“I’m really sorry, Patrick.” Anita moved her hand near his, but not quite touching. “First Daniela, then Tatiana, and Nikita…”
“Nikita?” He scrunched up his face in confusion.
“Yeah.” Anita squirmed in her seat and took her hand back from where it had been on the table. “I still can’t believe that happened at the Jersey Classic. She was a nice woman.” Anita waited, but no response. She wasn’t wrong, was she? She had heard enough gossip. “It was awful how she was killed.”
“Yeah. I mean, I only met her once or twice, but she seemed like a nice lady.”
Anita’s brain short circuited, and she almost dropped her iced tea all over her shirt. “Wait, what do you mean, you only met her once or twice?”
“Umm, there isn’t that much mystery in that statement, Anita.” Patrick took a large bite of his cheesesteak.
“But weren’t you two, like, having an affair?”
He almost spat out his food. Patrick’s eyes widened, and his brow furrowed. “Are you joking? Of course not. Who told you that?”
Anita held her water against her cheeks to try to hide the blush. “I don’t know. It was just, like, a rumor that was going around. So-and-so saw you together, thought you looked—cozy, I guess.”
Patrick sighed. “I interviewed her, about a week before she died. TheStar Tribwanted a piece on the competition. We met for drinks in Princeton the night before so she could answer some follow up questions. That’s really it. I mean, yeah, she called me a few times afterward, but nothing happened. I keep things professional.”
Anita frowned. She never paid attention to the ballroom gossip. Why had she listened to the shit about Patrick? “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to offend you.”
“You didn’t,” he replied curtly. “It’s just been a long week.” He shivered. “It’s freezing out here. Maybe we should get back home.”
Anita nodded and bit her lip as she helped clear the plates. She had messed that up right and proper.
****
They drove home in silence, ostensibly listening to an old Snow Patrol CD on Patrick’s ancient sound system. Anita kept her eyes out the window, watching the shadowy trees and outlines of homes pass.
“Are you okay?” Patrick finally asked.
Just rethinking everything she thought she knew about her friend. “Of course,” Anita replied instead. Maybe if she counted mile markers she would be less inclined to say something stupid.
Beside her, she heard his slow inhale and exhale before he continued. Great, now he was going to ream her out and tell her all the reasons he no longer wanted to dance with her.
But he wasn’t Mikhail. She chanced a glance at him, his familiar profile outlined in the headlights of passing cars. How could she know someone for so long and not really know them?
“Are you mad I didn’t tell you I had met Nikita?”
Anita barked a laugh. “Seriously? I thought you were mad that I had listened to the gossip.”
“Everyone gossips, Anita. I have to admit, I was a little surprised you believed it.” He glanced at her, the crooked smile casting a bright flashing light on his super sexy dimple. Anita’s breath caught in her throat, and she bit her bottom lip. She had a sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to lean over and lick that dimple. When they were sixteen, he had let her paint it peacock blue before a comp.
Which was clearly evidence that lack of sleep and being stalked with weird messages had driven her batshit crazy. She sat on her hands. She could do impulse control.
Patrick did not seem to notice. “At least it didn’t feel like you were accusing me of murder,” he teased.
Anita licked her lips and stared out the window. “Patrick, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone less capable of murder than you.”
“Well, that’s the nicest compliment I think I’ve ever had.”
He pulled the car in front of the studio and turned his dark-blue eyes to hers. It really was unfair. They were so warm, so inviting. It did not seem right how Patrick could seemingly hug someone just by looking at them. “Should I walk you inside?”
Yes. “No, I’m all right.” But she could not move from the seat, her hand frozen on the handle of the door. She had a full menagerie caught in her chest, threatening to burst out at any moment.
He placed one hand on her shoulder, an old, friendly sort of gesture, but a pulse of electricity frizzled down her back. Her eyes were drawn to that sexy little dimple, always painted peacock blue in her mind.
Keeping her shit together was exhausting.
