“You live to be contrary.”
“Perhaps.” That crooked smile appears. “Or perhaps I just like watching your face when I do something right. You get this little crinkle between your eyebrows, like you’re angry at yourself for being impressed.”
“I don’t?—”
“You do.” He reaches out, and before I can stop him, his finger brushes the spot between my brows. Light and fleeting and gone before I can react. “Right there. It’s adorable.”
“I am not adorable. I am a professional dance instructor.”
“Professionals can’t be adorable?”
“Not during working hours.”
“Ah.” His eyes glint. “So after working hours, the adorableness emerges?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“You’re going to try.” He glances at the clock on the wall—nearly ten. We’ve been at this for over four hours, fueled by nothing but determination and the stale protein bars I keep in my desk drawer. “We should probably call it. Before you work us both into early graves.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
My legs are trembling with that particular bone-deep fatigue that comes from pushing too hard for too long. My shoulders ache. My feet are screaming. And underneath all of it, there’s a hollowness in my stomach that protein bars stopped satisfying hours ago.
“Dinner.” The word escapes before I can stop it.
He blinks. “Sorry?”
Take it back. Make an excuse. Maintain boundaries.
“Dinner,” I hear myself repeat, apparently committed to this terrible decision. “There’s a fish place near my cottage that delivers. If you want. Since we’ve been working so late andneither of us has eaten actual food and it’s the least I can do after putting you through four hours of hip corrections.”
I’m rambling. I never ramble. What is happening to me?
His expression shifts through several emotions I can’t quite identify. Surprise, definitely. Something that might be wariness. And underneath it all, a warmth that makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with hunger.
“Dinner,” he says slowly. “At your cottage.”
“Delivery. Completely casual.”
“Completely casual.”
“We’ve eaten together before at the studio.”
“On the floor. Surrounded by mirrors. Very romantic.”
“It wasn’t romantic. It was practical.”
“Everything with you is practical.” But he’s smiling now, that real smile that transforms his entire face. “Fine. Dinner. Lead the way.”
What am I doing what am I doing what am I?—
I grab my bag and jacket with mechanical movements, trying not to think too hard about the invitation I just issued. It’s fine. It’s just food. Partners eat together all the time. There’s nothing significant about?—
A flash of red catches my eye.
Mal’s bracelet—that strange, ugly thing he never takes off—seems different somehow. I could have sworn the stones were all dull black last week, but now one of them... no, wait. Two ofthem gleam like rubies in the studio’s dim light. Deep crimson, almost luminous against the cracked leather.
“Your bracelet,” I say without thinking.
