Chapter 18: Chapter Seventeen

Anita doggedly pushed through the next day and a half, drinking water or bone broth nearly constantly to stay hydrated. Work. She needed to work.

How had one single sick day set her so far behind? Their comp routines were fine, but she knew they lacked the oomph, the extra sizzle that the judges wanted. And her own students seemed to have all completely lost their minds. One of them had brought in a costume for her approval that was three sizes too small, another couple had forgotten half their routines, and even more stumbled halfheartedly through their steps. Not to mention Nina Rabinova, who kept asking if Patrick would be coming back to help with her comp prep.

It was unsurprising she was starving, sore, and about to have a serious diva breakdown before the Saturday night party.

Normally, it was such a good idea. It enticed more people to the studio. The wine bar helped loosen inhibitions, and people were more willing to try new moves and different partners. Social dancing was key to the studio’s success.

But not when she was still fighting to keep up and had zero prospects of help. Toni had plans as usual, and even Ricardo had not promised to make it. She was on her own. Damn Mikhail.

She grabbed a granola bar from the emergency stash in her desk and unwrapped it as she went to fetch a box of party supplies from the closet. I can do it alone. I can.

Maybe not when she was hallucinating the smell of Chinese food. Her stomach, only recently tolerant of more than milk toast, churned and grumbled.

Anita picked up a stack of boxes and hefted them, the granola bar balanced between her teeth, and tottered back toward the studio.

A pair of tanned hands caught the top box just as it started to slide off the stack. Patrick, his blue eyes dancing in merriment, winked at her.

Anita huffed. Perfect. “Look, Patrick, I don’t have the time to talk to you right now. The party starts in two hours, and I have seven hundred things to do—”

“Three fifty.” He bent over and opened a box. “Maybe three forty-nine.”

She was definitely delusional and far too exhausted for a math lesson. All she could muster was a helpless shrug.

Without ceremony, Patrick led her into her office, where three takeout Chinese food containers, a bottle of water, and chopsticks were set out on a piece of paper towel.

At least she was not hallucinating about soy sauce.

“What is this?”

He propelled her by her shoulders toward the desk chair and gallantly pulled it out for her. “Eat. Rest a bit.”

It was so tempting. But—

“There’s too much to do.” Anita swallowed and shook her head. But was that orange chicken? And maybe sesame green beans?

“Let me help.” He smiled at her, that sexy dimple practically begging to be kissed. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Then he was gone.

****

Anita emerged from her office picnic twenty minutes later, stomach full of orange chicken, green beans, and brown rice but lighter than she had felt in days.

She walked onto the dance floor and gasped. He had gotten an inordinate amount done in just twenty minutes. He had set up the refreshment table and now was halfway through adjusting the fairy lights and stringing the bunting above the mirror.

He grinned when he saw her. He stopped her by holding up a single finger, then hit the play button on the stereo. Anita couldn’t help but laugh as she heard the Jacksons crooning “Blame it on the Boogie.” Her laugh intensified when Patrick started grooving.

“I can’t believe you did all this.”

“There’s still a lot to do, but you need to take time for the classics.” Patrick turned the music up louder.

He held out a hand to Anita, and she just could not help but start moving her hips, her shoulders. She hadn’t danced the hustle in ages, but she did love a good nightclub dance.

They both started to move around the empty dance floor, laughing, lip synching. Patrick whipped her around in a series of spins, and she could not find her spot. But she didn’t care. Nothing felt like this. Nothing felt so freeing and powerful as losing herself in the rhythm of a song. All of the stresses and trials of the last few weeks melted away, and at the end of the song, there was Patrick.

Patrick, who used to share junk food in empty ballrooms with her after competitions.

Patrick, who remembered every single dress she had ever worn.

Patrick, who adored her mother.

Patrick, who was panting and grinning at her with a smile so broad it seemed to lift him off the ground. Yes. Her body begged her. Yes.

His smile changed as his eyes fixed on her mouth. She moved her hand from his shoulder to cup his stubbled jaw. Oh God, yes. Her body thrummed and heated, and this had to happen. She was going to shatter if it didn’t and—

“We’ll have to play this tonight at the party.” She sounded breathless, wanton. She tried to force herself to pull away, but her brain was definitely losing. It was his eyes that loosened her resolve to stop. The glints of gold in the deep blue oceans. The air between them crackled and sparked and swelled. She leaned in, tilting her face just so.

