Patrick helped Anita load their luggage onto a cart before handing his keys over to the valet. “What on earth did you bring?” He grunted, hefting one deceptively small case that had to weigh at least forty pounds.
“Costumes, make up, supplies for fashion emergencies, shoes, things my students may have forgotten,” she ticked off on her fingers. “Shall I go on?”
“Nope, I’ll just unload it and be grateful when I need something.”
****
The buzzing in her ears was so loud it drowned out what they were saying to each other, but she could see him, turned toward that bitch’s filthy lies, see her with her overly red lips curled into a smile. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.
Now they were heading for the elevators. They couldn’t see her past all the goddamn tulips. Making her itchy all over, which just made her angrier and more frustrated. Why hadn’t she been able to figure out earlier where he was staying? She hadn’t realized he would want to be there for the Friday part of the competition when all the kids danced. She admired it, honestly she did, helping those goddamn reject kids. He had such a big heart.
Still, though, she hadn’t been fast enough and hadn’t figured out where he was staying, hadn’t been able to request the adjoining room in time. And now he was sharing it with that whore. She would need to keep her eyes on them, make sure that blonde bitch was behaving herself.
She could adapt.
He looked so good today, in snug jeans and a plain heather-gray T-shirt. All those muscles, rippling just out of reach. He didn’t really want that blonde woman. Not like I would, she thought. Not like I will.
“Chris?” she heard someone call. She was intently watching the elevator, willing him to come back down to the lobby, so she must have missed the first few times the woman called the name, as the woman was now hurrying over to her.
Shitshitshitshitshit.
She pulled herself up straighter, pasting on what she hoped was an appropriately vacant expression. The woman who approached her sighed with relief and exasperation. She was petite and in her mid-fifties, wearing a designer black tweed sheath dress and three-inch stilettos. Her black hair, clearly dyed, was pulled back into a neat chignon, and she was clutching a clipboard like it was an extension of her arm.
“Chris!” the woman exclaimed, finally stopping before her. “Where have you been? I’ve called you almost a hundred times.”
She stammered, keeping her voice demure, trying to remember the other woman’s name. She wanted her gone. She had things she needed to do. “I just—I just had to go do something else after everything that had happened.”
“Of course.” The other woman pursed her burgundy lips. “Nikita was such a bright light, and the two of you were so close.”
She nodded, dipping her head, hoping she had remembered to color her roots. The motion helped her see the name on the top of sheets on her clipboard.
Ah yes. Maria, the organizer for Keystone and the Pennsylvania Dancesport Association. Officious bitch. Always calling Nikita, never remembering names.
“But, Chris, you had promised to find the showcases for Nikita’s tribute. We tried calling you, then tried calling Robbie and Talia directly, but they didn’t know anything and had booked another competition out west. I had to call in last-minute replacements.”
Her ears suddenly perked. “I’m so sorry, again, it’s been a really hard time for me. You know how much Nikita meant to me.” She paused, trying to will tears. “Um, who did you end up getting?”
Maria’s eyes widened eagerly, and she brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her clipboard. “Do you remember Patrick O’Leary? He was the journalist who covered the Jersey Classic. Well, he just came out of retirement.”
She couldn’t move, was paralyzed in this spot on this stupid, ugly, gray, uncomfortable lobby chaise. A showcase? Patrick and Anita? What kind of showcase? She tried to tell herself it would be something jazzy, upbeat.
“Really?” She tried to sound disinterested. Maria did not seem to notice her distress. She was already searching the lobby for someone else to chat up. “Do you know what they’re dancing to?”
Maria sighed, clearly annoyed, and flipped through a series of pages, drawing one perfectly French-manicured nail down lists of names. “I think this says Hozier.”
Her heart seized in her chest. He couldn’t do that dance with Anita. Not her.
“I see,” she said quietly. “Well, I’m grateful you could find a replacement.”
Maria made a noncommittal noise, looked around, gratefully seeming to find someone she recognized. “Well, I must be off. See you at the tribute tomorrow, Chris.”
She wanted to scream, tear out her hair, throw the fucking allergenic tulips on the ground, and stomp on their rainbow-colored blossoms.
She needed a new plan.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“This lift is not working.” Anita rubbed her hip. The sting of falling never got any easier.
