Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“And one, two, three—lovely, Sofia! Jilly, remember to point your toes. Pointing toes makes dancing magic, yes?”
Twelve small faces beam up at me with varying degrees of focus.
The Little Stars class is my favorite hour of the week, even if it leaves my shins peppered with bruises from enthusiastic but poorly aimed pirouettes.
These kids don’t care about perfect technique.
They care about sparkly tutus and pretending to be swans and the absolute joy of spinning until they fall over giggling.
It’s everything my childhood dance lessons weren’t.
“Miss Izzie, watch me!” Seven-year-old Thomas launches into what I think is supposed to be a grand jeté but looks more like a frog attempting to leap over an invisible log. He lands with a thump that rattles the mirrors.
“Beautiful air, Thomas. Let’s work on the landing next time.”
His grin could power a small city.
The door to the studio opens. I don’t need to look to know who it is.
The way the energy in the room shifts tells me everything.
The mothers perched on the benches near the entrance suddenly sit up straighter, their murmured conversations dying in mid-sentence.
One of them actually gasps, like we’re in a Regency novel and the duke just walked in.
Forty-five minutes early. Because of course he is.
I keep my attention on the children. “All right, everyone, let’s practice our révérences. Sofia, you lead.”
Sofia, a serious-eyed six-year-old with a natural grace beyond her years, performs a curtsy that would make royalty weep. The other children follow with varying degrees of success, Thomas turning his into something more closely resembling a dramatic death scene.
“Wonderful work, all of you. Same time next Thursday?”
Tiny voices chorus assent, and then the room becomes chaos as children scatter toward their parents, grabbing water bottles and discarded shoes and stuffed animals that apparently could not survive forty-five minutes of separation.
I help little Jilly find her missing hair ribbon and accept a handful of dandelions from Thomas that he apparently picked from the parking lot crack on his way in.
“For you, Miss Izzie. ‘Cause you’re the best teacher.”
My heart clenches. “Thank you, Thomas. These are perfect.”
Through it all, I’m aware of Malachi Vexis, standing just inside the door with his hands in his pockets and that insufferable half-smile on his face, watching me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s seen in years.
He’s wearing another suit today, this one dark blue and fitted in a way that makes it impossible not to notice the breadth of his shoulders and the narrow cut of his waist. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. Again.
Does the man not own ties?
The last of the children files out, one mother shooting me a meaningful look over her shoulder that clearly communicates who is THAT? I ignore her. I ignore him. I turn to the stereo and begin resetting the playlist with more concentration than the task requires.
“Charming.”
His voice is closer than I expected. I don’t jump. I absolutely do not jump.
“The children. Very charming.” He’s moved to lean against the piano, an ancient upright that hasn’t been tuned since before I was born but looks nice in photographs. “You’re good with them.”
“They’re easy to teach. They actually listen to instructions.”
“Subtle.”
“I wasn’t being subtle.”
“No,” he agrees, and there’s a warmth in his voice that makes me glance up despite myself. “I suppose you weren’t.”
He’s closer than I realized. Close enough that I catch that strange scent again—smoke and spice, underlaid with something darker, something almost sulfurous. His eyes seem to spark crimson in the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
Stop staring. You’re being ridiculous.
“You’re early,” I say flatly.
“I’m enthusiastic.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Also that.” His smile widens. “Shall we begin?”
I take a deliberate step back, reestablishing professional distance. There’s a private lesson room upstairs designed specifically for one-on-one instruction. It’s smaller and more intimate, with better acoustics and a sprung floor that’s easier on the joints.
I don’t mention it.
“Fine. Center of the room. Shoes off.”
He sighs dramatically but complies, toeing off his expensive Italian shoes. I notice he’s wearing socks patterned with tiny flames in a way that seems unnecessarily on-brand.
“Now what?”
“Now we assess.” I circle him slowly, the way my mother used to circle me before competitions. Looking for weaknesses. Finding them. “Stand naturally.”
He stands.
It’s all wrong, of course. His weight is distributed unevenly, more on his heels than the balls of his feet.
His shoulders are back but in a way that seems more like habitual arrogance than proper posture.
His chin is tilted at an angle that suggests he’s posing for a portrait rather than preparing to dance.
