She glanced at him, smelling of his intoxicating mix of pine and mint and cinnamon. It both soothed and exacerbated her wrought nerves. “Definitely.”
****
They walked the two blocks from the studio to Amore. Anita closed the lapels of her coat against the chill in the air.
“Here.” Patrick stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, taking off his scarf and tying it around her neck casually. His fingers thrummed against the bare, tender skin. “Can’t have you freezing, now, can we?” His touch lingered for just a beat too long on the ends of the scarf, holding her gaze with his own.
“We should hurry back.” Even to her own ears, the words sounded hollow, forced. For the briefest of moments, she wondered why he couldn’t leave his hands there forever, close to her face, close to her. Why didn’t she deserve this? Because this was Patrick, he of the eternal four-leaf clover. Right. And she was just…just Anita. Anita, who couldn’t hack medical school. Anita, who never quite made world champion. Patrick deservedmore. She swallowed the despair in an audible gulp. “Can’t miss a moment of practice.”
Patrick released his hold on the ends of the scarf. Anita thought she might fall over onto the side of the street. “Absolutely right. Time is ticking. Though I think we have a decent jive and paso. Everything else is gravy.” He smiled broadly at her, that smile that was so perfectly Patrick. There was something wonderfully nostalgic and magnetic about a person who reminded you of who you used to be and accepted unconditionally who you were now.
Anita pulled herself together and followed him into the coffee shop. Being more than dance partners had never worked out for her. She could not make the same mistakes. She could not lose Patrick as a friend. She needed to nip this weird attraction she was feeling right in the bud. It was almost the weekend.
Chapter Eight
Weekends at Lewis Dancesport Academy were hectic, to say the least, and lasted from Thursday night until Sunday afternoon, particularly in the weeks leading up to a competition. The studio buzzed with anticipation, the constant hum of music, the tapping and gliding of footsteps.
Anita loved it. Usually.
Less so when she had a partner who featured very prominently in some seriously hot and heavy dreams with two weeks before Keystone. What on earth had possessed her to host a master class on Saturday night?
For most of the day on Saturday, she hoped Hanna and Markus would cancel. Maybe there was a collapse of the Lincoln Tunnel or something. And also no, because that would be an epic tragedy and may have been a movie Patrick had forced her to watch in high school.
“I forgot how busy things get around here on the weekends.” Patrick helped her sweep the floor after the last student on Saturday afternoon. Anita tightened her ponytail, fixing it more firmly to the nape of her neck. She had an hour before the professionals were due to arrive, and still she needed to run out to pick up the catering for dinner and set up a drinks table. Nonalcoholic, of course, during the class, then wine and beer for afterward.
She could definitely use a glass now.
“But it brings in good business,” Anita replied, mentally checking things off her list. “I have to stay relevant somehow.”
“There is always improving your social media presence. You could upload dance tutorials, photos, create your own hashtags.” Patrick arched an eyebrow at her. “Not to harp, but I was looking at your metrics and—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Everything you just said is literal gibberish.” Anita busied herself with straightening the corners of the silver-and-gold tablecloth.
“Well, let me help.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “I have time. We’ve worked out most of our dance routines, except for the rumba.”
The rumba. Dance of love. Anita strangled down the wave of lust that tore through her at the thought. She would postpone that choreo as long as possible. “Don’t you have to write? Deadlines and such?” She flailed her hand in the air with a vague demonstration of “such.”
He shrugged. “I finished some this morning after we practiced, and I’ll have time tomorrow.”
“Oh, I have a lesson scheduled with Nigel in Center City tomorrow night.” She pulled plastic wineglasses out of her decorations box and set them neatly on the drinks table. “Can you come with me? It will be good to get his opinion.”
“Absolutely.” Patrick flattened the tablecloth over the refreshment table. “Now seriously, what else do you need done tonight? I’m completely at your disposal.”
Help? He couldn’t mean it.Anita smiled warmly, feeling the tension even in her eyebrows lessen just the slightest fraction. She hadn’t had actual, meaningful help in ages. Mikhail had often told her party planning was “not my forte.”
Tool.
“Do you mind running out to pick up the catering? I have a few more things to set up here before Hanna and Markus arrive.”
“No problem.” He picked up his phone and car keys and headed quickly out the door.
Anita watched him go, slightly ashamed at how thrilled she was that he was helping.
Of course, she could have asked Ricardo or Toni, but they were so often busy with other things, particularly on the weekends. Her mother was supportive, but on weekends, she and Dr. Goodman were usually out on one of their circumscribed activities.
Besides, it was better to do a thing yourself to make sure it was done properly.
Once in a while, though, help was wonderful. It almost made her feel like she was on vacation. Not that she had taken one of those in eons.
