Then it struck him, a lightning bolt.There’s nothing between Patrick and me.
He stiffly turned her out into a bow and led her off the dance floor. She was technically still the follower. If he never let go of her hand, he could lead her up the stairs to her apartment. Who was he kidding? He never wanted to let go of her hand. It fit inside his like it had been made for him.
He knew he was staring, but he could not help it. What would it be like, to have her body wrapped around his, arching against him in ecstasy?
A slow clap shattered his thoughts. Clearly the universe had other plans.
“Well, well,” came a thick eastern European accent.
Great. Just fucking great.Of all the people in all the whole damned world, Mikhail materialized from the crowd of people, stupid hair and all. He was wearing a black Oxford shirt unbuttoned to his nipple line, with tight black dance pants, and of course his hair was styled in some bizarre pompadour. He sported a thin pencil mustache above a goatee like a tosser. “You are looking good, Anita.”
It was all Patrick could do not to scream.
“Hello, Mikhail.”
“Hi.” Patrick deliberately stuck his hand between them. To shake, of course. “Good to see you again, Mikhail.”
“Yes, yes.” The other man spoke curtly, not removing his eyes from Anita. “Will you dance with me?” He held out his hand, commanding. He had such—stupid hair. The warmth in Patrick’s body dissipated when she removed her hand from his and placed it in Mikhail’s.
They moved onto the floor into a flirtatious cha-cha routine, something easy and clearly well-rehearsed and deep in muscle memory.
Patrick couldn’t watch. He didn’t want to see their familiarity, the way Mikhail would touch her hips, her back, Mikhail’s possessive gaze. Was she touching his chest? That wasn’t fair. Patrick’s pecs were much better than—
This was ridiculous. He needed a drink.
He made his way across the floor to the bar but found himself underwhelmed by the choices. When he had helped Anita with the studio, at least there had been whiskey at the Saturday night party.
“Not a wine drinker?” Melanie appeared at his elbow out of thin air. This night was just getting better and better.
Kim was standing beside her, smiling like a furry feline. At least Melanie couldn’t make another awkward pass at him with her friend right there.
“Not usually.” He selected a bottle of red and filled a plastic goblet with it.
“I love wine.” Kim looked surprised she had said anything. Melanie shot her a cutting glance. Kim registered then ignored it. “There’s a great wine bar in Wayne that we go to sometimes.”
“Fun.” Patrick sipped his wine. He could not look away from Mikhail and Anita on the dance floor. Mikhail was typically overacting, his gestures overly grand and pompous. This was what Anita wanted? How had she ever had sex with that walking greasy mannequin?
Melanie was whispering something to him. Somehow she had ditched Kim and was standing again far too close to him. “Sorry?” he said, realizing she was waiting for a response.
“I was asking if I could dance with you.” She placed her long fingers on his arm.
Anita and Mikhail had moved off the dance floor. Was she leading Mikhail toward her office? The staircase to her apartment was through that door.
“Patrick?”
“Um, sure,” he finally replied, unable to come up with an appropriate excuse.
The song turned to Amy Winehouse foxtrot. Nothing to this. He could manage, right? And keep Anita in his sight. He bowed to Melanie, who blushed and actually tittered. Yeah, this was definitely on his list of ten worst ideas, next to mixing mints with diet cola and overindulging at sake bars.
“You are so good at this,” she breathed. She ran her hands up and down his arms and pressed her body close to his.
“You need to keep your dance frame.” He pulled away and demonstrated. “This is mine, this is yours.” He repositioned her head and shoulders, ignoring the way she kept eyeing him hungrily. At least she was not draped on him like an afghan. “Now, keep a slight tension in your hands, and just follow me. It’s slow-slow-quick-quick.” He started moving her through an easy slow eight count.
“I’m doing it!” she squealed. “I feel just like Jennifer Grey!”
“Yes.” He moved her through the next eight count. “But keep your dance frame.”
“You know,” she said, clearly deciding she understood the rhythm of the dance and so had liberty to flirt again. Which he would have corrected if he was not looking for Anita. “I haven’t had to work this hard for anybody in a long time.”
