Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“Your hip is dropping.”
“My hip is fine.”
“Your hip,” I repeat, stepping out of frame to physically demonstrate the problem, “is creating a diagonal line that throws off our entire silhouette. Watch.”
I execute the sequence alone, keeping my pelvis level through the turn. The mirror reflects textbook technique—clean lines, controlled movement, nothing out of place. Then I deliberately drop my left hip the way Mal has been doing for the past forty-five minutes.
“See the difference?”
“I see you being pedantic about millimeters.”
“Millimeters matter.”
“In surgery, maybe. In engineering. In—”
“In competitive ballroom, where judges sit fifteen feet away with eagle eyes and decades of experience spotting exactly this kind of flaw.” I plant my hands on my hips, which are level, thank you very much. “Again.”
Mal groans. It’s become his signature sound over the past weeks—a dramatic exhale of suffering that would be more convincing if his eyes didn’t crinkle with amusement every time he does it. “You’re relentless.”
“I prefer ‘dedicated.’“
“Relentless. Obsessive. Possibly unhinged.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“It usually gets me everywhere.” But he takes position again anyway, one hand extended toward me in invitation. “Fine. Show me what perfection looks like, oh mighty dance tyrant.”
I should correct him. I should maintain the professional distance that’s been eroding steadily over the past three weeks of intensive rehearsals. Instead, I step into his frame and let his hand settle against my shoulder blade, warm through the thin fabric of my leotard.
This is just work, I tell myself. This means nothing.
The music begins—that same tango we’ve been drilling until it haunts my dreams—and we move.
Something is different tonight. Maybe it’s the late hour, the studio dim except for the strip of lights above the mirrors.
Maybe it’s exhaustion stripping away our usual defenses.
Maybe it’s the strange energy that’s been building between us, session after session, touch after touch, until ignoring it takes more effort than acknowledging it.
His hip stays level.
We flow through the promenade, the corté, and the dramatic pause where our faces hover inches apart. His eyes catch mine and hold. Those little crimson sparks are back
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about how good he smells or how solid his arms feel or the way his thumb traces small circles on your back when he thinks you’re not paying attention.
I’m always paying attention.
The sequence ends. We freeze in the final pose, breathing hard, neither of us moving to separate.
“Better?” His voice is lower than usual. Rougher.
“Better.”
“Just better?”
“Much better.” I step back, breaking the contact, trying to ignore the way my skin protests the loss of his warmth. “Your frame held. Your hip stayed level. You actually followed the choreography instead of improvising.”
“I live to exceed your expectations.”
“You live to be contrary.”
“Perhaps.” That crooked smile appears. “Or perhaps I just like watching your face when I do something right. You get this little crinkle between your eyebrows, like you’re angry at yourself for being impressed.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” He reaches out, and before I can stop him, his finger brushes the spot between my brows. Light and fleeting and gone before I can react. “Right there. It’s adorable.”
“I am not adorable. I am a professional dance instructor.”
“Professionals can’t be adorable?”
“Not during working hours.”
“Ah.” His eyes glint. “So after working hours, the adorableness emerges?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“You’re going to try.” He glances at the clock on the wall—nearly ten. We’ve been at this for over four hours, fueled by nothing but determination and the stale protein bars I keep in my desk drawer. “We should probably call it. Before you work us both into early graves.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
My legs are trembling with that particular bone-deep fatigue that comes from pushing too hard for too long. My shoulders ache. My feet are screaming. And underneath all of it, there’s a hollowness in my stomach that protein bars stopped satisfying hours ago.
“Dinner.” The word escapes before I can stop it.
He blinks. “Sorry?”
Take it back. Make an excuse. Maintain boundaries.
“Dinner,” I hear myself repeat, apparently committed to this terrible decision.
“There’s a fish place near my cottage that delivers.
If you want. Since we’ve been working so late and neither of us has eaten actual food and it’s the least I can do after putting you through four hours of hip corrections. ”
I’m rambling. I never ramble. What is happening to me?
His expression shifts through several emotions I can’t quite identify. Surprise, definitely. Something that might be wariness. And underneath it all, a warmth that makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with hunger.
“Dinner,” he says slowly. “At your cottage.”
“Delivery. Completely casual.”
“Completely casual.”
“We’ve eaten together before at the studio.”
