Chapter Twenty-Three
“How long do you think this will take?” Anita frowned at the contractor who was measuring her door. He was a squat, grumpy little man with a significant plumber’s crack that she was determined not to see.
“Could he be more of a cartoon?” Patrick murmured behind her.
She swatted at him. The door repair was taking up far too much valuable time. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
His lips tilted, and that goddamn dimple winked at her. “I’m all yours, Anita.”
The back of her neck prickled at his words.
She turned back to the contractor and placed her hands on her hips. “Mr. Erickson, do you know about how long this will take?”
The little man sighed, dusting off his Phillies cap and then settling it again atop his tangle of grayish-brown hair. “Well, now, Ms. Goodman. Not too long, I should say. I have the piece of glass in my truck. Should be done before tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
She had to leave for Harrisburg in two days to ensure she would be there in time for the youth competition on Friday. If just one goddamn thing could go according to plan—
“Yup, not too long, not too long.” Mr. Erickson adjusted the beltline of his pants.
The strains of Frank Sinatra’s “Witchcraft” suddenly pealed from across the studio. Anita’s stomach dropped, and she wasted no time running for her cell phone.
“Hi, Maria.” It was not wise to keep Maria St. John waiting. A petite and efficient woman, she had run the Keystone competition for the past three years. The open secret in the Dancesport world was: What Maria St. John giveth, she can take away. And she had given Anita a lot in the last few weeks.
“Anita!” Maria drawled, her voice sounding tinny. Anita turned away from Patrick, who was following her and clearly determined to drive her even farther into insanity, and sank into her desk chair. “How are you? How’s Patrick? Good Lord, we were all devastated when he quit. I can’t quite believe he’s out of retirement just to dance with you, but thank goodness, right?”
“Yes, well, thank you for making the exception.” Anita wished she had a fresh cup of coffee. Or a large glass of wine. Or maybe earplugs.
“Of course!” Maria’s voice rose three octaves. “ANYthing for you, darling.”
“Is there something I can do for you, Maria?”
“Well, now—” the woman’s voice lowered in a conspiratorial manner and Anita frantically pushed the volume button on her phone “—I’m hoping you and that handsome fellow can help me with a little problem I have.”
Here it comes. Anita tried to prepare herself without breathing into the phone like a serial killer. “Sure, of course. Whatever we can do.” Patrick’s gaze burned into her. Maybe she should just climb underneath her desk and hide like a six-year-old.
“Wonderful! Well, you know we have dear Nikita’s tribute scheduled, and her assistant Chris was supposed to coordinate with Robbie and Talia to do a special showcase dance for it, but now Chris has completely dropped off the face of the earth, Robbie and Talia got booked in Vegas, and I need someone to dance the showcase.”
Anita gripped the phone with white knuckles, willing herself not to drop it, not to start crying, not to scream, “Are you bats hit crazy?!?!” All of which she would rather do. Instead, she breathed. 2-3-4-and-1. 2-3-4-and-1.
“Anita? Anita dear? Did you hear me?”
Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no.
Her lungs and stomach twisted. She couldn’t breathe, she was going to throw up, she could not see anything beyond—
Patrick’s warm hand on her back. His wonderful, trusting, confident face. She met his gaze, and her insides slowly unknit themselves.
“Okay.” Thank God she had managed even that.
“Good. Pick something sassy. You know how Nikita loved the rumba.” And with that, Maria hung up the phone.
Anita stared at it, afraid it might burst into flame. She hoped it would, though none of that would erase the promise she had just made.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Patrick asked quietly, no sarcasm or pretense. His hand was still on her back. She should move, get out of his way. But it was the only thing holding her together.
Breathe. Just breathe. “She asked us to dance the showcase for Nikita’s memorial on Friday night.”
Patrick blanched. “Fuck no! Is she bats hit crazy? She knows we only started dancing together a few weeks ago. We’re barely managing our Latin choreo.”
“I couldn’t say no.” She put her head in her hands. “I just couldn’t. She controls the whole thing. She could make my students’ lives hell. She could make my life hell. Why can’t anything be easy right now?” In the past, before competitions, she had limited stress, maximized her sleep and healthy food intake, cut down on outside problems. Now all she had were distractions.
He knelt beside her again. It was a bad idea, to look at him. To see him there, all comforting and warm and smelling of home. It made her want.
“We will be okay.” His fingertips grazed her chin, traced the line of her jawbone. “We can do that one we did in college, for the Ohio Star Ball.”
Her body tensed and heated in an entirely opposite reaction to Maria’s request. Not Hozier. They were not even supposed to dance together that night, but his partner had come down with mono, and—
She couldn’t. She couldn’t think of it. She was hyperventilating as it was.
“Anita? Are you okay?”
Perfect. Just perfect. Not about to burst into flames at just the thought of that dance.
Pull it together. Keep it together.
“Yes.” Okay, at least her voice worked. “Of course. Good idea. At least we don’t have to come up with something new.”
“Great.” He stood and extended his hands to help her. “I think I even still have that costume.”
His touch paralyzed her. There had been this moment all those years ago, the two of them, cocooned in this sensual bubble created by the dance. Anita had not thought about that moment in years, but now, here it was. Wrapping her in heat and promise and lust.
This was not going to go well.