Page 45

“Come on, talk to me.”

What the hell am I doing?

“What are you trying to do?” Lia asks as if she read my mind. A suspicious look is spreading over her face.

“We’re working on bringing your feelings out,” I remind her, and I guess I should be reminding myself too. That’s the only reason we’re here, so she can learn something. And so I can too. I can’t forget that.

You already have.

“We’re supposed to be working on it while we’re dancing.” More defiance and a spark of anger in her emerald eyes.

“How do you think that’s going to work?” I ask curiously, my pulse getting faster as she grows more angry. That’s dubious on more than one level.

She crosses her arms over her chest. “No idea. You’re the teacher.”

My stomach tightens. Unfortunately, she’s right. I clear my throat and force my racing heart to slow down. “Exactly. I’m the teacher, and that’s why we’re going to do this my way.”

“What are you trying to say?” Her anger is now mixed with obvious frustration.

“I’m trying to ask how you are.”

She groans, and the sound sends thousands of tiny electric shocks through my skin. “What is it that you actually want to hear me say?”

I remain silent because I’ve already repeated myself several times.

“I’m fine,” she hisses, and I’m afraid she read my mind again. But it doesn’t even bother me at the moment. “Actually, I’m doing great.”

“Yes, I can see that,” I reply, my voice rife with sarcasm. “Does that mean you don’t have a problem with being the second choice?”

I know I’m rubbing salt in the wound, and I hate myself for it. But I have no choice. Otherwise, I’ll have to keep asking her the same question over and over again for the next few hours, and she’ll keep giving me the same answer. But we don’t have time for that. We only have a few weeks to rehearse for the Christmas performance, and I know Pearson wants to see results, whether Lia ends up on stage or not.

She flinches, her cheeks turning a shade redder, her eyes flashing. She presses her lips together, and my attention automatically shifts to her mouth. For a second, I forget why we’re here and what we’re talking about. I can only stare at her mouth, which has explored every inch of my body.

Fuck, stop thinking about that.

Then she answers. “No, I don’t have a problem with it. I think it’s great. Really. It couldn’t be better.”

“If you try again and sound less sarcastic, I might even believe you,” I shoot back. That’s when the switch inside her flips again. This time in the other direction.

Good.

“You don’t have to believe me. I don’t give a damn whether you believe me or not. None of this matters anyway.”

“Because you didn’t get the part,” I say dryly. My calmness is the last straw for her, just as I’d planned it.

“Yes, because I didn’t get the damn part!” She throws her hands in the air. She takes a few steps, and then she’s standing directly in front of me. Beautiful and petite, with big eyes sparking with anger, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. I can feel the heat coming off her, and my treacherous heart skips a beat. “I wasn’t chosen, even though I’ve worked toward it and lived for it every day for the last three years. I practiced until my feet bled, just like everyone else, of course. But I didn’t take any vacations, I was always—” Shaking her head, she breaks off, a bright strand of hair escaping from her neat bun. My fingers itch to brush it back, or even better, to pull out the hairpins one by one until her wavy locks tumble down her back. “I gave everything to be on that stage, and what good did it do me? It was all for nothing.”

All I want to do is reach out to her, to hold her and tell her that’s bullshit. It wasn’t for nothing. Everything she’s done has made her who she is now. And none of it can have been for nothing, otherwise she’d be a different person now. And then neither of us would be here. Not like this.

“That’s not true,” I say, my voice suddenly cracking.

Shit, what’s happening to me?

“Yes, it is.” Her voice breaks, my heart breaks a little too. “I’m not good enough.”

“You are good enough. You’re always enough. You just don’t dare to show who you are.” My fingers brush hers, a fleeting touch that I know is wrong, but I can’t help it. For a moment I forget the thousand reasons why I absolutely should not do it. I feel like I have to touch her, and she doesn’t pull away. “Why not?”

I’m almost expecting her to say the same thing she said three months ago. That no one wants to see her or listen to her.