Chapter 7 This Wasn’t in the Script, Your Honor
THIS WASN’T IN THE SCRIPT, YOUR HONOR
Nate
“I’ve had concussions that rattled me less than on spin with her in that dress.”
Backstage at week one was chaos dressed in sequins.
The air was thick with hairspray and sweat and the sharp chemical bite of spray tan, like someone had bottled anxiety and spritzed it on everyone for luck.
Crew members swarmed with headsets and clipboards, calling cues like battlefield coordinates, while lighting rigs hummed overhead and monitors flickered with live shots from the floor.
Couples paced in corners, whispering last-minute instructions to each other, smiles already preloaded for the camera like weapons.
A guy nearby was doing last-second ankle rolls with muttered prayers.
Across the set, a costume handler was reattaching rhinestones with the intensity of a heart surgeon.
He could feel the entire building holding its breath between beats, like the show wasn’t entertainment so much as a machine that demanded nerves as tribute. The live audience filled the set, voices blending together into a low, continuous roll of thunder.
Nate stood in the middle of it all in his too-tight costume shirt and too-new dance shoes.
He had the distinct sensation he’d accidentally wandered into a glittery Hunger Games arena where the only rule was to look perfect, even if you’re dying.
He was already sweating, and it wasn’t just because of the heat radiating from the lights. It was Holly.
She was in costume now. Deep red, low back, high slit.
A dress that looked like it had been sewn directly onto her body by someone who wanted to punish the male gaze.
Her hair was loose, styled into Jessica Rabbit-esque waves that made him think of gangsters and speakeasies.
He couldn’t process her makeup, because if he looked too long at her smoky eyes and red lips, he might just combust.
“Holly. Nate. You’re on in two.”
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. With absolutely no warning, she was standing in front of him.
Stepping into his space like she’d bought the rights to it, reaching up to adjust the open collar of his shirt with steady fingers and a mouth set in an unreadable line.
They waited in the dark, cozy space at the side of the stage, waiting for their entrance cue.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she murmured, not looking at him as though if she did, she might flinch. Or melt. God, she was fucking hot. Like fire coral that you still wanted to touch, even if it meant begging someone to pee on you later to take the edge off the burn.
“Define regret,” he said, voice lower than it should’ve been, rough around the edges. “Because I already feel some things I probably shouldn’t.”
Her fingers hesitated at his neck. Just for a second. Then her gaze lifted to his. Cool, unflinching, daring him to mean it.
He leaned in before he could stop himself. Just a breath. Just enough to feel the hum of her next exhale on his cheek. His lips hovered a whisper from hers, close enough to taste cherry gloss and poor decisions. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back to his.
Invitation. Temptation. Sanctioned violence. He was going to kiss her. Right here, under the fucking fluorescents and stage-light spill, in front of techs and interns and a thousand tiny cameras aimed at the wings.
“Holly! Nate! You’re up!” a voice called from stage right.
The moment detonated. She stepped back fast and clean, professionalism snapping into place like a mask. Her face was unreadable, but he could still see her pulse thudding high in her throat. She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the curtain as though nothing had happened.
They walked onto the stage, the audience roaring as their names were announced like the start of a grudge match. He couldn’t stop staring at the sway of her hips. Couldn’t stop hearing her breath in his ear, remembering the shape of their almost-kiss like it had carved a mark on his mouth.
The lights were low. Smoke curled at the edges of the stage like a summoned spirit.
And then the first notes of their track hit.
Low, sultry, aching. It was a well-known Latin dance cover of Wicked Game by Chris Isaak, with synth notes underpinned by a devilishly seductive Rumba beat.
No guitar riffs. It was stripped back, bleeding vulnerability through every chord.
Nate barely heard the audience. Barely registered the cameras. All he could see was Holly.
She walked like sin draped in silk, every step a dare, every step choreographed chaos. He wasn’t built for softness or trained for grace, but the second her hand touched his chest it was like gravity rewrote itself.
Holly moved first. They’d planned it like that, so he’d be able to start his count and catch up.
And he did. Nate stepped into the lead she’d made room for, anchoring them in the rhythm that dragged him under like a current.
Every move was smoother than it should’ve been, sharper than rehearsal, lit from the inside with something that felt real. Felt raw.
They circled each other. Her fingertips skimmed his chest, deliberate, a tease of touch designed to burn. His hand found her waist and stayed there, grip firm enough to bruise. She rolled her hips against his like she knew he was seconds from coming undone.
She wasn’t wrong.
His focus blurred. He couldn’t remember the counts, couldn’t hear the crowd.
He only knew her. The drag of her breath, the slide of her leg hooking behind his, the staccato rhythm of her heart when she pressed herself into his chest like a promise.
Every step they missed, every stumble they recovered from, was buried in the heat between them.
She arched in his arms like a woman being worshipped. He caught her, barely, her back a perfect curve against his forearm. Her mouth parted. Their faces too close, breaths tangling.
The lyrics of the song dropped like a blade, and he felt them in his spine.
He definitely didn’t want to fall in love, but it’d hit him like a puck to the chest. Okay, not love.
Fuck no. But something. Something electric and unbearable and deeper than the skin-slick chemistry the show wanted.
Something that crawled into his chest and stayed.
They hit the final pose, her leg curled high around his hip, his hand locked low on her spine, foreheads a breath apart.
For a moment, they didn’t move except to gasp for air.
