Dance for Me (Fenbrook Academy #1) - New Adult Romance (12 page)

I allowed myself a tiny smirk, watching not her ass but the twin sets of black, oily marks I’d just left on her skirt. And then I tried to figure out how I was going to tell Natasha.

Chapter Thirteen

Natasha

It was one of those lazy summer days when time seems to run like treacle. Clarissa and I were sprawled on a bench with the sound of Vivaldi wafting over us and as the sun baked my upturned face, I replayed my kisses with Darrell. Had the first one been better, or the second one, after I’d fallen off the stage? I smiled contentedly and decided I needed to rerun them a few more times to be sure.

We were in Central Park, sitting with Karen and the rest of her string quartet as they played for passers-by. It was a weekly event for them, a charity thing. I secretly suspected that the only reason Karen did it was because it let her play while satisfying her friends that she was doing something semi-social.

The sun and the music meant there was no need to chatter—we could both just sit there with our thoughts, and that was exactly what I needed. I—reluctantly—moved on from the memory of the kisses. He’d said he liked me—a lot—and I sure as hell liked him. More than that, maybe. It felt a lot like I was starting to fall for him. Funny how we say that, but it feels like the exact opposite, like I was being filled with helium and rising up like a balloon every time I thought of him. I was excited, too, filled with a kind of giddy energy whenever I thought of our date the next day.
I’m drunk on him,
I thought, and grinned.

But it was too early to be feeling like that. Wasn’t it?

I’d never known anyone quite like him. His drive was staggering—okay, so there were some signs that maybe he spent a little
too
much time down in that workshop, but I was in awe of his ability to just focus on something so determinedly until it was done. The guys I’d dated in the past looked aimless by comparison.

The quartet finished the Vivaldi to a smattering of polite applause and immediately moved onto Mozart’s
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
. I always liked that piece, and this close to the instruments it had the same effect as cranking your music up on your headphones: life felt like a movie. When the flamboyant final movement began, combined with my mood, it made me want to—

“We should dance,” I said suddenly.

“We already do. Where have you been for, like, a decade and a half?”

“No: right now. We should dance.”

Clarissa turned and stared at me. “
Here?
You want to dance here, in front of....”—she looked at the passers-by—“the masses?”

I nodded. I was grinning. I couldn’t stop grinning.

“You get nervous even when it’s people you know—” she started.

“I’m doing it,” I told her, and got up.

“You’re in
sneakers!”

I ignored her. I couldn’t help myself, and I mean that seriously. The sun and the music and being there with my friend all conspired to make the day feel magical. Ballet dancing in the middle of Central Park just felt like the sort of thing I should do. And I knew the catalyst for all of it was underground, toiling away even on a weekend, biceps bulging as he lifted one of those big hunks of metal, blue eyes focused on some detail of his work. I thought of the way it felt when they focused on me, and went weak inside.

And then I was moving as if in a dream. Two light steps onto the path and then a turn, awkward in my sneakers, but doable. I had loose, soft combat trousers on because I hadn’t wanted my legs to fry, and a Fenbrook t-shirt—almost street dancing gear.

I didn’t really think about what I was doing, letting the music carry me. Arms up, turn, into a pas de chat. Dancing in sneakers was like trying to drive a car in rain boots, but it didn’t stop it being fun. I turned and leaned into a penchée, one leg up in the air, and was vaguely aware of people watching, moving outwards to give me space. I moved back towards the bench and suddenly Clarissa was there next to me, gliding past me as we swapped sides. We exchanged smiles as we passed and she gave me a little shake of the head, as if to say
what have you gotten me into?

I jumped up onto the bench and went into first arabesque and then into a promenade, pivoting in little movements like a ballerina in a music box. Clarissa was doing the same thing and for a second we were perfectly in sync. There was applause as the piece came to an end. We stood there grinning at each other, holding the position as a few people took photos. When we finally jumped down, Clarissa came straight over to me. “You and your billionaire—you’ve—”

“Don’t say it!” I said quickly.

“You’re in—”

“Don’t! I’m not. I don’t think I am. Maybe I am.” I could feel myself blushing. “I really like him.”

Karen came over. “You should do that more often,” she told us, holding up the top hat they used for collecting the money. “We doubled the take on that one piece.”

We were debating where to go for coffee when my phone rang.

***

I hung up and stared at the ground. It was no big deal, I told myself. He was going to call me from Virginia. We’d have our date the next week, when he got back. He hadn’t sounded like he was doing it lightly—he’d sounded genuinely sorry, in fact.

I wasn’t panicking, didn’t feel like I was sliding out of control, but I was frustrated.
Just when things were going so well!

