Chapter 19: Chapter Eighteen

In the end, Patrick blamed his masochistic heart.

He was absolutely not going to go back after he left. He wasn’t. He was an independent, smart, handsome guy who could have lots of women. Lots. Sure, clearly not the one he had been pining over for more than a decade, but still. Enough was enough. He could take a hint. He was not the puppy dog panting and yearning for a distant owner’s touch. He was an influencer, a private businessman, a semi-retired professional ballroom dancer, for fuck’s sake.

He repeated this mantra multiple times to himself while he showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, dressed in a slim-fitting, light-blue button-down and trim black pants that moved well on the dance floor but weren’t too showy. He said it while he polished his social dance shoes, buffed the soles with the metal shoe brush, and he reminded himself of it as he collected his jacket, dance bag, and keys by the door to his apartment.

So he really had no excuse for showing up to the dance party, none at all.

Except his heart hated him.

There were already almost forty people there, about a third of them dancing, the rest milling about at the edges of the floor, chatting or drinking wine or helping themselves to crudités or cheese and crackers.

It didn’t take long to find her. Anita was always the most beautiful thing in the entire room.

She had left her hair down tonight, parted in the middle, but had a sparkling crystal hair clip tucked above one ear and dangling crystal teardrop earrings. She wore a slim cream-colored top with a wide black-and-white-striped A-line skirt that dipped to her mid-calf, and her black Latin dance shoes with the straps that wound up her ankles.

His heart caught for so long in his chest he worried he would have to call 911. He had to stop doing this to himself.

He offered his entrance fee to Ricardo, who was manning the front desk/flirting with two older women, but Ricardo refused his money. “Trust me.” Ricardo raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the large contingent of women in the group. “We’re outnumbered here. We should be paying you.”

Indeed, the moment Patrick stepped away, he was mobbed. The loudest of the throng was Nina Rabinova, dressed in a fire-engine red Latin dance costume not cut for her figure. He tried to glimpse Anita but couldn’t through the sudden deluge of hairspray and heels and perfectly manicured fingers trailing along his arms.

For the next forty-five minutes, he indulged these women. Nina, Kim, Melanie, who tried to grab his ass and kiss his ear before slipping a hotel key into his pocket in a highly un-subtle movement. He ditched it in the trashcan beside the drinks table.

Then, finally, somehow, there she was. Halo intact.

He knew at some point in his life he had known how to breathe.

“Hi.” Her voice was soft, almost breathy. His heart ached, both at her proximity and the memory of her words. It doesn’t mean I was attracted to them, he had heard.

“Hey.” He had a mantra. He was sure there had been something, some reason he wasn’t supposed to be there. Something about independence? No, maybe it had had something to do with fortitude. Or fortune cookies?

Who cared? She was amazing, and she was right in front of him. If he was a man dying of thirst, she would be his salt water.

“You’re popular tonight.”

“So are you.” He could see how the other men looked at her. Curious, wanting to see if the ice goddess was as cold as she looked. Damn them all. He had held her hair back when she was sick, let her cry on his chest. No one could take that from him.

There was only one more week. Once the competition was over, he would be gone.

Anita bit her lip, and her posture tensed. “Look, thank you for coming. You didn’t have to.”

“I said I would.” He drank her in. One more week. A lifetime of missed chances and possibilities. He could not let this one slide. “Would you dance with me?”

She tilted her head, and he thought she was listening to the music, trying to decide if he was worthy of it. “Why not?” she replied and moved into his arms, enveloping him in her scent, her warmth. She pressed her body to his, keeping her frame but still their hips kissed to hold the shape needed.

Heat bloomed throughout his body, but he could not give in to it.

Without a word, the rest of the ballroom fading, he swept her into a sweet and sad and romantic waltz. They swayed together, the rise and fall of the dance a parallel to their story. He wished the boundaries of the dance frame did not prevent him from leaning his cheek to hers, feeling her head against his shoulder. If he could write his adoration of her in a song, he would dance it as a waltz.