Neither of them could speak, and he couldn’t tear his eyes off her.
The lights came up and the crowd exploded, but they didn’t break until the applause forced them to.
He let go of her slowly, like he expected to see her name etched in scar tissue on his palms. She stepped back with a dancer’s grace, and they turned toward the judges, hearts still racing.
They barely made it off the floor before Take the Floor’s host descended.
Indie Clarke was sequined chaos and camera-ready charm, sweeping in like a golden retriever with a vendetta.
Her mic was up, her smile was weaponized, and she sported a blowout that could survive a hurricane.
Indie beamed at the pair like she’d been waiting all week to stir the pot with national viewership.
“Holy hell,” she said, her gaze bouncing between them like she couldn’t decide who looked more emotionally compromised. “I think the temperature in here just rose ten degrees! Nate, you good? Need a fan? Cold shower? An exorcism?” The audience laughed. “Who knew you had that in you!”
He tried to laugh, but it was a little strangled. “Not me, that’s for sure.”
“Holly,” Indie beamed. “What an incredible first number! You must be so proud of Nate! How are you feeling?”
Holly stood there, spine straight, smile razor-sharp, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm from where he’d led her off the floor.
“Like that was correct,” she said with a slow smile that the audience ate up.
And all he could think about in the back of his mind was how she hadn’t said she was proud.
“It absolutely was,” Indie purred. “Let’s see if our judges have any notes. Scores, please, if you’re all still breathing! Let’s hear from Chantreuse Devayne, our Latin expert.”
“Well,” Chantreuse sighed, fanning herself with her scorecard like she was cooling down from a personal spiritual experience. She was the very bothered equivalent of a glamor tyrant. Her gaze sliced across them, unimpressed and enthralled in equal measure.
“That was… intense. Not just dancing, warfare in rhinestones! I saw the story. I felt the hunger. But darlings…” Her mouth quirked, dangerously pleased.
“The control wobbled. If you’re going to burn the ballroom down, make sure you don’t trip over the ashes.
I’m giving you a 7. Because I believe in you… but I refuse to enable you.”
Indie huffed a laugh before wincing in a ‘that’s rough’ expression. “Chantreuse said ‘I support you’ the way a couture bra supports me, firmly and with judgment. Let's go to Muffy Duncan, winner of Take the Floor season 2. Muffy?”
The woman sitting in the middle of the judging table was giving full chaos fairy godmother vibes. She pressed a manicured hand to her forehead as soon as Indie handed over to her.
“Oh my God,” Muffy gasped, clutching her pearls like they’d just tried to escape her body. “Okay so, yes, some little timing things, sure, whatever, who cares.” She waved a hand like timing was more like a guideline and not a requirement.
“But it was passionate. I felt like I walked into a stranger’s make-out session in a Walmart parking lot, and I loved it.
I’m sweating. I’m emotional. I’m sexually confused.
” She fanned herself. “I’m giving that a 9 because it made me feel things I’m not legally allowed to unpack on network television. ”
Indie smirked at the camera before giving her brows a suggestive wiggle. “Muffy’s giving a 9 like she’s tipping her emotional support stripper with enthusiasm and zero shame. And now we hear from Stan Mahoney, our ballroom expert. Stan?”
Stan leaned forward, squinting like he was watching a slow-motion car crash he respected. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth in the form of pure menace. “Rough,” he said, nodding once. “Yeah. Rough.”
Another nod, bigger this time, as if he were appreciating craftsmanship.
“But filthy. In the best way. Week one’s not supposed to be polished, it’s supposed to be honest.” He slapped his paddle against the desk.
“And that? That was honestly dirty. I’m giving an 8.
It was messy… but it was the good kind of messy. Like barbecue sauce on a white shirt.”
“Stan just called it filthy and still handed you an 8,” Indie grinned at Nate and Holly before looking at the camera.
“That’s basically a standing ovation in Mahoney math.
Welcome to week one of Take the Floor, where, if this keeps up, we’ll need a ratings warning.
Nate and Holly have earned a final score of twenty-four out of thirty!
Not bad for your first dance, although I have to ask, was all that chemistry just for the cameras, or… ?”
Indie tilted the mic toward Nate.
He froze.
And then Holly rescued them both by leaning in and smiling so sweetly it made his stomach drop. “If it were,” she smirked, “we’d deserve an Emmy.”
Cue crowd eruption. She leaned back, gave the audience and the cameras a cheeky wave, and then handed the mic back, turned on her heel, and stalked offstage like she hadn’t just left him hard.
Nate followed a few beats later, stunned and clinging to his last working brain cell. Because if that was her acting just for the cameras, then he was totally and utterly screwed.
@BladesAndBallroom on X:
me: he’s an enforcer. he’s here for PR.
also me: i just watched nate eriksson hold holly like a lover in a war zone and now i need a lie-down
#takethefloor #ttf12 #nateandholly #rumbaofruin
@StrictlyScandal on Instagram:
Nate Eriksson’s scandalously steamy first performance on Take the Floor has fans asking…
Is this still a redemption arc, or a slow burn enemies-to-lovers novella in rhinestones? [Full recap ?]
Jaime
bro
just saw your rumba
wtf was that
you looked like you were about to propose or start a cult
you looked… like a fucking dancer, man, wtf did she do to you???
you okay?? need to talk?? blink twice
Nate
Cap?
Respectfully…
Fuck off.