Nik huffed. “Yeah, I already figured that out. I’m just waiting for you to make me breakfast.”
Two hours later, Nik left to check into a hotel, and Dimitri was at his desk. His conversation—if it could be called that—with his brother had shed light on the strangeness of this situation. He and Natasha had been locked in this stagnant dynamic for three years. Enough was enough. He picked up his phone, intending to text her and ask if she’d be home for dinner, when strains of Tchaikovsky rang out. His mother.
He picked up. “Privet,Mama.”
She cut right to the chase, speaking a mile a minute in Russian. “Your brother just called. Mitya, you’re gettingmarried?”
Dimitri shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mama, call the police.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m going to murder Nik.”
7
After their impromptu dance in Dimitri’s home studio, Natasha successfully managed to avoid him that night by going to bed early, while he was still at the restaurant. The next day, she hustled out before he woke up, and spent the morning chilling in the juice bar at the gym where she taught Pilates.
She brought her laptop with her, but a quick look at her bank account balance revealed she had no business checking out apartment listings yet. Instead, she pulled up the video file from the day before. She had a little time before her first class, so she could review the choreography. She wanted to experiment with combining music from classical ballets likeCoppeliaorSwan Lakewith hip hop and pop music, and creating a dance that merged all styles, along with some Latin dance moves thrown in. It was the kind of thing she wished had existed when she was a teenager studying ballet. If she could bring it to the stage, or to schools, it could be used to teach kids and teenagers about music and dance history, bridging the gap between classical styles and current popular trends.
But those were bigger ideas. First, she had to nail the content.
As she watched the recording, she paused to make notes, jotting down what worked and what didn’t.
Then Dimitri walked into the video frame, and she jolted in her seat. She’d completely forgotten that the camera had still been rolling when he joined her in the dance.
She dropped her pencil, absorbed in watching them move on screen. He followed the style of her choreography, improvising his own moves as he led her through the dance. He brought something edgier to it, and before she could examine that too much, she made some notes based on his additions.
It was fascinating to watch herself with him. Her shoulders and neck tensed when he surprised her, then eased as they followed the music. Of course, she’d seen film of them dancing together before. On her first season withThe Dance Off,he’d chosen her, instead of one of the other more seasoned pros, as his partner for the opening dance of the season premiere. That dance thrust her into the spotlight, although she hadn’t made it very far that season with her aging comedian partner. But that first dance, choreographed by Dimitri, was a thing of beauty. It captured his magnetic presence, her infatuation with him, and the incredible sexual energy that had sparked between them the day they first met. She’d watched the footage countless times, and each time, she swooned, still unable to believe her life had led her to a place where she got to dance with her teenage crush.
But this was different. This time, no one else was there. No one was watching. No camera crew, no producers, no audience. It was just the two of them, alone, sleep-rumpled and unguarded. What she saw on her own face worried her, but what she saw on his . . .
Her finger hovered over the touchpad, ready to close the file, to shy away from the raw vulnerability in his expression. The way his eyes followed her, like he couldn’t get enough . . . it was the dance. It had to be. He was acting.
The vibe changed, then. It became hotter. Sexier. The camera picked up the sound of their breathing, louder and heavier. Even watching on a small screen with headphones on, Natasha’s heart thumped harder as the dance turned more passionate.
Carajo,this was like the start of a sex tape. Her eyes followed his hands, noting the way he touched her. Stronger. Tighter. More possessive. Even she, unable to resist his touch, leaned closer into him, lingered against his body and undulated more than was entirely necessary.
Her face burned, and she darted a glance around to make sure no one else could see her screen.¡Estupida!She was getting turned on just from watching herself dance with Dimitri! And she had to teach Pilates to a bunch of retired ladies in—she checked the time—twenty minutes.
She sipped her smoothie, but it did nothing to cool her down, especially when she saw the moment Dimitri decided to kiss her.
And the moment she decided to let him.
The camera’s microphone had even picked up Nik’s shouted greeting. The way they froze on screen, eyes wide and horrified, was almost comical. Except she was so aroused right now, nothing was funny. A fantasy flashed through her mind, of jumping in her car, racing back to Dimitri’s, and pouncing on him in his bed.
No, damn it.No sex.And she hadwork.So she could make money and get the hell out of his house.
Watching him shove her on screen, and his stricken expression when he’d realized what he’d done, she could see it was an accident. But she was grateful, both for Nik’s interruption and the accidental push. They broke the spell cast by the power of dance, and Nik’s presence made it easier to hang out in the kitchen afterward making café con leche.
No more thinking about Dimitri, or how pleased he’d been by her latte art. She shut the laptop, packed up her stuff, and headed to the class area early. It was the first of three classes today. She had her work cut out for her.
8
Kevin and Lori were blowing up her phone. Natasha had never realized how often they used her apartment as hangout headquarters until she no longer had it available. They went back and forth all day in their group text, throwing out potential plans. All of them involved meeting at Natasha’s place first.
To get them off her back, she agreed to meet them for coffee in Culver City after her last audition, which she was pretty sure she wouldn’t get. The casting director had stared at her phone the whole time, looking bored, and her “Thanks, we’ll be in touch” had been cold.
Natasha almost texted Dimitri to let him know she’d be out, then stopped herself. Why bother? She wasn’t his girlfriend, or his roommate. She wasn’t even a real houseguest, no matter what he said. She had a set of keys, a remote for the garage, and she knew the security code. There was no need to keep him apprised of her whereabouts. No reason to think he’d care.
