "Yes, we have Mr. Henry right here. Looks like he's registered and paid. Do you have his—"

Before the woman could finish, Regina produced a sheet of paper: "—health record. Yes, right here."

Eugenia chuckled to herself, reaching for the document. Of course you do. After 22 years running a dance studio, she could spot a Type A Mom right away. "Need me to copy this?"

"No, I copied it for you."

"Thanks much." Type As were not shy, and sometimes demanding, but Eugenia admitted they did make her day easier. They paid on time and paid attention to the myriad details, especially around recital time. She's take 'em over the Nice Flaky Moms any day.

"Mills...Are you by any chance related to—"

"Yes, he was my father." He and was poked Regina sharply in the chest, the memory of her deceased father springing to life. For 34 years, Henry Mills had run the G&T Woolen Mill that spanned this entire complex in Denwick for 109 years, working his way up from day laborer to night school, to eventually the corner office. The mill was the lifeblood of the town, until 20 years ago when cheap labor made lucrative manufacturing jobs run south from New England like water through a sieve. Mills from Maine to Rhode Island shuttered one by one, like dominos. Henry Mills did his damndest to fight it, downsizing operations over and over, trying to save some jobs — any jobs — until the North Carolina owners finally pulled the plug altogether. Regina was convinced guilt over his inability to fight economics beyond his control contributed to his death at a young 62.

"He was a lovely man. My Bruce worked in the dye department for 43 years. Always had wonderful things to say about your dad. He loved that mill and the employees."

A heartfelt smile warmed Regina's face. "He did, truly."

"How wonderful your son will continue that fine name."

Brown eyes widened, she had never thought about it in quite that way. "Yes, he will," she agreed, the thought settling into her head.

"Anyway…" Eugenia's sharp continuation jolted Regina out of her reverie. "Young Henry here can dance in bare feet today. He'll need hip hop shoes, you can get them at any dance store. Closest is On Your Toes in Islington, but you'll pay more." Regina didn't miss the sharp tone around the mention of the neighboring town in which she lived. Working-class Denwick and neighboring Islington had a friendly (and sometimes not-so-friendly) rivalry. Islington was home to everyone from Denwick who made some money. The joke went that you could enter the dining room of the upscale Italian Islington restaurant Benne on a Saturday night, announce "Your mother from Denwick is on the phone," and every patron would hop out of his seat to take the call. "They're cheaper at Dance Mania in Elizabeth. Class is 45 minutes, recital is in June. His teacher will be…" Eugenia scanned a printout hanging to her left, "...hold on, new season. Still getting my head around it...oh, Emma. Miss Emma. She's incredible. He'll love her."

Eugenia returned to her laptop, tip-tapping away until Regina cleared her throat. "Excuse me, but do I stay for class or leave?"

"Oh! I'm sorry. I forgot that part. You're welcome to stay, there's a small observation window into every rehearsal room, but it does get crowded. Only 3 rooms and…" she clicked away at her laptop "...475 students this year. Most of the parents of the younger ones stay. Do whatever makes you feel comfortable. If you have any questions, Mrs. Mills, you just let me know. One rehearsal room is on this floor, two are one floor down. Minis are in...Green today — the room up here."

"Ms. Mills," Regina corrected automatically, trying to parse the avalanche of information that just slid her way. And if I wanted to be comfortable, I wouldn't be here. She was shocked Henry requested dance classes. Sure, he liked to bop around the house and loved music. "Mom, turn it UP!" he'd holler from the backseat, the second the radio caught half a beat of up-tempo current hits. Today's music was not Regina's taste at all, but soon enough Preset 1 in the Mercedes was HITZ 106, the Greater Boston area's #1 station.

It's Kathryn's fault, she noted for the umpteenth time, mentally chuckling at how many times that statement had crossed her mind over the years. She had seen Henry dancing around the house one day and within earshot of the boy suggested, "Regina, you should put him in dance class." Of course Henry heard it. "Dance class? What's THAT?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Of course, I…" Eugenia covered, but was quickly saved by the door opening and, Regina swore, half an elementary school entering — girls chattering, mothers walking and talking in pairs, each faster than the next. She quickly found a seat across from the 2'x2' observation window in the hallway-cum-waiting room and sat next to Henry, who already had his shoes off and was bouncing on his toes. He was wearing a white T-shirt and black gym shorts, the dress code for hip hop classes. She had read the studio's website. Of course.

Bodies tall and small streamed into the front door, which never seemed to close. Parents, obvious studio veterans, stopped and talked to Eugenia, asking about her summer or kids, while dancers plopped down wherever they fell and changed into their shoes. Regina spied a large chalkboard on the far wall, which had a section for each rehearsal room and the rundown of classes for the day. Preschool classes had run that morning, and everything from tap and ballet to Irish step and musical theatre would go through 9:30 tonight. No wonder Step In Time was voted the Reader's Choice dance studio in the area for 8 years running, it certainly had a huge clientele.

As Regina studied the board, her view was suddenly blocked by a toned torso and a set of firm breasts that stopped an inch from her nose.

"Oh! Sorry!"

She followed the apologetic voice north and found herself locked into a pair of smiling green eyes and fair features. A shock of blonde hair was piled on top of the woman's head in a loose bun. On either side of Regina's head, bare arms braced the lithe body against the wall, trying not to topple face-first onto the brunette's lap.

"Sorry, Miss Emma!"

Regina snapped herself back into focus, tearing her eyes away from the breasts, down to a tiny girl, who was tangled in between the blonde's legs.

"Lizzie, what are you doing down there?" Emma laughed. Regina snuck a glance to her right and left, and found defined biceps at attention as the women held herself off the wall — and Regina.

"I dunno."

A deep chuckle rolled out of the blonde. "Can you get out from under my legs? I can't twist an ankle the first day of the season and I can't land on this poor lady." She punctuated the last statement with a wink at Regina.

Tiny dancer extracted, Emma pushed off the wall and away from Regina with a slow exhale. "I'm very sorry about that," she smiled again.

"No problem," Regina muttered, eyes following the blonde as she strode toward a rehearsal room. The white tank top hugged her stomach tightly, and a loud patterned pair of dance tights showcased a spectacular ass and firm thighs. The tights ended just under the woman's knees, her calves defined and firm from dancing, no doubt. Regina inhaled the scent the woman left behind, she left a delicate hint of mint hung in the air, clean, crisp, and pleasant.

"Where are my hip hoppers? Who's ready to daaaaance?" Emma sang as she leaned one hip against the door of what a sign noted was The Green Room. Boys and girls stood and headed toward the room, high-fiving their teacher as they walked in.

Henry jumped off the seat to his mother's left and ran toward Miss Emma like a magnet, bare feet thudding against the floor. "Me!"

Emma smiled widely. "All right, my man! Right here." She held up a palm just high enough that Henry had to jump to slap it. The woman followed Henry through the door, closing it behind her and stealing one last glance at the boy's mother. Regina met her gaze once more and was rewarded with a second wink. The brunette's jaw dropped slightly as the door closed with a thud, which was soon replaced by a pumping bass.

TBC