6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Alyssa
I kept my sigh of frustration inside. Mia was picking up the footwork like she was born to dance, but Pasha had two left feet. I’d checked a few times to see whether that was a literal thing. He was so stiff and uncomfortable.
Why had he agreed to this dance? Or any dance, for that matter? Annoyance and sympathy kept fighting for dominance whenever I made another verbal correction and demonstrated the step again.
“It’s just the first rehearsal,” Mia said when Pasha let out a frustrated grunt.
“Yeah. You’ll pick it up,” I agreed, though I was not sure I actually agreed. “We’ve got almost three months.”
He huffed out a breath and took his position next to Mia just before the music started.
They were working on basic steps and hadn’t even started on the choreographed piece.
Mia thought Pasha would do better if he understood the counting pattern and the rock step before they got into spinning, twirling, and swinging around the room.
A good strategy, but learning swing was falling a bit flat.
I counted them through the steps, and for the first time, Pasha’s rhythm was passable.
I jumped up and clapped my hands. “Yes! You did it. See? You can do it.” Relief ran through me like a fast current.
The complicated routine had become a massive concern when he was struggling so hard to get the fundamentals.
He shook his head, color flooding his cheeks, and gave me a bashful grin.
My heart stuttered at his embarrassment, and then, inexplicably, it began to race with desire.
How could his embarrassment make me want to rip off his T-shirt, run my hands along his abs, feather kisses along his strong jawline?
I avoided touching him for this very reason.
All of my senses flicked on around him. A dark room lit up.
Mia’s watch beeped. “I gotta go.” She assessed Pasha. “You’re free for the rest of the morning, right?” she said to him.
He nodded and ran a hand through the back of his hair. “I’ll stay here. Practice. I’ll be fine.”
Worry sat between Mia’s brows. “Look, if the dance is too much, we can make changes. Or just not do it.”
“We can modify the routine for sure.” I didn’t want to lose this opportunity because I’d been too ambitious.
My racing heart and out-of-control libido didn’t help my thought process.
Just looking at Pasha, so big and awkward, caused warmth to spread across my belly and down to my core.
I wanted to protect him from the awkwardness, minimize his discomfort, shield him from the difficulty of picking up the steps.
At the same time, I wanted him to catch on faster, get the steps, be better, make me look good.
“No, no, no.” He avoided eye contact with me and instead ran his hand down Mia’s arm. “S’okay. I’ll be fine.”
The casual contact, the clear affection between them forced me to turn away, embarrassed to be watching, speculating at their connection. I didn’t want to care .
He was off-limits. My job, this one and the next, was dependent on keeping a level head around him. Men were trouble. His gentle brand of protectiveness was no exception—trouble, one way or another.
“Thanks, Alyssa,” Mia called over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Whenever we’re rehearsing. I haven’t even had a chance to check.”
“No problem.” I kept my head down while I gathered my things and dropped them into my bag.
The practice room in the arena was an oversized change room and smelled faintly of sweat, even though none of us had done anything to cause even a thin sheen of perspiration. That would come, but today had been a learning curve.
I learned I was going to struggle around Pasha, even when I wasn’t touching him. I hoped my body wouldn’t mutiny, overriding my common sense.
So far, my body seemed to be winning the battle. I needed to batten down the hatches, break out the chastity belt. No touching. No thinking about touching or having him touch me.
Rough hands . Soft lips .
A shiver ran down my spine, and I wiggled, trying to force my hormones back in line.
“Cold?” Pasha asked. He was in front of the mirror we put up so he and Mia could see themselves.
“A little.” It was chilly in this part of the arena, so that wasn’t a complete lie. I caught sight of him in the reflection, counting to himself and trying the steps. “You’re close.”
He let out a frustrated grunt and ran his hand down his face, our gazes connecting in the mirror. “Any other dancers on the tour know swing? ”
I straightened from shoving the last item in my bag and frowned. He wasn’t going to ask me for help? Had Mia told him I already rejected the extra money to help him?
“Why are you asking?” Might as well be direct.
“I need help.”
The words what about me hung in the air between us. Letting him work with another dancer created a slew of other problems. Would he sleep with Amy or Jazz or whoever I suggested? Start a relationship with them? Would they end up fired instead of me?
