Chapter 20
Elle
I’ve been listening to the Grosvenor score on repeat since Alyssa sent it to me a few weeks ago. It’s a stunning combination of era-appropriate classical music composed especially for the show, and some contemporary songs reworked into clever, strings-heavy arrangements.
Case in point: the song we’ll be waltzing to at today’s rehearsal is a slowed-down, strings-only version of Chloe Adams’ Dirty Thoughts. It’s cheeky, and catchy, and perfect.
I’ve been having one-on-one dance lessons with the show’s choreographer, Jack Lawson, and various members of his team for weeks now, and I understand Josh has, too.
I’ve really enjoyed myself. Having skipped drama school, I’ve missed out on any formal dance training, and learning to waltz and jig is a far cry from my usual Dance Floor Whore style, but I’ve taken to it quickly, and I’ve watched enough period dramas to know how important dancing can be as a mechanism for bringing love interests together and building intimacy.
Let’s hope it works for me and Josh too, because as much as I’m dreading spending the day whirling around in his muscular arms, I know we need to get comfortable acting together, and quickly.
We’re in an airy loft in Soho this morning, and I can’t help but feel like I’m channelling my inner Strictly Come Dancing pro. Ooh, maybe they’ll invite me on as a celebrity once Grosvenor has aired! I would love that so much.
I have an unfortunate tendency to get very involved in the buying of accessories to get into the spirit of hobbies, without actually committing to the hobby itself.
Skiing is a brilliant example: I have a wardrobe full of gorgeous Perfect Moment ski gear at home, and very little skill to show for it.
Today, in true Elle Hart style, I’ve gone to town on my dance outfit in leggings, a crop top and a light, baggy top that hangs off one shoulder.
I’m basically Dance Barbie. It’s ridiculous, I know, but it makes me as happy as if I’m a four-year-old girl in her first ballet outfit.
Thankfully, I’m in ballet flats, similar to what I’ll be wearing under my costume.
It’s more accurate, and the directors are keen to accentuate the height difference between me and Josh.
I’ll probably have a stiff neck by the end of the day from looking up at him for hours on end, but at least my feet won’t ache as much as they would from dancing in heels all day.
I may or may not also have brushed my teeth three times this morning and packed five packs of gum to prepare for a day of close proximity. God knows what I’ll be like when we actually do a kissing scene (shudder).
When I show up, Josh is already there, chatting away to Jack and a group of people who I assume are dancing extras.
I eye him curiously. He certainly seems to be making an effort.
I noticed yesterday he spent a good amount of time greeting everyone around the table individually.
I suppose he has a lot riding on this opportunity, what with the flop Ghoul was and his reported stints in rehab.
Josh, Josh, Josh. The guy is a total mystery.
I can’t square the conflicting sides of this man, from the one making polite, cheery conversation with his colleagues right now, to the passionate, confident man I fell in love with, to the press reports of drug and alcohol abuse that I never personally witnessed.
I shake my head. It’s not my problem. He’s not my problem anymore. I just have to get through the next few months and enjoy them as much as possible, despite Josh Lander’s unwelcome presence.
He spots me, and his face brightens. He takes a step backwards, opening up a gap in the cluster for me to join.
‘Hey, Elle. Good morning.’ This chipper greeting is delivered with an equally chipper smile. I narrow my eyes at him. I’m not sure what the hell his game is, and whether he’s trying to throw me off mine or make out like he’s a good guy in front of everyone. Whatever.
‘Morning,’ I say tersely, before smiling more genuinely at the rest of them.
I don’t want to get a reputation for being a total bitch.
And it’s not their fault I hate my co-star.
‘Hi there. I’m Elle.’ I give them a little wave before spotting Thor and Nick, who are also in this scene, and giving them a higher-wattage smile.
‘You look ready to dance,’ Josh remarks.
His gaze sweeps brazenly over my bare shoulder.
Is he taking the piss? He also looks very, um, convincing, in manly harem pants and a zip-up hoodie that’s open just enough to show a tantalising hint of chest hair above his singlet.
That hoodie had better stay the fuck on while I’m dancing with him.
‘Let’s do this,’ Jack says, saving me from a snarky response and throwing me out of the frying pan and into the fire all at once.
‘Josh and Elle, you’ll join the dance floor from here.
Everyone else, to the sides for the moment, please.
