CHEMISTRY’S A BITCH, ACTUALLY
Holly
“Sure, we almost kissed. We also almost collided with the camera crane. Welcome to live TV.”
The lights came up on performance day like a reckoning.
Everything shimmered art deco gold, with a spotlight haze and the gleaming smiles of Indie Clarke, their perfect host, beaming manic energy into a million living rooms. Holly stood just behind the curtain with Nate, her heart banging against the inside of her ribs like it was trying to break out. She adjusted her grip on his hand, fingers warm against his palm, and forced her spine tall. Cheeky. Flirty. Controlled.
Lies, lies, lies.
“And now, closing out our evening… Holly Martinez and Nate Eriksson, dancing the Quickstep!”
An impossibly fast drum rhythm leaped into the air, setting the pace before the audience could even see them. And then… they took to the floor. Nowhere to hide now. Time to get the job done.
The flashy horns ofHey Pachuco!by Royal Crown Revue blasted into existence, made popular for its inclusion on the soundtrack for the movie The Mask starring Jim Carrey. Cheesy? Maybe. But she’d grown up on this song, blasting from busted car stereos and backyard speakers at quinceañeras. It was chaos and swagger and the unapologetic joy she wanted to infect Nate with. Let them call it on-the-nose. She called it a home-court advantage.
Holly and Nate carried through that cheeky vibe but made it all their own as the brass hit like a slap, the tempo running wild. Shethrivedin the chaos. Nate was a six-foot-four hurricane in navy pinstripes and barely contained testosterone. Holly didn’t care. She grinned as they took up hold, the music launched, and spun them out into the lights like it was a battlefield.
Wrapped in blue feathers and highlighter confidence, every inch of her shimmered under the lights like a walking dare. He wore suspenders, a fedora, and a grin that could start wars. The crowd roared like they already knew this was the dance of the night.
We’re going to break them tonight, she thought. Let’s make it look like fun.
The footwork was lightning fast, furious, and designed to make even professionals sweat. But underneath the chaos, her control kept it all stitched together with muscle memory and sheer force of will. Nate only just kept pace, but God, he sold thehellout of it. Every cheeky wink, every sharp turn that dragged her just a hair too close. He was playing a part, but his body was writing new lines with every beat.
They moved like magnets, the tension palpable and deliberate. Each flick of her skirt was a challenge; each look he threw her, a retort. The crowd was hooked. Addicted.
Midway through—just as planned—Nate broke hold and threw his hand up like a flag, eyebrows raised in a cocky dare. It was the moment they’d rehearsed, but his grin made it feel brand new. Holly spun away from him with a huff and faced the audience, rolling her eyesandshoulders like she was about to throw down. The band’s brass hit hard, and she gave him a sharp nod.
He mirrored it. The game was on. They circled each other like predators, each hitting sharp, syncopated steps. Kicks, flicks, hat tips, and shuffles as they tried to one-up each other while the audience went feral. And then the band shifted, and the whole world dropped into half-speed. The brass cut back, and the bass line melted into something smooth. The tempo slowed into a Foxtrot.Perfectly timed.
Nate reached for her hand like it was instinct, and Holly stepped into him without thinking, their bodies slotting together in an elegant frame.
Two eight-counts. That was it. Sixteen counts to go from smirk to seduction. No room for fluff. Every step had to earn its place. They moved as one. Fluid and close, her cheek brushing his as they turned. Designed to sell the fantasy of something soft blooming between them.
And maybe that’s what it was only supposed to be. A production note. Just a beat to let them catch their breaths. But the moment his hand splayed across her back with the fingers she could still remember him curling inside of her like a fuckingexpert, Holly forgot about the audience. Forgot about the scores. Forgot everything except how itfeltto have him hold her.
The tempo ramped up again, from Foxtrot back to Quickstep. Holly executed a flawless spin, landing with a pop of her hip and a devilish grin. Nate answered with a ridiculous air guitar solo and a moonwalk that shouldn’t have worked, but somehow did. She laughed.Genuinely.
Right before she snatched his tie and yanked him back into frame like she’d just reeled in a misbehaving dog before they devoured the rest of their choreo. A high-octane Charleston that turned her lungs inside out. A fake-out lift that made the judges’ jaws clench. A final pose so tight, her fringe brushed his abs, and their noses almost touched.
They froze, breathless, practically vibrating. Their eyes locked. His lips twitched and then parted in a way that told herexactlywhat he was thinking about. Despite the panic living inside her bones, Holly almost smiled, their lips just millimeters apart.
Almost touching.
The crowd erupted with an explosion of sound and flashbulbs, and Holly knew this hit of adrenaline would crash later like a sugar high from poisoned candy. But right now, she was high on it. On the heat of Nate holding her, panting like a warhorse in a tux, sweat glistening at his collarbones, shirt half-untucked, andsuspenders askew like a sin.
His palm burned through her dress, resting against her back like a fucking branding iron. The ghost of his breath haunted her neck. They held their final pose with her back arched and his grip iron-tight, and she felt every muscle of his ridiculousbody locked into hers like he was born to hold her and justforgot until now.
And then he’d murmured it. “Tell me again how we’re just acting.”
The way her stomachflipped. Like that goddamn Pixar lamp had landed on her intestines. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t, with cameras on every angle and three million viewers ready to turn their fan cams into shipping fuel. Indie rushed over to them like a raccoon stoking a glitter fire, mic first and sanity second, as the pair of them stood up like they weren’t already eye-fucking each other.
“Well, ifTHATdidn’t just burn the floor down,” Indie gushed, practically vibrating with excitement, “I don’t know what will! Guys, what the hell wasthat?”
Holly didn’t move. Just turned slightly, letting Nate take the first hit. His chest was still heaving beside her, suspenders halfway to indecent, hair an absolute crime scene.
“That,” he said, still breathless, “was about nine hundred hours of foot drills and the fact that Holly Martinez scares me more than getting checked into the boards.” And then the bastard grinned like he’d just won a gold medal in sexual tension.
