“Like, objectively hot. Scientifically hot. If scientists studied hotness, they would use him as a control sample.”
“Bianca.”
“What? I’m just stating facts. Facts are educational.” Papers rustle. “He’s also looking at you right now. Through the window. Very intensely.”
My pen stutters across the page, leaving an ugly streak of blue ink across the section about costume requirements. I force myself not to glance toward the front window. “He’s probably just checking the time.”
“There’s a clock on the wall behind the desk. He’s not looking at the clock.”
“Maybe he’s admiring the studio décor.”
“We have motivational posters about following your dreams and a silk plant that’s actively dying. Nobody admires that.” A pause. “He’s still looking.”
I finally abandon the pretense of working and meet Bianca’s eyes. She’s grinning at me with the particular brand of delight she reserves for moments when she thinks she’s discovered something interesting about my personal life. Her curly blonde hair is escaping its ponytail in approximately seven different directions, and there’s a smudge of ink on her cheek from the ancient printer that refuses to die.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” She leans her elbows on the desk. “So. Hot mystery man who paid you a small fortune for private lessons. What’s his deal?”
“His deal is that he can’t dance and apparently has unlimited funds to throw at his own inadequacy.”
“Harsh.”
“Accurate.” I glance at the clock—a full five minutes before his scheduled lesson. At least he’s not forty-five minutes early §this time. Progress. “He’s also infuriating, impossible to teach, and convinced that rules are merely suggestions.”
“Sounds like someone has a type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“Everyone has a type. Yours is apparently tall, dark, and allergic to structure.”
“Bianca—”
The door opens before I can finish whatever defense I was about to mount, and suddenly Malachi Vexis is here, filling up the small reception area with his presence and his ridiculous suits and that smell of smoke and spice that seems to follow him everywhere.
Today’s suit is charcoal gray, fitted within an inch of its life, with a shirt the color of fresh blood underneath. His collar is still unbuttoned. I’m starting to think he does it on purpose.
“Ladies.” His voice is warm velvet and dark chocolate, and I absolutely do not notice the way it makes something in my chest flutter. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all.” Bianca’s smile has gone slightly dazed. I know the feeling—Mal has that effect on people—but I refuse to let it affect my professionalism. “Izzie was just telling me how much she enjoys teaching you.”
“Was she now?” His gaze slides to me, amusement dancing in those amber-flecked eyes. “How flattering.”
“That’s not what I—” I shoot Bianca a look that promises retribution. “We should get started. The studio’s free.”
“I’m eager to begin.” He falls into step beside me as I head for the main room. “I’ve been practicing.”
“Have you?”
“In my mind. Very thoroughly.”
“Mental practice isn’t real practice.”
“Tell that to Olympic athletes. They visualize constantly.”
“Olympic athletes also do the actual physical work.”
“Details.” He holds the studio door open for me with an elaborate bow. “After you, maestro.”