Mia would be upset if I let anyone else know her secret wedding plans. Could I listen to locker-room gossip about the size of his hands, the firmness of his grip as he spun some other woman around a room, across a bed?
He wasn’t mine, and I didn’t want him to be mine. But I felt a strange possessiveness over him, this routine, this moment.
“I could help you.” The words slipped out by accident but with purpose.
He stared at me in the mirror, but he didn’t turn to face me. Tension filled the room, and I wondered if he’d say “no.” Or “ no, no, no” because his objections came in threes.
Had the tables been turned? Was he the one throwing on the brakes? I was so busy pumping them that I hadn’t fully considered whether he wanted a repeat of the episode at the nightclub. I assumed he did because he was a man, and men didn’t turn down sex, no matter the package.
“You?” He raised his brows, surprise coating his face. “You’ll help me?”
I bristled. The routine was mine. I wasn’t giving someone else the glory of the performance. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I help you?” The answer to that was wide and varied, but I hoped he didn’t know any of the reasons.
“You avoid me.” He shrugged as though our connection was easy to dismiss. “So I thought I’d find someone else.”
Heat rose to my cheeks, and I broke our locked gazes in the reflection. He’d find someone else . Of course he would. Wasn’t that what men did? If they couldn’t get exactly what they wanted all the time from a woman, they found whatever they thought they needed with someone else.
Ricky was probably holed up in another apartment with another woman right now. His new love den filled with all my things. Pasha’s comment shouldn’t be a surprise. I didn’t mean anything to him, and I was foolish to believe otherwise.
“I can help you,” I said. “It’s my routine. I’m the best one to help you.” At least that much was true.
“Okay.” He gestured to the mirror. “Now? Can you help me now?”
I checked my phone, more from habit than anything else. There was nowhere else I needed to be until the show started tonight.
“You have plans?” he asked.
With a shake of my head, I tossed the phone into my open bag. Pretending I had something else to do was stupid. I didn’t mind playing games with a man. Sometimes they were fun.
But he was right; I was avoiding him. Apparently, he was over our sexcapade, ready to move past it. Instead of pretending I was there, too, I needed to find a measure of indifference. Practicing with him was a good start. Neutral. Work-related. Easy.
“No, I can help you now. Sorry—bad habit.” I gestured to the phone while I took my place beside him and showed the footwork again .
In the mirror, his gaze was trained on my feet. “You make it look easy.” His lips twisted in frustration as he tried to mimic the movement.
We did the sequence over and over. Each time, he got a little more but never quite the whole thing. I didn’t know how many times we’d done it, how long we’d been at it when he threw up his arms. “It’s not working.”
“It just takes time.”
“Another way. Is there another way to learn?” He kept his head lowered, focused on my feet, and didn’t meet my gaze in the mirror.
I had never taught dancing, had only ever been the student. What had my teachers done on the rare occasion I hadn’t gotten a step? I couldn’t remember. Dancing was like breathing.
A memory surfaced. I’d watched instructors tackle students who weren’t picking up the choreography or steps by having the student stand behind, another mirror, a shadow.
“I have an idea.” I bit my lip and debated using the technique I remembered.
No matter what, I had to get him comfortable and moving.
If I couldn’t get the choreography to work, it wouldn’t just be the dance that flopped—it might well be my career.
“You’ll need to stand behind me, put your hands on my waist, face the mirror. ”
He rubbed the back of his head and winced. “Behind you? My hands…”
“On my waist. Yeah. Is that a problem?” I raised my eyebrows in challenge, even as my heart pounded.
Winced . He’d winced.
“No, no, no. Not a problem.” He moved behind, his hands hovering over my hips before they came to rest, light as a feather. His fingertips grazed my bare skin .
Our gazes connected in the mirror, and a frisson of awareness snaked along my body down to my core. “A little higher,” I murmured. With our gazes locked, I slid my hands over his and drew them up to my waist. “Here.”
He cleared his throat. “Here?” His voice was still husky.
His rough hands sent pinpricks of excitement along my skin. I should have worn more clothes instead of leggings and a sports bra. An adequate dance outfit, but I wasn’t dancing.