For the rest of his life, he would dream of this moment, the scent of hibiscus and lilies perfuming his skin, the swish of her black-and-white-striped skirt against his legs.

He would have made it last forever.

But this was real life. And it crashed against him too soon.

The waltz had ended, a lively samba now in its place, but somehow they were alone on the dance floor.

He needed to stop time. He could not see beyond the arc of Anita’s eyes, the fullness of her mouth.

Then it struck him, a lightning bolt. There’s nothing between Patrick and me.

He stiffly turned her out into a bow and led her off the dance floor. She was technically still the follower. If he never let go of her hand, he could lead her up the stairs to her apartment. Who was he kidding? He never wanted to let go of her hand. It fit inside his like it had been made for him.

He knew he was staring, but he could not help it. What would it be like, to have her body wrapped around his, arching against him in ecstasy?

A slow clap shattered his thoughts. Clearly the universe had other plans.

“Well, well,” came a thick eastern European accent.

Great. Just fucking great. Of all the people in all the whole damned world, Mikhail materialized from the crowd of people, stupid hair and all. He was wearing a black Oxford shirt unbuttoned to his nipple line, with tight black dance pants, and of course his hair was styled in some bizarre pompadour. He sported a thin pencil mustache above a goatee like a tosser. “You are looking good, Anita.”

It was all Patrick could do not to scream.

“Hello, Mikhail.”

“Hi.” Patrick deliberately stuck his hand between them. To shake, of course. “Good to see you again, Mikhail.”

“Yes, yes.” The other man spoke curtly, not removing his eyes from Anita. “Will you dance with me?” He held out his hand, commanding. He had such—stupid hair. The warmth in Patrick’s body dissipated when she removed her hand from his and placed it in Mikhail’s.

They moved onto the floor into a flirtatious cha-cha routine, something easy and clearly well-rehearsed and deep in muscle memory.

Patrick couldn’t watch. He didn’t want to see their familiarity, the way Mikhail would touch her hips, her back, Mikhail’s possessive gaze. Was she touching his chest? That wasn’t fair. Patrick’s pecs were much better than—

This was ridiculous. He needed a drink.

He made his way across the floor to the bar but found himself underwhelmed by the choices. When he had helped Anita with the studio, at least there had been whiskey at the Saturday night party.

“Not a wine drinker?” Melanie appeared at his elbow out of thin air. This night was just getting better and better.

Kim was standing beside her, smiling like a furry feline. At least Melanie couldn’t make another awkward pass at him with her friend right there.

“Not usually.” He selected a bottle of red and filled a plastic goblet with it.

“I love wine.” Kim looked surprised she had said anything. Melanie shot her a cutting glance. Kim registered then ignored it. “There’s a great wine bar in Wayne that we go to sometimes.”

“Fun.” Patrick sipped his wine. He could not look away from Mikhail and Anita on the dance floor. Mikhail was typically overacting, his gestures overly grand and pompous. This was what Anita wanted? How had she ever had sex with that walking greasy mannequin?

Melanie was whispering something to him. Somehow she had ditched Kim and was standing again far too close to him. “Sorry?” he said, realizing she was waiting for a response.

“I was asking if I could dance with you.” She placed her long fingers on his arm.

Anita and Mikhail had moved off the dance floor. Was she leading Mikhail toward her office? The staircase to her apartment was through that door.

“Patrick?”

“Um, sure,” he finally replied, unable to come up with an appropriate excuse.

The song turned to Amy Winehouse foxtrot. Nothing to this. He could manage, right? And keep Anita in his sight. He bowed to Melanie, who blushed and actually tittered. Yeah, this was definitely on his list of ten worst ideas, next to mixing mints with diet cola and overindulging at sake bars.

“You are so good at this,” she breathed. She ran her hands up and down his arms and pressed her body close to his.

“You need to keep your dance frame.” He pulled away and demonstrated. “This is mine, this is yours.” He repositioned her head and shoulders, ignoring the way she kept eyeing him hungrily. At least she was not draped on him like an afghan. “Now, keep a slight tension in your hands, and just follow me. It’s slow-slow-quick-quick.” He started moving her through an easy slow eight count.

