Fumble All the Way (The Peppermint Playbook #4)

Chapter 1

Kaisa

Sometimes I wear red lipstick to remind me that I’m somebody. It’s that little extra something that makes me daring. Unforgettable—the way I feel when I blast Taylor Swift songs and wear my hair pinned up like Rosie the Riveter.

Today, my red lipstick is a power pose born of desperation.

“Again,” I shout, and my entourage of dancers return to their beginning poses.

We’re professionals from the show Lights, Camera, Dance!

and we’re in Winterbrook, Colorado—a resort town surrounded by snow-capped mountains—for a big charity event.

The couples are taking to my choreography better than expected.

We’ve only been rehearsing this dance for two hours and already they’re getting close.

But am I going to tell them that?

Not yet.

This time, instead of watching—analyzing—I join in. I really should practice, too, especially since my dance partner, Pavel, has those beady, testy eyes that say, If I have to keep dancing with the air, I’m going to pitch a fit.

A flick of a glance tells me the three other couples are ready, so I cue the music through the sound system, de-wedge my shimmery, silvery body suit that’s been riding up my backside all morning, and slide into position with Pavel.

“Five, six, ready, and!” My voice is cut off as the music crescendos. The music was specially created for us by the show’s sound engineers, taking a Latino Christmas song and pumping it up so that it sounds like it’s on steroids.

I volta—a rolling, sideways traveling step—towards Pavel. The swiveling step is meant to be hot and fast. But instead of smiling at me like he’s supposed to for this bright and happy dance, he frowns.

“Is your skin breaking out?” His forehead scrunches and his eyes narrow in the direction of my face.

I shunt out a frustrated breath but focus on the moves. I’m not going to dignify that question with a response, but my cheeks flood with heat.

Of course Pavel would ask me that. He’s Wynn’s number two, and Pavel would throw me under the bus at any point to move into top place. He never misses an opportunity to bring me down a notch.

Wynn brought me on as one of the premier members of the team when the show Lights, Camera, Dance! first started three seasons ago. Acting as something of a grandfather figure, Wynn took me under his wing, and I’ll be forever grateful for him.

Apparently, that means I have to dance with my rival, Pavel, and come to Colorado for the Peppermynt Twist Showdown instead of going home to Finland for Christmas.

But what Wynn wants, he gets.

We run through the dance twice more and then I call a ten-minute break.

The dancers have relief written all over their faces.

Pavel breaks away from me like I’m poison, rejoining Isla, his girlfriend and one of the other dancers on the show.

His face blanches at her like, That was pure torture, dancing with my enemy.

I couldn’t agree more, Pavel. Pure torture.

I grab my water bottle, chug the cool, crisp water, and pace to keep my muscles warm.

Isla approaches me as the other dancers begin to exit the ballroom. “Do you need any help with the swag bags for the athletes?” she asks.

“Thanks, but they’re almost done.”

I appreciate her asking if I need help, but I prefer to work on projects alone. That’s what being in this industry most of your life will do.

Some of the best people I know are in the ballroom dance world, but it can be competitive—cutthroat even. You have to work hard to stand out, and sometimes it’s lonely.

The dancers leave the ballroom for their break. Out in the hotel lobby, they’ll get recognized. Even if we weren’t on a TV show, a group of attractive ballroom dancers in splashy dancewear traipsing around the ritziest resort in Winterbrook is just asking for attention.

It’s good publicity to be noticed, but they could be late getting back.

Which will be irritating.

Look, I’m not a big jerk about things, but I have a reputation for being particular. Of liking things the way I like them.

It might not be the best quality, but it’s gotten me to where I am today. I have several endorsements with some big companies—from protein shakes to jewelry—and my face was on a billboard in Times Square promoting the show.

It’s awesome. I’m honored, excited, and very grateful.

But sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. Being in charge means I have to be the bad guy. Always. And no one said, Hey Kaisa, come join us in our little hangout!

Nope. That doesn’t happen.

But you know what I am missing? Christmas with my family. Again.

I set my water bottle on the ballroom floor and stare at my reflection in the rolling mirror, which we had to truck in from the set in L.A.

I yank on some long hair from my ponytail, securing it higher on my head. Thank goodness I got my roots touched up. I’m a natural, honey blonde, but ever since the show started, I’ve been two shades lighter—and Wynn wants it to stay that way.

I pucker my lips, wipe the sweat off my forehead, and stare into my eyes in the reflection. I should probably get my lashes touched up before the show next week. And some waxing done.

I’m under a microscope now and I have to look my best. But Pavel was right.

The pressure of being in charge of this big project has caused some blemishes to sprout up.

A few small spots along my chin and a deeper one right above my eyebrow.

They’re tender and sore, but in a couple of days they’re going to be even more unsightly.

Great.

I fight, for the millionth time, the shadow of inadequacy that slices through me.

If people only knew the self-doubt that plagues me.

I can’t tell anyone this because they probably won’t believe me, considering how outwardly successful my life is.

