In the end, Patrick blamed his masochistic heart.
He was absolutely not going to go back after he left. He wasn’t. He was an independent, smart, handsome guy who could have lots of women. Lots. Sure, clearly not the one he had been pining over for more than a decade, but still. Enough was enough. He could take a hint. He was not the puppy dog panting and yearning for a distant owner’s touch. He was an influencer, a private businessman, a semi-retired professional ballroom dancer, for fuck’s sake.
He repeated this mantra multiple times to himself while he showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, dressed in a slim-fitting, light-blue button-down and trim black pants that moved well on the dance floor but weren’t too showy. He said it while he polished his social dance shoes, buffed the soles with the metal shoe brush, and he reminded himself of it as he collected his jacket, dance bag, and keys by the door to his apartment.
So he really had no excuse for showing up to the dance party, none at all.
Except his heart hated him.
There were already almost forty people there, about a third of them dancing, the rest milling about at the edges of the floor, chatting or drinking wine or helping themselves to crudités or cheese and crackers.
It didn’t take long to find her. Anita was always the most beautiful thing in the entire room.
She had left her hair down tonight, parted in the middle, but had a sparkling crystal hair clip tucked above one ear and dangling crystal teardrop earrings. She wore a slim cream-colored top with a wide black-and-white-striped A-line skirt that dipped to her mid-calf, and her black Latin dance shoes with the straps that wound up her ankles.
His heart caught for so long in his chest he worried he would have to call 911. He had to stop doing this to himself.
He offered his entrance fee to Ricardo, who was manning the front desk/flirting with two older women, but Ricardo refused his money. “Trust me.” Ricardo raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the large contingent of women in the group. “We’re outnumbered here. We should be paying you.”
Indeed, the moment Patrick stepped away, he was mobbed. The loudest of the throng was Nina Rabinova, dressed in a fire-engine red Latin dance costume not cut for her figure. He tried to glimpse Anita but couldn’t through the sudden deluge of hairspray and heels and perfectly manicured fingers trailing along his arms.
For the next forty-five minutes, he indulged these women. Nina, Kim, Melanie, who tried to grab his ass and kiss his ear before slipping a hotel key into his pocket in a highly un-subtle movement. He ditched it in the trashcan beside the drinks table.
Then, finally, somehow, there she was. Halo intact.
He knew at some point in his life he had known how to breathe.
“Hi.” Her voice was soft, almost breathy. His heart ached, both at her proximity and the memory of her words.It doesn’t mean I was attracted to them, he had heard.
“Hey.” He had a mantra. He was sure there had been something, some reason he wasn’t supposed to be there. Something about independence? No, maybe it had had something to do with fortitude. Or fortune cookies?
Who cared? She was amazing, and she was right in front of him. If he was a man dying of thirst, she would be his salt water.
“You’re popular tonight.”
“So are you.” He could see how the other men looked at her. Curious, wanting to see if the ice goddess was as cold as shelooked. Damn them all. He had held her hair back when she was sick, let her cry on his chest. No one could take that from him.
There was only one more week. Once the competition was over, he would be gone.
Anita bit her lip, and her posture tensed. “Look, thank you for coming. You didn’t have to.”
“I said I would.” He drank her in. One more week. A lifetime of missed chances and possibilities. He could not let this one slide. “Would you dance with me?”
She tilted her head, and he thought she was listening to the music, trying to decide if he was worthy of it. “Why not?” she replied and moved into his arms, enveloping him in her scent, her warmth. She pressed her body to his, keeping her frame but still their hips kissed to hold the shape needed.
Heat bloomed throughout his body, but he could not give in to it.
Without a word, the rest of the ballroom fading, he swept her into a sweet and sad and romantic waltz. They swayed together, the rise and fall of the dance a parallel to their story. He wished the boundaries of the dance frame did not prevent him from leaning his cheek to hers, feeling her head against his shoulder. If he could write his adoration of her in a song, he would dance it as a waltz.
For the rest of his life, he would dream of this moment, the scent of hibiscus and lilies perfuming his skin, the swish of her black-and-white-striped skirt against his legs.
He would have made it last forever.
But this was real life. And it crashed against him too soon.
The waltz had ended, a lively samba now in its place, but somehow they were alone on the dance floor.
He needed to stop time. He could not see beyond the arc of Anita’s eyes, the fullness of her mouth.