“I’m doing it!” she squealed. “I feel just like Jennifer Grey!”

“Yes.” He moved her through the next eight count. “But keep your dance frame.”

“You know,” she said, clearly deciding she understood the rhythm of the dance and so had liberty to flirt again. Which he would have corrected if he was not looking for Anita. “I haven’t had to work this hard for anybody in a long time.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t work so hard. I hear it gives you wrinkles.” Patrick turned her to see if Anita and Mikhail were in the office or had gone upstairs. He couldn’t tell from this vantage point. He needed to move her closer to the office.

“Oh, Patrick.” She broke her frame yet again to trace her fingers up his arm. “You are so funny. We could be such good friends.”

“You’re married.” He couldn’t see Anita. Had she really taken Mikhail upstairs, left the guests at her own party? What was she thinking?

He felt Melanie move closer to him, pressing her body closer to his. Shit. I really should be paying more attention.

“Patrick.” Melanie’s expression was deadly.

“Dance frame.” Patrick tried to reposition her, but she would not follow his directions and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“My husband, he’s terrible to me. He doesn’t understand me. And let’s be honest, he’s not all that great in bed.” She moved the hand on his shoulder closer to his neck, trailing a finger along his hairline. He tried not to recoil. “I think we could be so good for each other.”

How long was this fucking song? “Keep your frame.” He finally managed to readjust her hands. Oh, thank Heavens and all that was good and holy, the song finally ended. Perfect. He clipped a bow toward her. “Thank you. Enjoy your evening.”

She haughtily put her hands on her hips. “Really? This is how you’re going to treat me? What about that key?”

“Mrs. Templeton, I am not interested in your proposition. Thank you for the dance, and goodbye.”

He could feel the anger smoking from her, but he was done. He had done his duty, danced with the clients. Anita was gone. She had left with Mikhail.

Patrick felt his heart plummet through the floor. This was it. He couldn’t keep doing this to himself. He had to go while he still had a modicum of self-respect, even if it meant breaking a promise. She was never going to choose him. Enough was enough.

****

Anita crossed her arms over her chest. If he could just get it through his thick skull.

“Anita, please.” Mikhail’s hair barely moved, and he was typically expressionless. How the hell had she ever found him attractive? He reminded her a bit of an oily penguin in his black outfit. “Patrick? You will never win.”

“I never really won with you.” She never should have listened to him, never should have taken him to her office so they could “chat.” “I can’t do this, Mikhail. I have party guests.” She moved toward the door, but he put a hand on her arm to stop her. She ripped it away from his grasp.

“I miss you.” He contorted his face into what he clearly deemed an acceptable expression of contrition.

Fuck him.

“Really? Do you? After you completely ditched me for Tatiana Lurshenko? Where is she, by the way? How does she feel about your little decision?”

Mikhail stiffened and removed his hand from her arm. Ah. There it was. “She’s ditched you, huh?”

“Her ex is planning on going to Stuttgart and invited her along,” he replied haltingly. “After Keystone.”

Anita crossed her arms over her chest and straightened to her full height. “Sounds like kind of a familiar ploy.”

He scoffed, tossing his hair which of course did not move. How had she missed all the red flags? “You are a mess. I don’t know why I am here.”

“Me neither.” She gestured grandly. “There’s the door.”

He stalked out. Anita rolled her eyes. Had he always been such a cocky, preposterous asshole? How had she spent three years of her life with him? She had to stop making the same mistake. Dance partners did not make good romantic relationships.

Like Patrick.

She could not find him in the crowd. At least tonight there was no surprise silanga with an Argentine tango group from New Jersey. But he wasn’t there.

She could not still the disquiet in her chest. Had Patrick forgiven her for what she had said? When they were waltzing, she had not even found breath to speak. It had been simultaneously the longest and shortest dance of her life.

She just wanted the chance to apologize.

She forced a smile at some of the attendees but then focused on the clock. Only thirty minutes left. Very little good ever happened after ten p.m., so everything needed to shut down.

