Page 92 of The Right Kind of Wrong

If anything, they’d think Blake was doing worse than before, with her added course load and her two jobs and her rundown rental home.

But that wasn’t the case. Not really.

And definitely not lately.

Nothing seemed to be able to quell the needy, pulse-pounding sensation that had been rocketing through her since Wednesday night.

It was excitement and hope and exhilaration all tangled up in her veins. She felt like she could run a marathon and then turn right around and do it again, backwards.

She felt . . . free, finally stripped of the expectations of her family and her ex-husband—and his family—and this town, which she loved and resented in different breaths.

Blake put her hands on her hips and breathed deeply, trying to get her heart rate under control. She’d been at the studio for a couple of hours already. It had been the best idea she’d been able to come up with to make sure that she didn’t text Monroe and try to make plans with her.

She was aware that she was coming on strong.

Maybe a little too strong, she worried.

The anxious thought made her hit play on her phone again, causing another high-tempo song to start up.

She threw her body into the music, trying to let go of her uncertainty. She’d see Monroe again soon. That much was certain in a town like Cypress Falls.

Plus, they’d left things in a good place. Both of them had kept their hands to themselves for the rest of Wednesday night, even though Blake had been reeling from both kisses that she hadn’t seen coming. Before she could overstay her welcome, she’d done the dishes and headed out so that Monroe could start getting Maisie ready for bed.

On Thursday, at dance class, things had been largely the same. Blake had only snuck a few glances through the glass partition, doing her best to focus on the rambunctious group that really did require all of her attention. Little kids could send a well-orchestrated lesson off the rails faster than a cat running across a hot tin roof.

As the song picked up momentum, so did she. She let her body flow with the music, the tempo coaxing her limbs into quick, staccato shifts.

Her hips opened. She felt it, deeply.

She’d be lying if she said this kind of wanting wasn’t complicated.

She could still feel the ghost of Monroe’s touch on her skin, and even when she wasn’t there, Blake couldn’t stop the sense memory of how her legs had splayed over Monroe’s thighs on the sofa, her own thighs pressing down, stretching to get closer.

A beat of sweat dripped down her neck.

How had she been so oblivious before?

Now, everything that she did was infused with a knowledge she couldn’t escape. The understanding that Noah, even if he’d been a better husband, wouldn’t have been able to give her what she’d actually wanted.

That, in and of itself, had been a sobering realization.

Had some part of her always known? Or had some part of her accepted that as long as she could have the family that she’d always wanted, it was a worthwhile trade-off?

She hadn’t quite worked through to a place of understanding yet. The knowledge would be interesting to have, if it ever solidified, but it wouldn’t change the past—or where she was now.

Free from Noah. From the Duvall family. From the expectations of how a woman in her late twenties should be living her life.

When she changed direction, her thighs burned. She planted her feet and threw her arms out, letting the tempo roll through her body.

The music ended, but she kept moving.

What she was doing was some variation between hip-hop and ballet and salsa and jazz. Throw in a little modern, and she was sure she looked more like a woman dancing under the moonlight in a hedonistic ritual than a trained dancer trying to work off some steam.

She almost didn’t hear the clapping through the blood pounding in her ears.

“Damn, Blake. You’ve been holding out on me.”

Blake whirled around to see Holland, dressed in a very similar outfit to her own, leaning against the glass door that opened from the waiting area into the studio.