“On the floor. Surrounded by mirrors. Very romantic.”
“It wasn’t romantic. It was practical.”
“Everything with you is practical.” But he’s smiling now, that real smile that transforms his entire face. “Fine. Dinner. Lead the way.”
What am I doing what am I doing what am I—
I grab my bag and jacket with mechanical movements, trying not to think too hard about the invitation I just issued. It’s fine. It’s just food. Partners eat together all the time. There’s nothing significant about—
A flash of red catches my eye.
Mal’s bracelet—that strange, ugly thing he never takes off—seems different somehow. I could have sworn the stones were all dull black last week, but now one of them... no, wait. Two of them gleam like rubies in the studio’s dim light. Deep crimson, almost luminous against the cracked leather.
“Your bracelet,” I say without thinking.
His hand moves to cover it immediately. “What about it?”
“The stones. They look different.”
“Trick of the light.” His voice is casual. Too casual. “Old building, remember? Strange shadows.”
“I could have sworn—”
“You could have sworn you’d never ask me to dinner, and yet here we are.” He’s already moving toward the door, and the moment is lost. “Coming?”
I follow him out into the cool evening air.
Bellamy Cove at night is a different creature than its daytime self.
The tourists have retreated to their bed-and-breakfasts.
The shops are dark, their cheerful facades turned mysterious in the streetlight glow.
The ocean whispers in the distance, salt tang mixing with the smell of early autumn leaves.
My cottage is a five-minute walk from the studio, down a winding lane lined with old oaks that arch overhead like a tunnel.
I’ve made this walk thousands of times—after late rehearsals, after failed competitions, after arguments with my mother that left me too wound up to drive.
I know every crack in the sidewalk, every patch of uneven cobblestone, every shadow.
Which is why I notice immediately when something is wrong.
Tap-tap-tap.
I stop walking.
“Isadora?” Mal pauses beside me. “What is it?”
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Tiny footsteps. Quick and light, almost like a child running. But when I spin around, the lane behind us is empty. Just shadows and streetlights and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
“There’s something—”
“I don’t hear anything.”
I stare at him. His face is perfectly composed, perfectly innocent, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there a moment ago.
“Footsteps,” I press. “Small ones. Like someone’s following us.”
“Probably a cat. Or a raccoon. Or the wind playing tricks.” He places a hand on my lower back, gentle but insistent, steering me forward. “Acoustics do strange things at night.”
I want to argue. I want to turn back and investigate, demand an explanation for the prickling sensation at the back of my neck that says we’re being watched. But his hand is warm through my jacket, and the cottage is just around the corner, and maybe I am just tired. Exhausted. Imagining things.
Tap-tap-tap.
I don’t look back again.
Mal takes in my cottage and the dance memorabilia filling the living room with that sharp, assessing gaze of his.
“You dance here too.” It’s not a question.
“What?”
He gestures at the worn patch in the hardwood floor near the window, at the full-length mirror propped against the wall, and at the small speaker system clearly positioned for optimal coverage. “You practice here. When the studio isn’t enough.”
“Sometimes.”
“Often, I’d guess.” He moves through the space like he belongs there, trailing his fingers along the edge of my bookshelf. “These are competition programs. Going back... fifteen years? Twenty?”
“My mother kept them.”
“Kept?”
“Keeps.” I busy myself with my phone, pulling up the Thai place’s menu. “She lives upstate now. She’s retired, but she likes to know I’m maintaining the collection.”
“She sounds intense.”
“She’s... dedicated.”
“Ah.” His tone says he understands exactly what I’m not saying. “The apple and the tree.”
“Something like that.”
I order food on autopilot, then realize I’m standing in my own cottage with a man I’ve known for less than a month and somehow cannot stop thinking about.
“Wine?” I hear myself offer. “I have some... Somewhere... Probably...”
“Breathe.” He’s suddenly closer, his hands catching my shoulders, steadying me. “Isadora. Breathe.”
I do. Once. Twice.
“Better?”
“I don’t know why I’m—”
“Nervous?” His thumbs trace small circles over my shoulders. “You invited your devastatingly attractive dance partner to your home for dinner. Some anxiety seems appropriate.”
“You’re not devastatingly attractive.”
“Liar.”
“You’re moderately attractive. At best.”