All combined, the events of the last couple months had reduced her to living in the spare bedroom of a man she couldn’t even call a friend, with only a pile of tank tops, yoga pants, and denim shorts. At least Los Angeles weather was predictable enough in summer that she didn’t need much.
Maybe it was better this way. If she didn’t have access to her killer wardrobe, she’d be less tempted to go out partying, which she couldn’t afford to do anyway. And besides, she didn’t have the time. She’d lost track of how many gigs she was working now, teaching classes at various gyms and dance schools, from spin to pole-dance, from elderly aerobics to kiddie ballet. Her schedule was nuts.
One thing was for certain: Esmeralda couldnotfind out she was living with Dimitri.
When her phone buzzed again, Natasha checked it with dread. But it wasn’t her mother calling back to berate her about who knows what. It was a group text from Kevin Ray and Lori Kim, two other pros fromThe Dance Off.
Lori texted first.Yooooo let’s go to Club Picante, y’all!Followed by the dancing lady emoji.
Kevin’s reply flashed on the screen.I’m down!
A wave of longing threatened to swamp her. Natasha wanted to say yes, to go out drinking and dancing with her friends. Kevin and Lori were a blast, and since Gina moved out, Natasha had been spending way too much time alone. She wasn’t used to it.
But it was time to act like a responsible adult.
Before she could answer, Lori’s next text popped up.Pre-game drinks at Natasha’s?
Oh, hell no. They couldn’t know she was staying here, either. Not only would it be dangerous for her job, but then they would know about her utter failure to take care of herself. No one needed to know she was desperate enough to room with Dimitri.
Besides, Kevin didn’t like Dimitri. His green eyes narrowed whenever they were out partying and Dimitri showed up to sweep her away. It wasn’t jealousy—Kevin had never shown the slightest bit of sexual interest in her—but the times she got drunk and whined about Dimitri’s lack of commitment, Kevin spent the rest of the night scowling.
She quickly typed a reply.Sorry, guys. Not tonight. Got work early tomorrow.
Before she could see their answers, she put her phone on silent and practically threw it onto the bedside table.
The ereader had shut off while she was texting. She set it aside, as well. Reading had lost its appeal.
She settled back into the pillows, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling in the dark. Temporary. This was only temporary. She’d swear Dimitri to secrecy, and uphold her one condition. Then she’d get back on her feet, back in her own place, back to being a success. No one had to know about this little lapse.
No one would know she was a failure.
5
The next morning, Natasha woke to a text from the owners of the West Hollywood branch of Spin Cycle, where she taught an early morning spin class that paired shouted positive affirmations with rocking club beats. There was a gas leak on the block, and the building was closed.
With her first gig of the day canceled, Natasha closed her eyes and snuggled into the pillow.
And couldn’t go back to sleep. Her body tensed, ears pitched to pick up any sounds of movement from the rest of the house. She rolled over in the bed that didn’t feel or smell like hers, mildly surprised Dimitri hadn’t crept under the covers with her in the middle of the night. She hadn’t heard him come home last night—home, as inhishome, not hers—and she knew from nights spent with him that he wasn’t an early riser.
Worse, she had to pee. But what if he was up, and she ran into him in the hallway? She’d done the awkward morning thing with him plenty of times before—so many times, in fact, it was no longer quite so awkward to grab a spare toothbrush from under the sink—but this was different.
The reality of staying in Dimitri’s home as a guest sank in with stunning clarity. There was no way this wasn’t going to be weird. She just had to suck it up before her bladder burst.
She slid out of the bed, feeling for herchanclasbefore remembering she’d thrown them out. Their rubber soles meant they couldn’t go through the dryer on hot. She needed a new pair of slippers.
Barefoot, then. She tiptoed to the door and eased it open. At the entrance to the hallway bathroom, she paused to eye Dimitri’s bedroom door, which was half-open. She swallowed, debating whether it was better to go about her business quietly, or shut his door so she didn’t wake him. The carpet under her feet was thick and plush, completely unlike the scarred hardwood floors in the old prewar apartment where she’d grown up. By the time she was eighteen, she’d known every creak and crack in her great-grandparents’ home.
This was a fairly new house in Beverly Hills. She could take a chance.
She reached his room without making a sound, but standing in Dimitri’s doorway afforded her a perfect view of the man himself sprawled in the enormous California King-sized bed she knew so well. His wide chest was bared to the edge of his ribcage, where the blankets covered the rest of the goods. Thick arms wrapped around a squishy pillow, his face hidden in its folds. The scent of his cologne, something woodsy undercut with citrus, beckoned her in.
Natasha bit her lip. The sight of him, half-dressed and twisted in the covers, sent a low thrum of pleasure vibrating through her body. The way he held the pillow was how he held her, caged in his arms, his face buried in her hair. He said the smell of her fig shampoo helped him fall asleep.
With great care, she grasped the doorknob and pulled the door shut, blocking him from view before she did something dumb, like climb into bed with him.
Since she had a little extra time, she took a quick shower, then carried her camera and laptop to the dance studio on the other end of the house. Yes, she should use the time to search for apartments, but her multitude of summer jobs didn’t leave her a lot of time or energy to dance for the fun of it. The spin class especially wore her out, and she couldn’t find it in her to be upset it had been canceled, even though it paid well and she needed the money.
The studio had a couple stools in the corner, so she used them as tables to set up her equipment. Both the camera and laptop had been splurges, which she’d just finished paying off a month earlier, but they allowed her to film herself and edit the footage. As much as she enjoyed all the gigs she was able to take on as a dancer—from teaching classes, to ensemble work on TV musicals, to her status as a pro onThe Dance Off—she missed choreographing routines for real dancers.