Yes. Yes.

“My God, you two are the most adorable thing.”

Anita leapt away from Patrick and turned, plastering a smile on her face.

“Toni! What are you doing here?” Her voice was too shrill. She bustled over to adjust the bunting by the check-in desk. She couldn’t look at him. That was all. Nothing had just almost happened. She had not almost made a huge mistake. Ballroom and romance did not succeed for her.

Toni stood against the short wall dividing the studio floor from the changing area chairs, arms crossed over her chest and smiling knowingly. She was wearing a black-and-red jumpsuit that hugged her curves and had tied it with a thick black belt to accentuate her waistline.

“Patrick said you needed help getting ready for the party tonight,” Toni replied evenly, her gaze flicking from Anita to Patrick. “I’ve never been to one of these shindigs before. Looks like fun.”

How much had she seen? It was just a dance, that was it. It was completely unrelated to the temperature in the studio dropping about thirty degrees. Anita wrapped her arms around her body, holding in the warmth.

“I’ll go get the catering,” Patrick finally offered. But Anita could not look at him, could not watch him leave. She opened several folding chairs, then gazed helplessly around the studio.

Anita felt the other woman’s eyes on her. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. She had owned this studio for two years and never been unprofessional before. “You’ll like the party,” Anita finally said, if only to break the silence. “We play a bunch of nightclub and other dances, and there’s a good mix of levels. Everyone is very friendly.”

“Patrick certainly is.” Toni stopped moving chairs and now leaned against the mirror, one hand on a hip. “Come on, sugar. Spill.”

It was definitely colder in the studio. Anita checked the thermostat, which was set to sixty-eight. She just had to call a repairman in the morning. That’s all.

Toni was still watching her.

“There’s nothing to tell.” Anita unloaded a container of plastic wine cups onto the refreshment table, then moved to the small refrigerator for the bottles of wine she had stored. Yes, wine. But no. She could not have anything to drink until afterward. No one wanted a hostess who reeked of booze.

“Come on, hon. If Patrick had ever looked at me that way, I would not be able to say that there was nothing to tell.” She loosed a long, low wolf whistle. “That boy is smoking.”

“He’s my friend.” Anita choked. The sign on the door advertising the party was crooked. She could fix that at least.

Toni chuckled. “You’re selling the both of you short. I’m not saying you need to marry him, just enjoy it. Did you ever enjoy anything when you were with Mikhail?”

“Of course.” Not that any examples sprung to mind. She had enjoyed that one time when Mikhail had gone back to the Ukraine to visit his family. Though that was probably not what Toni had meant.

“Really? So you are telling me that dancing with that gorgeous, sweet, kind man who clearly has an enormous thing for you does not make you want at least to jump his bones? Try him on for size, just once?”

Anita tried not to hesitate. Really, she did. She tried not to picture waking up beside him on a Sunday morning, her legs entwined with his. The way he would probably bring her breakfast in bed, let her watch what she wanted on TV. The way it would feel to slide her tongue against his, feels those incredible hands on her body, his weight on top of her…

But it was Patrick. She would disappoint him in the end, and he did not deserve that.

She sniffed back her tears and straightened her smile. This was a part she knew how to play. Even if it killed something inside of her.

“Absolutely not. I’ve danced with a lot of good-looking men. It doesn’t mean I was attracted to all of them. There is nothing between me and Patrick besides a friendly dance agreement.”

“Food’s here,” Patrick said stiffly.

Anita’s blood turned to ice.

He carefully placed the catering box on the refreshment table, then turned back to the door. “Looks like things are good here. Bye.” He slammed the door closed as he left, the bell jangling angrily.

If only the studio floor could have swallowed her whole at that moment. The Chinese food he had brought churned within her.

She covered her face with her hands, pressing the palms into her eyes. She just needed to count her breaths, that was all. Just one, two, three.

A comforting hand alit upon her arm. Anita glanced at her friend.

“Patrick is a good man.” Toni’s voice was soft, calm, reassuring, but stern. “If you really are not into him, which by the way I don’t think is true, but if you aren’t, you need to be kinder to him. This isn’t you.” That bombshell dropped, Toni unpacked the catering box.

A moment passed, then another. Anita could not find her breath again, but she had to. She had to. There was no one else.

She straightened her posture, lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and got back to work.