When Blake shows up, I can’t be in a sour mood. It’s been two weeks since I last saw him, and I can finally give him a dance-related update after months of it being a one-sided conversation while I tried to hold back the disappointment of no longer working for the Institute with him.
I get out of the shower, dry off, and apply my scar gel before I dress quickly, throwing on bandages and a pair of thick, fuzzy socks to warm my battered toes. While I do some final stretches for the night, I grab my journal and dump all the negative thoughts that have managed to creep in today. At the end, I make sure to jot down three wins. Anything I’m grateful for. It’s the one thing Dr. Tanner requires of me when I do this—to always finish with three positives.
1. Survived day one.
2. I’m still moving.
3. Blake’s coming over.
Throwing the journal into the top drawer of my desk, I head out into the living room. Lark and Delilah are already sitting on the couch, watching a rerun ofGilmore Girls. I grab the bowl they’ve set out for me on the countertop, along with a plate piled with two thick sourdough slices, inhaling the thin slip of steam wafting the air with sweet potato, ginger, and other spices.
They drape part of the plaid blanket over my legs when I sit down next to them, and we watch an episode we’ve seen at least ten times in the last four years of living together. I’m firmly in campRory should have picked Jess, and Lark is team Logan, so we sit and debate as usual. It’s the first time my mind is silent today and I savor it. I’m here in the moment, not living in the loop of a memory I’d rather forget. A loneliness I find myself tucked away in all too often.
Knock, knock.
Lark’s brown eyes snap to the door and then to me. “Tell me you didn’t, Jojo.”
My cheeks flush with heat, but I ignore her glare as I head for the door. When I open it, Blake stands there with his elbow resting against the frame, a brilliant smile pulled across his lips. Rich brown eyes stare down at me, warming my insides. He smooths back one wayward blond strand into his perfectly coiffed hair.
“Missed you, beautiful.”
Lark mutters something unintelligible before the wordfuckboyfrom behind me.
“Come on in,” I say, cutting her a quick glare of my own. She might not like him, but they are colleagues. It’s the only thing stopping her from speaking her mind in front of him. I cock my head at her, and she clamps her mouth shut. Avoiding Lark’s stabby stare and Delilah’s half-apologetic grimace, I take Blake’s hand and lead him down the hallway.
Lark’s lecture will no doubt come with a side of coffee in the morning. At least caffeine’s involved.
Once we get inside my room and I’ve shut the door, Blake drops his jacket, scarf, and gloves onto the chair at my desk before striding over. Just as he’s about to touch me, he quivers dramatically. “Brr. Do you always keep it so cold in here?”
He walks over to the thermostat which, admittedly, is a few degrees lower than what I usually set it at.
“That’s odd. You can turn it up a bit.”
“We can keep each other warm in the meantime,” he says with a waggle of his brows. Blake taps the screen a few times before coming back over and trailing his fingers along my shoulder. My skin flushes beneath his touch. “Rehearsals aren’t the same without you.”
“Really?” I ask, trying to downplay how much that means to me, though my voice cracks. I swallow my nerves, hoping to sound charming instead. Casually unaffected. “I heard you got Prince Siegfried.”
“I did.” His smile widens, chest puffing up a bit.
These last two seasons, without fail, Blake’s been cast in some princely role or another. Always leading-man material. And he’s here, with me. I might not be the star of the ballet, but I’m the one he seeks out. When we dance, our bodies moving together, it’s almost hypnotic. His hands on my body, powerful arms lifting me into the air, the chemistry we exude when partnering is mesmerizing. We never got the chance to do it officially, only after hours when we’d both stay late to rehearse.
“Wish you would have told me instead of me hearing from Lark.” Fingers finding his, I look up at him. “You know you can still talk to me about the Institute.”
“I know, baby,” he says. “It honestly has been just such a whirlwind between coming off Don Quixote and then heading back into auditions, rehearsals, and conditioning. You know how it goes.”
Ido. That’s what stings so much.
“It’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.” I sweep the edges of my lips up into my best smile, trying not to think about the crappy first day I had and what might await me tomorrow.
“Wish you were there, of course.” One hand wraps around my waist. The other lingers on the band of my sweats. There’s no reason to dress up when he comes over. Most of the time we’ve spent together has been at the Institute or right after rehearsals. Even while I was on sabbatical the last eleven months, he’s only seen me in sweats… or out of them.
“Of course,” I agree, crossing my body to take off my baggy shirt, leaving me only in my lacy bra. I swallow the lump at the back of my throat when his stare instantly goes to the scars that begin at my shoulder and shred down my back. Not that they’re easy to ignore. There are three long gashes, one deeper than the other two, and I hate that I feel ashamed of them. That my instinct is to turn away from his gaze.
His brown eyes dip to the small peaks of my breasts, and the smirk he gives me has my belly doing backflips. My nerves float away, replaced with want, when he grips my waistband and peels my sweats down to my ankles. He kneels, as gracefully as he does on stage, with his attention pinned to me. I step out of my pants but leave on my fuzzy socks. Ballet blisters do not mix well with foreplay.
He gives a knowing chuckle but doesn’t say anything about it. “I can’t stay the night—”
“Rehearsals,” I say at the same time he does. “That’s fine.”