We’ll give Elle and Josh a few rounds to find their feet before we weave the rest of you in. ’
As the others make their way to slouch against the walls of the studio, I curb my mounting desire to wriggle the horror of this situation off and focus on adopting the erect posture my etiquette teacher has insisted on for a young lady of breeding in the era.
I straighten my back. Drop my shoulders. Tilt my chin up.
Beside me, Josh exhales. ‘God help us.’ My thoughts exactly.
‘Break a leg,’ I murmur in a tone curt enough to leave him wondering whether I’m actually wishing him luck or putting a curse on him.
He holds out his arm to me. ‘Miss Kenworthy,’ he murmurs.
The familiar first bars of the music strike up from the sound system, and I take his arm. Together, we move to the middle of the room, both staring straight ahead.
We stop. Turn towards each other. I raise my face to his, and he looks down at me. I wish I was in heels.
‘Ready?’ Josh asks. I nod.
He slides his hand around my waist and pulls me closer, and I slip my left hand over his shoulder as I’ve done with Jack and his team a million times. I extend my right arm straight, and Josh clasps my wrist.
Skin on skin.
The shock of it.
Josh’s hand is warm and dry and strong, his fingers closing effortlessly around my wrist. He’s close. Closer than my rehearsal partners seemed, closer than I thought he would be. Too close?
Despite the height difference, our mouths are inches apart, his lashes sweeping his cheeks as he gazes down at me, and I have a couple of most unwelcome, most unhelpful thoughts as he does.
First, he is fucking gorgeous. God. No one can deny the guy that.
The fullness of his lips, those liquid brown eyes, his long, straight nose, and the perfect smattering of stubble running from his to-die-for cheekbones to his jaw.
However hard Josh Lander is on the heart, fuck knows he’s easy on the eye.
Second, I am really going to enjoy looking at this all day.
Despite the fact that this position we’ve got going on is uncomfortably familiar, and looking up at him from this vantage point is doing very strange things to my muscle memory.
My body remembers all-too-clearly the unspeakable things we used to get up to from this launch position, as well as his penchant for gripping my wrists when he thrust inside me.
Clearly I won’t be able to relax for a second today.
Can’t be on autopilot. Autopilot for taking me through my well-rehearsed dance moves: good.
Autopilot for being in Josh Lander’s arms and being very well-rehearsed in closing the gap between our mouths like a starving woman whenever I had a chance: bad.
Josh looks as though he may be struggling with his autopilot too as we tentatively move off in a large circle, while Jack delivers a running commentary of encouragement and praise and tweaks.
His eyes darken and his jaw tics and his nostrils flare as he tightens his grip on my wrist and waist, and all of these things make it very hard for me to look away.
Very hard indeed. Thank God I’m not the one having to lead.
A small squeak of alarm behind me alerts us both to the fact that we’re about to career into some of the dancers, and Josh comes to his senses, righting us and pulling me even closer to him as we move.
‘Shit. Sorry, Elle.’
Please don’t say my name while I’m in your arms. It is spectacularly unhelpful.
‘Don’t worry. You’re doing fine.’ See? I can be nice. He is doing fine. This is bloody hard work, in every way.
‘It’s okay,’ Jack calls. ‘You guys will need to hold eye contact for most of this waltz eventually, which means you’ll have to lead while appearing to look only at Elle, Josh. But for now, I suggest you keep your eyes on the room while you get a feel for the space.’
Josh’s entire face relaxes. ‘Sure thing,’ he tells Jack, and proceeds to studiously watch where we’re going and avoid eye contact for the next few minutes, leaving me to stare freely at his lips, which are pressed together in concentration.
He’s good. We’re good. We’re doing great.
I mean, I know we have past dance floor form that suggested we’d find our stride easily, and we do.
The music is perfect, and Josh is a seriously good leader when he’s not gazing down at me and ignoring everything around us.
It’s a relief and an irritation that we’re so good together on every kind of dance floor.
Not to mention, he smells amazing—exactly like I remember.
As we take our turn around the floor, again and again, our body temperatures rise and his scent hits me squarely.
Smell, oh smell, you are the most lethal fucking portal to the past. I force myself to silently chant the line Nora threatened to tattoo backwards on my forehead so I can read it in the mirror: Sociopaths are not hot. Sociopaths are not hot.