“My hair gel. Ani, you know it is very expensive. My mother, she sends it straight from E.U.”
Frost chilled through Anita’s veins. Her eyes flicked to the bottle of hair gel that he had left beside the computer, and she swiped it into the trash can. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t keep track of his own stuff.
“I don’t see it anywhere. Maybe Tatiana can help you with that.” She stabbed at the “end call” button and screamed inside.
Life was not fair. Men were not fair. Men, with their stupid hair gel and their wannabe dance reality stars. She was done with them. All of them.
She did her yoga breathing, re-centering herself, and then tightened her ponytail.Men.
Her phone buzzed again, not quite as angry this time. Less bee-like and more mall massage chair. More composed now that she had trashed Mikhail’s designer hair gel, because apparently that was a thing, she glanced at the screen, and all of the tension fled from her body, as fast as a Viennese spin.
A text from Patrick, just a GIF of a roly-poly, black-and-white sheepdog puppy with a Maine coon kitten perched on its head.
Maybe not all men.
Anita glanced at the clock. Read the mail or practice? Yesterday’s mail had brought a reminder about the Keystone Star Ball, at which she would definitely not be performing sans partner.
No mail.
She warmed up with a quick boxing workout, letting the punches and kicks and jabs stretch and warm her muscles. The tension in her neck and shoulders unwound as she moved out of the boxing warmup and into her samba routine. There was nothing better in the world for relaxing into the music than a deep bass drumbeat. She spent so many hours making other dancers look good, but this was how she felt most herself.
If only she had time to do it more often.
“Looking good, there, Anita,” said a familiar voice.
She halted abruptly and inelegantly out of the chassé turns she had been working on. Damn it, she had been in the zone for the first time in weeks. Who could have possibly—
Oh.
Standing on the edge of the dance floor, arms crossed over his trim muscular frame, curly dark-brown hair hanging in his face, Patrick O’Leary grinned at her. The dimple drew her gaze immediately. How did he possibly look so good in just track pants and a windbreaker? All casual, sexy Jim Halpert? It wasn’t fair. It took Anita ages to get her ponytail at just the right tension, and all Patrick needed was a beat-up messenger bag slung across one shoulder. “You’re dropping your shoulder on the end of that turn, though.”
“Did you come home from New York just to insult me?” She got a puppy GIF but no actual warning? A girl needed time to prepare to see that face. She knew postcards were passé, but he could at least have sent an “SYS” text. “And I’m not dropping my hip.”
He smiled lazily and cast his eyes toward the floor. “I caught an earlier train. I missed it here, I guess.”
“Three months is a long time to be away.” Anita crossed her arms over her chest. She would not find him adorable. Absolutely not. Why hadn’t he written her more? GIFs do not a friendship make.
“Did you miss me?”
Yes. “No. Besides, what are you doinghere? At the studio? I thought the world didn’t really start turning for you until eleven a.m.” She moved across the studio floor to turn the music to a local pop station and sipped at her coffee. There was nothing left, but she needed to do something with her hands.
“Toni has a cold. She asked me to cover her class.” He sat down in the waiting area, pulling off his boots and changing into a pair of sneakers.
He had called Toni before he called her?“I’m sure the ladies will love that,” Anita remarked. Patrick was eternally very popular among the Zumba regulars, who had very vocally missed him over the last few months. Not only did he have classic Irish-handsome features, like a brunet Chris O’Donnell, but he was also just a generally decent human being. A rare quality, as she could attest. If he wasn’t her best friend, it would probably bother her, but Anita had been watching women stalk him with devotion since they had met in their high school ballroom dance club. She was more than used to it by now.
Strange, then, the pang in her chest. She rubbed at the area absently with her knuckles. She should really switch from coffee to green tea.
“Besides.” Patrick stopped, his voice catching in his throat. “I, um, I heard about Mikhail.” Her heart would not stop palpitating. A cold sweat trickled down her spine, leaving a delicious warmth in its wake. He had heard about Mikhail and had come home early?
She opened her mouth to reply, but no words would form.
The bell over the door chimed, and a pair of timid thirty-something ladies in black leggings and brand-new high-end sneakers entered the studio. Anita shook her head and pasted on her most professional smile.
“Good morning.” Patrick grinned at them, disarming them with his warmth and charm. He was definitely good for business. “Here for the class?” They nodded shyly, and he stood to his full height, extending his hand. “I’m Patrick. I’ll be your instructor. Have you done Zumba before?”
Anita’s smile bloomed inside her chest, and she moved to the check-in desk, filling her empty coffee cup with water from thenearby dispenser. The morning seemed a little brighter, having Patrick home at last. Things always ran a little smoother when he was there.
****
