She moved into their starting position, avoiding his gaze. At least it played into the role of the choreo. “Just don’t,” she murmured, feeling his presence behind her.
“Yup, sorry, wouldn’t dream of it.”
Focus. She could do this. She had to do this. Anita closed her eyes and concentrated on the music. 2-3-4-and-1. 2-3-4-and-1. Her heartbeat settled into the rumba rhythm, and she synced her breath to the movement.
Now. She spun into Patrick’s arms, then leaned away for a prolonged extension before a series of spins and then into his arms again, gentle but strong, his face near enough to kiss. After she wrapped one leg around his waist, he put a hand on her thigh and lifted her into a turn, his face inches from hers, her hands splayed across his temples. His breath warmed her skin, inviting her into a cozy cocoon.
“Open your eyes,” he whispered, and she followed. She rumba-walked in shadow position, finding him with her hands. A quick connection, hands fleetingly together, heat burning through their palms, and Anita whirled back to face him. He turned her into a closed hip twist. The movements were quick-quick and then slow and elaborate, precise and luxurious. The entire dance felt like seduction, with Anita unable to resist his gravitational pull.
The dance had wrapped her, transported her away from everything. This world was better. This world was just her and Patrick, moving as two parts of one whole, there for each other.
The music slowed, and Anita leaned into Patrick, his arms supporting her as he dropped into a lunge, and she extended one leg into the air, keeping it slow and sultry.
Last night, his body pressed against hers, his hands in her hair, his mouth on her neck.“Can I take you upstairs?”Fire burning out of control within her—
Then that awful, sickening shatter of glass.
The magic music bubble popped.
Anita scrambled away from him. Water. She needed water.
Nigel clapped once. “Better.”
Anita’s breath came in hard pants, her ears still ringing with the clinking sound of glass cascading onto the floor of her studio.
“You really think we can’t win?” Patrick reached past her and collected his own water bottle.
She stepped away from him, determined not to inhale his scent.
“Who knows? I swear one time the judges marked us lower because they didn’t like Mikhail’s chest hair.” At least he wasn’t talking about sex anymore. She grabbed a towel out of her bag to wipe away the sweat from her brow.
“That’s fair. It does resemble a mangy toupee. The best we can do is try, right?” He smiled. “I’m just going to go to the bathroom, and then we can get going.”
Anita nodded and sank into a chair. Too much. It was all too much.
She heard a squeak as Nigel sat on the chair beside her. Great. More pity. Just what she needed. She covered her face with her hands.
“So what’s up?” Nigel asked.
Hah. She must be more exhausted than she thought because her internal monologue went external. “Someone is stalking me and Patrick.”
Nigel, he of the placid expression, blanched. “You’re joking.”
She shook her head. “Someone broke the studio door last night.” The hot bite of tears stung her eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”
He put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she thought she might melt into the floor. She hadn’t been this much of a mess when she had told her mother. “Are you still going to Keystone?”
She shivered. Of course, Nigel understood. “I can’t afford to miss it. You know how much money is tied up in the comps. If I backed out, I wouldn’t be able to afford to have the door fixed.” Her limbs felt leaden, but she straightened her back when she heard the bathroom door open. She sniffed abruptly and straightened her ponytail. She could get through this on her own. She had to do it. “Thanks, Nigel.” She forced a tired smile. “I know we’re helpless.”
Nigel kissed the top of her head softly. “You’ll be all right, love,” he whispered. “You let me know if you need anything.”
Chapter Twenty-One
How many push-ups did it take to erase the memory of kissing your best friend?
Patrick still hadn’t figured it out by the time he reached seventy-five, and his arms felt like they were slowly being torn apart by a medieval torture device. One more part of his body ripped to bits by loving Anita.
He hadn’t been able to sleep, so of course here he was in the wee hours of the morning, trying to exercise away his demons.I am an idiot.