For the first time ever, she started encouraging her patrons to get out as gently as she could. If only she could just turn off the Saturday party playlist and hide underneath her desk with a bottle of wine and some Bon Jovi.

It took less time than she expected to clear her guests. She didn’t realize she was looking for Patrick until she was alone, and he had not reappeared.

Shit. Just shit. Damn Mikhail and his shitty ass timing.

She finger-combed her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck but didn’t tie it. Bon Jovi and cleaning. Perfect combination.

She had just grabbed the recycling bags when the bell over the door chimed.

“Sorry we’re—”

But it was Patrick. Patrick, his features encased in stone and shoulders stiff.

Her mouth went dry. That shirt did him a lot of favors. “What are you doing here?” she managed. “I thought you’d gone home.”

“I promised I’d help. I like to keep my promises.” He brushed abruptly past her and fetched a pair of cleaning gloves and an extra trash bag from the storage box.

Ouch. “Well, thanks.” Fine. She did not need him. The tears threatening at the backs of her eyes were from exhaustion.

She worked alongside him in tense silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the ’80s rock ballads. She stole glances at him as he worked, as he meticulously sorted the trash and recycling, emptied half-full glasses into a bucket.

What have I done?

Before long they had finished with the general clearing. “I’ll take this out.” He heaved four whole trash bags over his broad muscular shoulders.

“Thanks.”

Not how she pictured the evening. What had she pictured exactly? Not this. Not this angry hate cleaning.

He reentered the studio and went directly for the broom.

If she screamed it was not her fault. “Did you have fun tonight?” Was that her voice? It sounded strained, like a cheerleader about to find out her boyfriend was dumping her. Anita’s blood roiled.

“Sure.” He finished sweeping the dance floor and leaned the broom against the mirror. “I forgot how much work it is.”

“Yeah.” Anita snapped the gloves from her hands. He would know if he had just taken the time to be there over the past year, if he hadn’t left her alone with Mikhail. “I need to wash my hands.”

“Good idea.”

This was not okay. She had never angered anyone merely by the act of washing her hands, but Patrick glowered, literally glowered.

She had never seen anything she hated more.

“What’s going on?” She despised the desperation in her voice and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I don’t know.” He leaned against the door to the washroom, watching her. Infuriating.

“You’re acting like you’re mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad at you, Anita?” He shoved past her and moved across the dance floor.

Her heart dropped at every step of distance. “Did I do something?”

He whirled, running his hands through his thick mop of hair. “I don’t know!” He stood there, hands at his sides, pleading. His voice softened a little, but his face looked wracked. Damaged. She nearly swooned. “Look, just tell me. Tell me you and Mikhail are getting back together and my services are no longer needed.”

“What?” She stifled a laugh that was more of a sob. “Are you insane? I’m not getting back together with Mikhail.”

“Well, what was I supposed to think when your ex shows up in the middle of the party? You’re always saying how good he was for you.”

God, his face was so wounded and his eyes so deeply blue, cerulean like the ocean…lust crept up her body from her toes to her legs and higher… She needed to be away from him. “You’re an idiot.” She needed something, anything, to distract her. She fiddled with the dials on the stereo system.

“I’m an idiot?” He placed a hand on her arm. She tried to ignore the sudden jolt of electricity that shot straight through her body, tried not to fall over at the intensity. “What did you see in that guy? He never cared about you. His dancing is rote, and he—he has stupid hair.”

“No!” She removed his hands from her body, ignoring the chill as skin left skin. “How dare you question my life, my choices? It’s not like you’ve been here, Patrick. When you left last year, I was on my own. I built this business back after you left. I was the one setting up for the parties, hiring teachers. You didn’t want any part of it when you switched careers.” Her breath caught in her chest, broke like a sob. “But I knew you needed to go. I knew you needed something more. So I let you go. And maybe Mikhail was never that great at actually helping, but he was here.” Not what she needed, never what she really wanted, but there.

Despair. That’s what it was. That was the feeling of him being so close to her, yet so far away, the distance too vast to cross.

