Chapter Thirty-Four

Anita awoke abruptly and disoriented. Shit. Had she missed her alarm? She opened one eye furtively and noted that it was still fairly dark outside.

Good. Great. All was good. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except.

Suddenly keenly aware by the chill of morning across her bare skin that she was completely naked, she pulled the hotel sheet up to her chest and turned to her cell phone to check the time. Five forty-five. At least she wouldn’t let her students down.

Still using the sheet as a shield, she surreptitiously glanced over at the other side of the bed, and the smile spread from her toes to the crown of her head.

Patrick was sleeping, turned toward her, his hand reaching for her even in repose. The bedsheets had pooled around his waist. God, he was handsome, an Adonis with his toned torso and sexily disheveled mop of hair. Even with the bruises blossoming around his eyes, his chin, his ribs, Anita felt a stab of desire that quickly cooled with a rush of embarrassment.

She could no longer say she had never had great sex. No, not great. Mind-altering, life-changing sex. It would be so easy to slide into this, nestle into him. Every nerve on her body screamed for her to do it. She was more awake, more alert than she had ever been.

Her phone pinged and buzzed. Still thinking about Patrick, she turned her head and stifled the scream in her throat.

—YOU FUCKING BITCH STY AWAAAAY FROM HIM HES MINE MINE MINE—

Her breath caught in her throat, but there was a photo attached. Hesitantly, she tapped at the text, and a photo of her smashed studio door covered her phone. She clasped a hand over her mouth, stifling the cry.

Another ping and buzz.

—YOO THINK THAT WAS BAD WORSE IS COMING I KNOW WHERE YOUR MOM LIVES YOU FUCKING TALENTLESS BITCH—

The sobs choked through her despite her hands clamped over her mouth.

Patrick stirred beside her, and she felt as though she were being sucked into a vacuum.

What had she been thinking? She needed to delete the texts before he could see them.

As quickly and silently as she could, she gathered her dressing robe out of the closet and fled into the bathroom. How could she have done that to Patrick? How could she have let her guard down?

Once safely ensconced in the small bathroom, she sank to the cold tile floor and focused on trying to find her breath.

This had been a mistake. A huge mistake. Not only was someone threatening her mom, but how could she have forgotten that she was toxic in relationships? None of them had ever worked out in her favor. And Patrick, Patrick was the best man in the entire world. She would ruin him. He would be better off without her.

Tears falling silently down her face, she tucked her hair up into a shower cap and turned on the water as hot as she could manage, letting the steam rise to the ceiling. She hoped it could cleanse her, take away the memory of his hands hot on her body, his mouth teasing her, his weight on her.

After all, it wasn’t as if it could ever happen again. The text vitriol had only set everything into perspective. Last night was an aberration.

And she really ought to have opted for a cold shower if she were going to dwell on last night’s escapade.

Once out of the shower, she wrapped herself in her blue-and-green peacock-embroidered dressing gown and set to work on her hair and makeup, the movements so practiced they were muscle memory. This is better. She applied toner, moisturizer, eye cream. Let that set. She shook her hair out of the shower cap and busied her hands by brushing it, sectioning it. Makeup prep first, then do hair, then complete makeup. Leave lipstick for last. Eat and drink. Routine. Don’t think about Patrick’s hands, his tongue, his mouth.

Patrick.

No.

Routine.

“YOU FUCKING TALENTLESS BITCH”

No. She would not give that more power.

So focused was she on her pre-comp ablutions that she literally jumped in the air when she heard the doorknob turn and the door creak open. She had forgotten to lock it. It had been so long since she had needed to lock a bathroom door.

Patrick leaned against the doorframe, clad only in boxer shorts. “Hey.” A wicked smile curled across his lips, sleep still burning out of his glittering blue eyes. “I didn’t realize you would be up quite this early.” He scratched idly at his bare stomach, and Anita felt her eyes drawn to the thin line of hair on his toned lower abdomen, leading beneath his boxers.

Focus! Her body was having difficulty cooperating, judging by the rush of heat in her belly. Tell yourself he is not devastatingly sexy right now. Shut it down shut it down.

