Five thousand dollars.
I should tear it up. I should march outside, find him, and tell him exactly where he can shove his money and his charming smileand his complete inability to follow basic instructions. Instead, I fold the check carefully around the business card and slip it into my pocket.
Right now, I have a showcase to plan and a studio to save, and absolutely no time to think about the infuriating man who just turned my Wednesday evening upside down.
No time at all.
CHAPTER THREE
“And one, two, three—lovely, Sofia! Jilly, remember to point your toes. Pointing toes makes dancing magic, yes?”
Twelve small faces beam up at me with varying degrees of focus. The Little Stars class is my favorite hour of the week, even if it leaves my shins peppered with bruises from enthusiastic but poorly aimed pirouettes. These kids don’t care about perfect technique. They care about sparkly tutus and pretending to be swans and the absolute joy of spinning until they fall over giggling.
It’s everything my childhood dance lessons weren’t.
“Miss Izzie, watch me!” Seven-year-old Thomas launches into what I think is supposed to be a grand jeté but looks more like a frog attempting to leap over an invisible log. He lands with a thump that rattles the mirrors.
“Beautiful air, Thomas. Let’s work on the landing next time.”
His grin could power a small city.
The door to the studio opens. I don’t need to look to know who it is. The way the energy in the room shifts tells me everything. The mothers perched on the benches near the entrance suddenly sit up straighter, their murmured conversations dying in mid-sentence. One of them actuallygasps, like we’re in a Regency novel and the duke just walked in.
Forty-five minutes early.Because of course he is.
I keep my attention on the children. “All right, everyone, let’s practice our révérences. Sofia, you lead.”
Sofia, a serious-eyed six-year-old with a natural grace beyond her years, performs a curtsy that would make royalty weep. The other children follow with varying degrees of success, Thomas turning his into something more closely resembling a dramatic death scene.
“Wonderful work, all of you. Same time next Thursday?”
Tiny voices chorus assent, and then the room becomes chaos as children scatter toward their parents, grabbing water bottles and discarded shoes and stuffed animals that apparently could not survive forty-five minutes of separation. I help little Jilly find her missing hair ribbon and accept a handful of dandelions from Thomas that he apparently picked from the parking lot crack on his way in.
“For you, Miss Izzie. ‘Cause you’re the best teacher.”
My heart clenches. “Thank you, Thomas. These are perfect.”
Through it all, I’m aware of Malachi Vexis, standing just inside the door with his hands in his pockets and that insufferable half-smile on his face, watching me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s seen in years. He’s wearing another suit today, thisone dark blue and fitted in a way that makes it impossible not to notice the breadth of his shoulders and the narrow cut of his waist. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. Again.
Does the man not own ties?
The last of the children files out, one mother shooting me a meaningful look over her shoulder that clearly communicateswho is THAT?I ignore her. I ignore him. I turn to the stereo and begin resetting the playlist with more concentration than the task requires.
“Charming.”
His voice is closer than I expected. I don’t jump. I absolutely do not jump.
“The children. Very charming.” He’s moved to lean against the piano, an ancient upright that hasn’t been tuned since before I was born but looks nice in photographs. “You’re good with them.”
“They’re easy to teach. They actually listen to instructions.”
“Subtle.”
“I wasn’t being subtle.”
“No,” he agrees, and there’s a warmth in his voice that makes me glance up despite myself. “I suppose you weren’t.”
He’s closer than I realized. Close enough that I catch that strange scent again—smoke and spice, underlaid with something darker, something almost sulfurous. His eyes seem to spark crimson in the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
