She side-eyed him and didn’t answer.
“Natasha—”
“Stop. You don’t love me. No one does. Maybe you think you do, because the sex is great, or you like having someone here you can bang whenever you want, but that’s not love.”
He shoved a hand though his hair, exasperated. “What is love, then?”
“I don’t know. Not that.”
Quiet fell between them. Dimitri pinched the bridge of his nose. It was happening again. He’d put his heart on the line, and was being rejected. But it wasn’t happening how he’d feared. He’d imagined her laughing at him, assuring him that this was just another affair, no need to make things serious.
Tasha hadn’t done that. Instead, she doubted his feelings for her. Doubted her own worthiness of them.
How the hell did he combat that? Especially when he’d done everything in his power to maintain their no-strings relationship out of his own fear of being hurt. He’d cemented a situation where she couldn’t believe in him.
Words weren’t going to fix this. He had to prove his feelings to her.
Sliding one arm under her knees and the other around her back, he lifted her from the sofa.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was dull, and tired.
“Putting you to bed.”
“Put me in my own bed, please.”
“No.”
She sighed, but didn’t argue, like she hadn’t expected him to agree.
After he got her settled in his bed with her foot propped up, he placed her phone on the nightstand beside her.
“Call Gina,” he said.
She shook her head. “She’s busy. I don’t want to bother her.”
“She’s your best friend. She’s not too busy for you.”
Another sigh. “Tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Fine.”
He shut the bedroom door behind him and headed for his office on the other side of the house. He needed time alone to sort out what had just happened, and he suspected she did, too.
The question he’d asked her had stuck with him. It was something one of his coaches had once confronted him with, back when he was on the ballroom dance circuit.
Who are you if you aren’t a dancer?
Dimitri went to one of the shelves in the corner of the room and pulled down a large three-ring binder. Taking it to his desk, he opened it and sat to flip through the pages.
Printed pictures of costumes, set design concepts, song lists, and choreography notes packed the binder and strained the rings. Alex laughed at him, said he should “go paperless” and make everything in the binder digital. There was something called “Pinterest” that made it easier.
Dimitri didn’t care. He’d had this binder since he was a teenager. Since beforeAliens Don’t Dance. Between these two peeling plastic covers lived all his ideas, no matter how big or small, organized by old-school dividers with brightly colored tabs.
Who was he if not a dancer?
A creator. And someday he’d have the wealth, the reputation, the fame, and the clout, to bring his ideas to life.
Before, he’d been young, full of more bluster and enthusiasm than common sense. He’d made his move too early, and despite critical acclaim, his show had flopped.