But the feelings of inadequacy are always there, threatening to undo me.

“You’re A-okay, gal,” I whisper, an echo of what my first ballroom coach, Martina, used to tell me back in Finland. I think she learned it from American TV.

I lean forward and kiss the mirror. It’s what I did sometimes when I was dancing in Finland. Sometimes it helps with the self-loathing, especially when I notice the kiss mark is perfect—plump and rosy red, like the kissy lip stickers I had as a kid.

“Like what you see?”

I’m startled by a male voice at the door.

“I wasn’t—” I press my lips together and rotate around.

He’s tall and dark. Muscle bound like a bear.

I get so used to dancer’s and actor’s physiques that sometimes I forget that there are truly massively solid men out there. Men who bulk up. Men who are too tall and just plain too big to ballroom dance.

He’s got thick, brown hair that flops over to the sides.

A noble nose. And he’s wearing jeans and tan suede boots, the laces tucked in, not tied.

He’s so casual and cool that he doesn’t need to stoop so low or be so normal as to tie his shoes.

He’s got on a cream, cable knit sweater that somehow enhances his masculinity.

This man is from the cover of every American Christmas store catalog we used to get in the mail when I was a kid. He’s the guy snuggling with his equally gorgeous model wife next to a roaring fire. Probably feeding her a gingerbread cookie.

Longing wells up in me so fast I’m left speechless. Sure, it’s attraction I feel for him. I’d have to be dead not to. But it’s more than that. Something that only a memory of Christmas at home with my family could conjure up.

“You weren’t what?” And now he’s fighting back a smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

I adjust my silver bodysuit. I wonder how—or even if—I should explain myself.

“I wasn’t gazing lovingly into my own eyes. I have a show coming up in a week and I have to look my best, that’s all.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “It’s in my contract, so…”

He nods. The sheer size of him makes me think he’s probably one of the athletes that the owner of the Mynt Peak resort brought in for this huge charity event. That’s why Lights, Camera, Dance! is here, too.

His face has yeah right, sure written all over it. He steps closer, looks at my mouth, and points to the lipstick mark on glass. “Did you leave that?”

“Is it a crime to kiss my own reflection for fun?”

He picks up the gym bag near his feet, hoists it onto his shoulder, and rolls his eyes.

Rolls his eyes.

“Did you need something?” I ask, my bare arms crossed at my chest. “Because this is a closed rehearsal.”

He glances around the room. “With yourself? Are you doing a solo?”

“No.” I sigh. “The other dancers are taking a break, but they’ll be back any minute.”

“And you didn’t get a break?”

“I’m taking a break here.”

“Oh?”

I let out a taut breath. “So, is there something I can help you with?”

“Do you know where the gym is?”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “That’s totally on brand,” I mumble. “No idea, but it’s not in here.”

He takes a step back. “Sorry to interrupt your little love fest.”

I huff out a breath. “Mind your own business.”

“You know, a decent person would have said something like, 'Hm. I don’t know where the gym is. Good luck finding it.'” His jaw ticks. “See how easy that would have been to be kind? You should try it sometime.”

I have lots of ideas of things I’d like to tell him to try. Like finding the nearest cliff and—

But no. This isn’t like me. I want to be courteous. I can chalk this behavior up to stress, I guess.

A nerve behind my eye twitches. “Agreed,” I say. “But also? A decent person wouldn’t have insulted someone for looking in a mirror.”

“You weren’t just looking. You were preening.”

“I can’t help it if I look good.” I raise my chin and challenge him with my eyes.

Dang. I went there, didn’t I?

He chuckles and whistles, like Wow! Look at the ego on this one.

But, apparently, I’m not done. “And if you must know, I wasn’t exactly happy with what I saw.

I’m a little stressed, okay?” I slide my fingers through the ends of my ponytail.

“Which means I’m breaking out.” I point to my chin.

“And that’s disastrous for my job.” I shake my head and look away.

“Not that that is any of your business.”

He steps towards me. “You’re breaking out? Where?”

I slap both hands over my face and step back. “Never mind, okay?”

He’s even closer now. What is happening? Is this guy actually trying to analyze my zits?

“I don’t see pimples of any sort.” His dark-eyed gaze flits over me and he grunts. “You look fine to me.”

Not exactly a glowing endorsement. But at least he doesn’t seem grossed out by the state of my skin.

My voice is barely above a whisper now. “Can you please just go find the gym or whatever it is you need to do?”

He starts walking backward, that stupid grin still on his face. “You’re here for the charity event, right?”

I blink. “Yep. And you?”

“Of course.” And then he turns to leave. Two steps away from the door, he turns back. “Good luck with your show. Maybe I’ll come watch.”

“You should.” Pleasure at the thought flashes through me. I’d love to perform the samba for him—it’s hot. And I’d love to take him down a notch or two. I’m very good at what I do because I was born to dance, and I want to impress him, just to spite him. To make him putty in my hands.

To make him regret messing with me.