Page 79 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

"Fuck this," Russ says suddenly.

We all look at him.

He crosses to the kitchen and starts yanking open cabinet doors, rummaging through them with increasing determination. Pots clatter and dishes rattle.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Looking for something." He opens another cabinet, then another. "I know you have one somewhere."

"Have what?"

"Aha!" He pulls out an old Bluetooth speaker I'd completely forgotten I owned, holding it up like a trophy. "Found it."

Before I can ask what he's planning, he connects his phone and suddenly loud, energetic Russian music blasts through the cottage. The driving accordion beat and fast tempo make the floor vibrate beneath my feet.

Nick turns from the window, his expression shifting from brooding to disbelief. Alex straightens from the counter, one eyebrow raised.

"What the hell are you doing?" Nick demands.

"We're dancing," Russ announces, crossing to the couch and grabbing my hand. He pulls me up before I can protest. "All of us. Right now."

"Russ, I don't know how to dance to this," I say on a breathless laugh. His excitement is contagious.

"Good. I'll teach you." He spins me toward the open space near the fireplace, his hand warm and solid around mine. "It's a traditional Russian dance. My mother taught me when I was a kid."

"I'm going to be terrible at this," I warn with a slight frown.

"That's the point." He positions my hands, one on his shoulder and one clasped in his. His blond hair falls across his forehead, and his light eyes are bright with mischief. He's wearing dark jeans and a navy sweater that highlights his eyes. "Just follow my lead and try not to fall on your ass."

The music has an infectious rhythm that makes it impossible to stay still. Russ guides me through basic steps with surprising patience. I stumble immediately, stepping on his foot.

"Sorry!"

"Don't apologize. Just move." He grins at me. "Faster. Come on, you can do better than that."

He spins me suddenly, and I yelp as the room blurs around me. When he pulls me back, I'm laughing despite myself.

"You did that on purpose!"

"Maybe." He spins me again, this time even faster, and I shriek with laughter as I crash into his chest. His arms catch me easily, steadying me. "See? You're having fun."

"I'm getting dizzy!"

"That's part of the experience."

From across the room, Alex makes a sound that might be a laugh. "Your form is shit, Russ. You're supposed to keep your shoulders level."

Russ shoots him a look. "Then get over here and show us how it's done, asshole."

"I'm watching."

Russ releases me long enough to gesture at Alex. "Come on. Show Marla how a real Russian dances."

Alex stands with a sigh that suggests he's only humoring us, but when he crosses to the fireplace, there's something almost eager in his movements. He's wearing charcoal slacks and a white button-down, looking far too put together for dancing in the middle of the night.

He holds out his hand to me. "May I?"

Smiling at his uncharacteristic formality, I take his hand, and the difference is immediate. Where Russ was playful and chaotic, Alex is controlled and precise. He moves through the steps with fluid grace that comes from years of practice, guiding me effortlessly through turns and patterns I struggle to follow.