Chapter Thirty-One

Anita paced her room for nearly an hour. At one point, she tried to remove her makeup using her beloved cold cream, but then she tore one of her false eyelashes, which just added to her irritation, and she tossed her makeup towel on the floor of the bathroom with disgust.

Boys. Children.

After what seemed like an eternity, she heard the gentle click of the neighboring door closing, and she stood by the adjoining partition, tapping one foot repeatedly on the floor.

No. She was not going to do it. She was not going to open that damned partition. This was his fault and his mess. He had gotten into a stupid bar brawl instead of staying with her.

She could hear him, breathing too loudly. Of all the inconsiderate, shitty things a person could do.

She whipped open the door, prepared for a full-on headmistress drilling, and immediately her ire deflated.

Patrick looked awful. His carefully gelled hair now pointed every which way, and his hands were cut and bruised. She could see the cut above one eye, the shiner making its appearance underneath the other. He had stuffed tissue paper into his nose which was now crusted with dried blood.

“I’ll call room service for ice,” Anita said stonily when it became abundantly clear he wasn’t about to say anything.

He moved shyly into the room behind her as she called for ice and food.

Stupid, stupid men and their games. “Sit down.” She opened one of her suitcases and removed a large travel case.

He perched in the armchair by the window. What an ass. He wasn’t even going to apologize.

She busied her hands by removing bandages, antibiotic ointment, arnica, and ibuprofen from the travel case.

Never. Never again.

“I’m sorry, Anita,” she heard him whisper. The crack in his voice stilled her movements. “I am so, so sorry.”

He was sorry? Sorry for what? Getting into a fight the night before a professional competition? Sorry for being her friend? Sorry for the most sensual dance she had ever experienced and then denying her satisfaction?

No, she didn’t want satisfaction. Not that kind. No. Of course not.

She didn’t move for a very long moment, then sniffed and took a seat beside him.

“Let me see.”

Patrick just watched her as she ministered silently to him, checking his wounds, applying arnica here, bandages and ointment there. She traced the laceration on his eyebrow with her fingers before cleansing it with a damp hotel washcloth. The water washed over her hands, and the tumult of the night drifted away with the blood and grime.

Patrick didn’t say a word. She no longer expected it of him. He had told her he was sorry. That was enough. For now.

Room service arrived, and Anita brought the tray to the desk. She filled a napkin with ice and handed it to him. “Are you hungry?” She removed the silver lids from the plates, showing a chicken Caesar and a club sandwich.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

She saw now the tears in his eyes. She hadn’t noticed before, but his ribs looked bruised. Through his ruined shirt she could see the purple starting to throb against his muscles. “I don’t deserve it.”

It reminded her of all of the moments he took care of her. The soups and the ginger ales and the witty rejoinders and the easy companionship, the effortless aid.

She sat beside him and took his injured hand in hers. “You’re an idiot. But you’re still my friend.”

A shadow darkened his features, but he put the ice pack over his face to hide it. “Your friend, right. Right, of course.” His voice sounded thicker than usual. Anita wondered if he had hurt his mouth in some way. God, she hoped not. An injury to a mouth like his would certainly be a shame.

She pulled herself away from him, trying to keep the rising heat in her body to a minimum. She preferred fury. It was a cleaner emotion than desire.

“You’re not mad, then?” he finally asked.

“Mikhail kind of deserved it.” Though she kind of wished she had been involved in the battle. She busied herself packing up the supplies, setting them neatly back into the travel case.

“Yeah, but I went and got a black eye the night before a competition.” He winced, and Anita wasn’t sure if it was his admission of wrongdoing or the injuries that caused it.

She suddenly realized she was still in her costume. Oh God, the way his hands felt as they tore off the overskirt. The ridiculously short silvery skirt hardly seemed to cover anything. Maybe she should surreptitiously find her sweatpants.

“Tanning spray and cosmetics can hide a lot. I’ve basically got a beauty store in my luggage.” Good job, Anita. Keeping it easy.

“I just—what he said about you.” Patrick looked straight at her then, and her heart caught in her throat. He looked so intense, so unlike the gentle man she knew. But it thrilled her, too, this side of him. This protector, this serious man. Patrick would never let her down. “How he insulted you. I couldn’t let it go. He was making it out that he was the good in your relationship, and I know that’s not true.”

“So do I. But I can fight my own battles.”

She filled another cloth with ice and pressed it to his ribs. His breathing increased suddenly, and heat flushed across his skin. “Are you okay?” She placed the back of her other hand against his forehead. “You don’t have a fever, do you?”

****

Patrick couldn’t breathe. Not because of the pain. The pain was a bitch, for sure. But she was so close to him, her hands on the sensitive skin of his ribs, her face solicitous, caring, open. Anita. Patrick found he could not break his gaze from her eyes. The light in them sparked something in him, sun shafting across a lake.

“Are you okay?” She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.

No, he wanted to reply. I got punched by a guy who probably knows Capoeira. I feel like my insides are on the outside.

Patrick also had never been in a fight before. Plenty had taunted him over the years for his interest in ballroom dance, the small-minded bigots, but he had always been able to one-up the other guys verbally. Clearly he had lost his mind.

He was losing it again.

He was just so tired, and she was just so close to him. He could smell her perspiration that had settled into her clothes. Her fingers had whispered lightly across his skin as she ministered to him, and he knew his body thrilled at her touch.

The whole thing was exhausting.

He didn’t want to fight anymore. The thought entered his fatigued brain, and he could not shake it, could not dislodge it. He could not escape the memory of her kiss, the way her body had molded perfectly to his. How could he when it felt so much like destiny? He could not leave town without telling her, at least once.

He reached a hand out and gently cupped the underside of her chin. “I’m in love with you.”

Patrick felt her stiffen beneath his touch, but he couldn’t look away from her. He had not quite known the words would actually leave his mouth this time. Maybe at times he had implied it, but he had never told her directly. And now it was out there. A real, true fledgling thing, seeing the sun for the first time.

It felt like relief.

“What are you talking about?” Anita whispered, her body still. God help him, she was still wearing the costume, the glittery bustier and short skirt that showed way too much of her skin.

“I love you.” His shoulders relaxed. “I’ve been in love with you since we were teenagers.”

She moved away from him then, and his broken body suddenly felt crushed anew, like an elephant had sat on him. He was an idiot. Hadn’t he known that she didn’t feel the same way? Otherwise, wouldn’t she have said something earlier? Although when they had kissed last week, he had thought she felt it. She had kissed him back, deepened it, wrapped herself around him. That wasn’t nothing. He was sure he had felt it tonight. Or maybe she really was that good of an actress.

“Anita?” He stood, looking at her back, his hands slightly outstretched as if he could grasp something as elusive as her.

She turned her back to him, and his heart deflated again. She was crying, tears welling in her eyes and coursing silently down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Patrick, I’m so sorry. I just—I just can’t.”