But there’s something there. Something in the way he holds himself that suggests his body knows things his conscious mind hasn’t learned. He moves like someone who’s studied movement, even if he’s never bothered to apply that study to anything as pedestrian as ballroom dancing.
“Worse than I thought,” I say.
“Wonderful.” He doesn’t sound bothered. “Where do we start?”
“Basics. You clearly missed them the first time around.” I move to stand in front of him, close enough to correct his posture but not close enough to touch.
“Feet parallel, hip-width apart. Weight on the balls of your feet, not your heels. Shoulders down and back—no, down, not up, you’re not a vulture preparing to take flight. ”
He adjusts. Badly.
“Your left shoulder is higher than your right.”
“Perhaps I’m naturally asymmetrical. A charming quirk.”
“Perhaps you’re not listening. Drop. Your. Shoulder.”
Something flickers across his face—not offense, exactly, but surprise. Like he’s not used to being spoken to so directly. He drops his shoulder. Almost correctly.
“Better. Now, arms.”
He raises his arms.
Oh, for the love of—
“That’s not a frame. That’s a surrender.”
“I’m surrendering to the music.”
“There isn’t any music.”
“Not yet.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I can hear it in my soul.”
I close my eyes and count to five. I remember that five thousand dollars could fix the roof, update the HVAC, and maybe even fund a proper advertising campaign for the Showcase.
“Arms up,” I say through gritted teeth. “Elbows out. Imagine you’re holding a beach ball against your chest. No, not a yoga ball—a beach ball. Smaller. More control.”
I step forward and physically move his arms into position, ignoring the warmth radiating from his skin.
“Here. Your left hand goes here, at my shoulder blade. Your right hand holds mine.” I slot our hands together, my fingers curling around his.
They’re fever-hot, like he’s been standing next to a fire.
“Keep your wrist firm but not rigid. You’re guiding, not dragging. ”
“I feel like a work of art being sculpted.” His voice is pitched low, almost a murmur.
“You feel like a disaster waiting to happen. Now. Basic box step. We’re doing this until you can manage it without crushing my feet.”
“I would never crush your feet.”
“You nearly amputated Marissa’s toes last night.”
“You exaggerate.”
“She was limping.”
He grins, utterly unrepentant. “Character building.”
I take a breath and step back into frame. “On my count. One, two, three. One, two, three. Step forward with your left foot—”
He steps forward with his right foot.
Our knees collide, and I stumble. His arm tightens around my back, catching me before I can fall, and suddenly we’re much closer than proper frame allows.
I can see the individual stubble on his jaw, the slight crook in his nose like it was broken once and healed wrong, and the way his pupils seem to expand when our eyes meet.
“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry. “Muscle memory.”
“You don’t have any muscle memory. That’s the problem.” I push back, reestablishing distance. “Again. And this time, listen.”
We try again.
And again.
And again.
Thirty minutes later, I’m seriously considering murder.
“No, your other left—”
“Left is a social construct.”
“Left is the opposite of right. It’s not that complicated.”
“Depends on your frame of reference.” He spins when he should step, pulling me with him in a move that’s half-waltz, half-tornado. “From my perspective, right is left and left is merely a suggestion.”
“That’s not how directions work!”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone. Says the entire history of human dance. Says me, right now, telling you that if you don’t stop improvising I’m going to—”
He dips me.
Without warning, without preparation, his arm a steel band around my waist, my back arching over empty air, my hair swinging loose from its bun to brush the floor.
The world tilts. My heart slams against my ribs.
And for one suspended moment, all I can do is stare up at his face, upside-down and grinning, looking absurdly pleased with himself.
“You were saying?”
I should be furious. I am furious. My hands grip his shoulders hard enough to wrinkle his expensive jacket, and my legs are scrambling for purchase even though his hold is infuriatingly confident.
“Put. Me. Down.”
“As you wish.” He sweeps me back up in one fluid motion, and I stagger when my feet hit the floor. “See? Natural chemistry.”
“There’s nothing natural about any of this.” My voice comes out more breathless than I’d like. I step back, smoothing down my practice dress, tucking loose strands of hair behind my ears. “You can’t just decide to dip someone. It’s part of a choreographed sequence. There are signals, preparations—”
“Rules.”
“Yes! Rules! Dancing has rules!”
“And what happens when someone breaks them?”
They get hurt, I want to say. They ruin everything. They fail.