“And then you show up, with your cheesesteaks and your Pollyanna attitude, and you ruin my routines and disagree with my choreography, and you make me want things I can’t have.” She clenched her fists at her sides. She could not look at him, but then could not look away. “After this, Patrick, you will go back to your life. You will go back to being an influencer, to your popularity. You will follow your dreams. And I will still be here.” Doing tax forms. Cleaning. Making it work. Her voice broke. “So don’t question my choices, who I dance with, how I run my studio. I am not your problem.”

The air thickened between them. Anita bit her lip and unsuccessfully fought back tears. This was it. She had ruined their friendship, all by telling someone else that there was nothing beyond friendship. With lies. She was a damned liar and—

“Are you finished?”

Patrick’s face was still, set in stone, inscrutable and so undeniably appealing and charming and—oh my God, this was the last time she would ever see it.

A sob caught in her throat. She had to let him go. It was only fair. He needed, no, he deserved more.

“Are you finished?” he whispered again, and she nodded.

Then, instead of him leaving, he was there, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his face against her hair. Everywhere he touched, her body thrilled and warmed, like a marshmallow over a flame. “I’m so sorry, Anita. You’re absolutely right. I’m a huge idiot.”

Relief flooded through her, and she tightened her arms around him. “Me too,” she replied, her voice soft, just a breath.

But the air shifted.

He was so close to her, his scent intoxicating. Her body tensed and curled where he touched her. His fingers brushed her hair back along the curve of her ear and rested just below her jaw.

Lust pooled and tensed deep in her belly like a vortex.

How had she ignored this for so long? Without meaning to, she arched her back, tilted her face toward him. She was close enough to lap at that sexy little dimple, draw it between her lips, impress her mark upon him.

He was staring at her, a curious expression on his face. Had the moment passed? Like so many other fleeting moments. Possibilities and timing.

But she did not want it to pass. Not this time. Every nerve ending in her body wanted this, wanted him.

“Pat?” she pleaded, not sure if she was begging for him to kiss her or to stop this, stop her from stepping over—

But then he pressed his lips to hers, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

Her body roared and bucked at the overwhelming sensations before melting farther into his. The taste of mint toothpaste and smoky whiskey intoxicated her, thrilled her. More. She wanted more. She wanted everything.

She slid her tongue between his parted lips to taste, to savor. He made a small sound at the back of his throat that sent chills and heat flashing through her. He tightened his grip on her, deepening the kiss, stretching her into a deep backbend, but she followed. She would follow him anywhere. Her whole body smoldered, the burning deep within her yearning for more, more of this, more of him.

She nipped at the tantalizing dimple, teased it with her tongue.

“Anita,” he moaned into the base of her throat, his breath warm and inviting. She sucked in her breath as he nipped and licked at her collarbone.

A distant part of her brain tried to regain control, but she flicked it away, cupped Patrick’s stubbled jaw in her palms and took more of what she wanted.

Her Patrick, wonderful Patrick. Shockingly good kisser Patrick.

She buried her hands into his dark-brown curls, moaning, begging. But she could not break the kiss. There was urgency in it now. Something tender and swollen teased to a breaking point.

More.

He grabbed her hips, lifted her off the ground, pressed her up against the mirror. She wrapped her legs around his waist, the folds of her skirt sliding sensuously against her legs. He ran one hand along her naked skin from her ankle to her thigh, his fingers sparking electricity. Unconsciously, she leaned into the sensation, arching into his hands, into his body, feeling the hard length of him against her. Yes.

He panted her name and traced his tongue along her collarbone, teasing, licking, nipping her shoulder underneath the strap of her dress. The hand on her thigh, the pressure of his body between her legs was too much and never enough.

“Anita?” His voice in her ear now, low, seductive. A delicious tension coiled in her muscles. “Can I take you upstairs?”

Yes. Yes. Why wait to go upstairs?

She met his gaze then, fire meeting flame. This was it. She could not turn back now.

She reached for him—

But an explosion of shattering glass roughly shook her free.