“Oh.” If ever there were a lame, flustered response. She was never flustered. Just because she had lost it last night did not mean she had to succumb again. Even if a niggling part of her brain really, really wanted to succumb again. “Well, I have students competing this morning. I don’t want to be late.”

He smiled, and her breath caught in her throat. That goddamn sexy little dimple. She wanted to perch on his lap just like she had when they were seventeen, coloring it peacock blue. His smile lightened something in her, and she did not want to chase that feeling for fear of where it would lead. “I like your hair like that.” He gestured to her coif. “Very alien invasion.”

She glanced in the mirror. She had only completed part of her final look so far, so half was crimped and teased, and the other had been brushed back and slicked with hairspray. “Haha.” He stretched, providing her ample view of his eight-pack as well as his blossoming bruises. Anita averted her eyes and focused in the mirror on her hair. “How are you feeling?”

He ran his finger over his jaw, assessing. “Like I’ve been in a fight.”

Maybe everything would be all right. Nothing had really changed between them. He was still just Patrick. The text message didn’t mean anything. Her mom wasn’t in danger.

But then he straightened from the door frame and moved closer to her, his smile now sheepish, endearing, a little sultry. Tears pricked in the back of her eyes, and her spine tensed.

They spoke simultaneously.

“I thought you and I could—”

“About last night—”

They both stopped at the same time. She cringed at the flash of pain across his face.

He was just staring at her. What could she do but stare back at him, try to keep her gaze level, convince him that she was right? Not only was having sex—amazing, life changing sex, but she was not going to dwell on it any more—the night before a major competition ill advised, but ruining a friendship? He was the best thing in her life; she did not want that to change. Three weeks of a roller coaster of trauma and emotions had just led to a moment of weakness. That was it. Absolutely.

Her heart reared in protest, but she forced it to be silent.

“Look, Patrick—” She hesitated, unsure what she was going to say.

“Don’t.” His voice was hoarse, his beautiful, kind eyes full of hurt. “Don’t. Don’t ‘about last night’ me.”

“It was a mistake.” Even she could hear the lie, could hear it tearing a deeper rift between them. Maybe it could open a hole in the fabric of the universe, and she could dive into that. That would be preferable to having to look at him.

He put his hands over his face, but his mouth contorted with pain. He ran his hands through his hair instead. “You don’t mean that. You—you can’t mean that.”

Her heart sank lower in her stomach. She would really appreciate a wormhole. “I do. It’s just—it’s all too much. I don’t know what I was thinking last night. The dance and the fight and this whole stalker thing, and there were just all these emotions, and I-I think I got carried away.”

He turned away from her, and she grimaced at the bruises and cuts on his back. Then she realized he had not sustained all of those in his fight with Mikhail, and a flush rocketed across her skin.

“Patrick—”

“I’m in love with you.” He turned back to face her, his features set in an expression of pleading. “Last night was the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me.”

She recoiled as if he had slapped her, felt the words settle somewhere deep in her heart, her brain.

“You pretending it was a mistake…” He swallowed deeply. “I was there last night, Anita. You can lie to yourself, but I know you.”

“Patrick—” Seriously, she wasn’t going to throw up, was she?

He suddenly moved toward her, took her hands in his, looked straight at her. Fear and desire pounded in her chest, and her hands burned where he touched. But fire burns out. Fire doesn’t help set up the studio for the Saturday night party or pay the bills or get more ice when you run out in the middle of an event. Fire doesn’t want to hear about a bad day or accept mistakes.

“Ani,” he whispered, his voice soft and endearing. She couldn’t look away, she couldn’t. “Ani, just tell me. Tell me you don’t feel the same way, and I’ll—” He swallowed, the look on his face full of grief. “—I’ll try to go back to being friends. I’ll try. But tell me the truth. I deserve at least the truth, right?”

No, no.

Every memory from the last few weeks, the last umpteen years, crept along her skin and etched itself into place. He was her best friend. He loved her, loved her. He deserved only the best. He did deserve the truth.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and he backed slowly away. “I’m so sorry, Patrick, but I—I don’t love you.”

He stalked away, slamming the adjoining door behind him.

Thank goodness she hadn’t yet finished her eye makeup. It would have been hell to have to clean up the mascara running free down her cheeks.