He was just being paranoid. Of course. Just because Melanie had expressed interest in him didn’t mean she was the stalker.
It wasn’t hard to find her public accounts, the photos of her from college, one among a group of nearly identical girls in too-tight sweaters and too-short skirts. A sorority? Wouldn’t surprise him. The photos of her and her husband, stiff in formal wear, on a yacht, were more concerning. Her husband’s eyes never met the camera. Where was he? Patrick clicked over to Mark Templeton’s account and noted nearly daily pictures of meals and whiskey cocktails. Daily until a couple of weeks ago.
She followedPhillyProudand Toni, but not the studio. She probably couldn’t find the studio page. It was buried so low at the bottom of the algorithm it would take an excavator to locate.
Patrick tsked to himself. The studio’s social media presence was abysmal at best. Wasn’t there a dance this weekend, a comp next week? The least he could do would be to help Anita zhush it. Maybe spend some time leaning over her shoulder, helping her edit photos.
He was pathetic. He knew it and knew there was very little he could do about it.
Patrick sat back in Anita’s office chair, hands cradling the nape of his neck. Melanie couldn’t be the stalker. Interest and sexual harassment did not necessarily equal stalking. He hadtraced some of the burner accounts that had left him messages, but none seemed remotely related to Melanie.
He heard the bell over the door chime, and he tensed. He could not recall how long he had been sitting there, but night had fallen sometime in the interim. The tension relaxed when he saw who had entered.
“Hey.” Anita stood in the doorway of the office, her face drawn but a little rosier than when he had left that morning. A twinge of something primal, some instinct to protect, clutched at him. “Thank you for today.”
She would not have needed help if he could have kept the stalker away from her. “No trouble. You feeling any better?”
“Finally.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a plastic container with a blue top. “My mom wanted me to give this to you.”
He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Your mom is the best.”
“Funny, she said the same thing about you.”
A beat. Patrick’s gaze dropped to her mouth. The last time they had been in this office, she had been in his arms. Long dormant arousal heated his stomach.
But this was not the time. She was still recovering, even if she looked better on her worst day than many people did on their best. Curvy and lithe and—
Staring at him like he had three heads.
She broke the silence first. “So, what are you doing?”
His mind went blank, so he surreptitiously glanced at the computer screen. Right. Melanie. Stalker. “Social media. Speaking of which, you really need to bulk up your website and accounts.”
“Do I, though? There’s just always so many other things to do.”
“Better things, you mean.” His chest tightened. His mother didn’t think his career was legitimate, either.
“No.” Anita moved toward him, standing so close he was having trouble remembering anything. Not his name, not his job. Not even really what they were talking about. It was impossible to focus on anything but her intoxicating smell of lilies and hibiscus. If he could bottle that, he might be able to take it with him when he had to leave. “Not better, just less—complicated.”
“It’s not rocket science.” She was so close. Her lips parted slightly, and for an instant, just an instant as any longer would be absolute torture, he imagined what it would be like to kiss her. To press his lips against her mouth, slide his tongue against hers, breathe the same air she did.
I need a cold shower. I need to move to Greenland.
Holding himself stiffly, he leaned forward and kissed the top of her soft mane of hair. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Sweet dreams, Anita.”
Chapter Seventeen
Anita doggedly pushed through the next day and a half, drinking water or bone broth nearly constantly to stay hydrated. Work. She needed to work.
How had one single sick day set her so far behind? Their comp routines were fine, but she knew they lacked the oomph, the extra sizzle that the judges wanted. And her own students seemed to have all completely lost their minds. One of them had brought in a costume for her approval that was three sizes too small, another couple had forgotten half their routines, and even more stumbled halfheartedly through their steps. Not to mention Nina Rabinova, who kept asking if Patrick would be coming back to help with her comp prep.
It was unsurprising she was starving, sore, and about to have a serious diva breakdown before the Saturday night party.
Normally, it was such a good idea. It enticed more people to the studio. The wine bar helped loosen inhibitions, and people were more willing to try new moves and different partners. Social dancing was key to the studio’s success.
But not when she was still fighting to keep up and had zero prospects of help. Toni had plans as usual, and even Ricardo had not promised to make it. She was on her own. Damn Mikhail.
She grabbed a granola bar from the emergency stash in her desk and unwrapped it as she went to fetch a box of party supplies from the closet.I can do it alone. I can.