I was suddenly angry with myself. I was letting myself get in far too deep, too fast. He probably didn’t even feel the same way. I mean, he’d said he liked me, but that wasn’t the same as how I
felt—or
maybe
felt. Some time apart would stop things moving too fast. It was probably a good thing.

So why did the week ahead seem to stretch out in front of me like a marathon?

Chapter Fourteen

Darrell

The Aston Martin was technically mine—a gift from Sabre when they’d landed a big deal based on my first design. But Carol had coveted the car from the very start and, since I was more of a bike guy, I’d let her drive it whenever she visited. Within weeks, she’d started doing those puppy-dog eyes at me and the car moved to her garage in Virginia. I hadn’t minded too much—it had suited her, being British, and I’d been a kid, starry-eyed at landing his first deal—I figured I owed her. Four years later, I knew she thought of it as hers. I’d really have to get round to formally signing it over to her, at some stage.

Carol threw the car into the next bend, letting the back slide out just a little and then powering out of it with a squeal of tires. It didn’t distract her from the rant she’d been on since we left New York.

“There wasn’t even any point trying to wash it. I had to bin it, and I’d bought that skirt
two weeks ago.”

I shrugged. “It was an accident.” We both knew I was lying. But it was no more than she’d deserved, for the way she’d talked about Natasha. “Next time I’ll forego the hug when I’m working.”

“You did at least bring a suit?”

I sighed. “Yes. But really, what do they care what I wear? They just want to check I’m still working away. Which I could do a lot better if I was back in my workshop.”

She went quiet.

“
What?”
I asked, dreading the answer.

“You may have to give a little presentation. Just a teensy one.”

I slumped back in my seat and cursed her under my breath.

***

The “teensy” presentation turned out to be a four hour show-and-tell, with Carol doing the smarming and me on hand to answer the technical questions. They were more interested in what the missile would be able to do rather than how it worked. Lucky, because I still hadn’t figured that out, and I knew I wouldn’t until I was back in the workshop watching Natasha again.

I sighed and resisted the urge to close my eyes and doze off. I was sitting at the conference table while Carol wrapped up our presentation, wowing the suits with talk of casualty projections. Next, there’d be a buffet lunch and then I’d have to sit politely while someone talked about their new aircraft for four hours. Then an evening of TV in my hotel room—it was either that or go out drinking with the suits—and then the whole thing again the next day, and the next day, and the next....

A little voice told me that I’d been on these trips plenty of times before, and they’d never seemed quite this boring. Talking about my work had even been kind of fun, after months spent alone in the workshop. This time, though....

This time it was different. This time I’d seen an alternative. Natasha.

I thought of her, pirouetting smoothly on the stage, flowing from one position to the next with a lightness that didn’t seem possible. The way she’d move slowly and then explode into a run, or how she’d jump and catch her balance like a cat...she made it seem so effortless. I remembered the way her hair blazed and shone when the light hit it. And when she smiled—especially if it seemed like she was smiling because she saw me—it made something swell up inside me, like—

“Interesting.” A deep rumble behind me. I turned to see the white-haired CEO of the company standing there. The meeting had broken for lunch while I’d been daydreaming and people were milling around. For some reason, he was looking down at the notepad I had in front of me. I looked too.

We both stared at the full-page sketch of a ballerina. I hadn’t even been aware of drawing it.

***

That afternoon, I sat near the back and tried to figure out what to text to Natasha. I wanted to let her know I was thinking of her, but I didn’t want to come over as creepy, or weird. We’d only seen each other a few times, after all, and that had been business. Well, mostly business.

I had to be charming, but flirty.

But not seedy.

But interested.

But not pushy.

I sighed.
How can it be this hard?
It had always been easy with the society women I’d dated...somehow, I’d never worried about what they thought of me. With Natasha, that was all I thought about.

Eventually, I settled on: “Thinking of you.”

I didn’t hear back for an hour. Then: “Thinking of you too.”

I looked to the front of the room. They were talking about how their new fighter jet maneuvered—exactly the sort of thing that would have had me in rapt attention a week ago. Now it just seemed...flat.

I texted back:
“How’s your day been?”
That was okay, right? Friendly but open-ended.

A minute later:
“Rehearsal. Modern class. Going to take a shower now.”

Right then, Fenbrook was the most interesting place in the world. I wanted to know everything. What was she rehearsing? Modern? Modern what? Modern history? Did they take other classes as well as dancing and stuff? Or was modern a dance style? I’d have loved to watch her dance modern. Actually, I realized, I’d have happily watched her dance the damn Macarena. And the shower comment...I knew that had been completely innocent, but it kicked off all kinds of thoughts.

I waited until I thought she’d be out of the shower—a few minutes was enough, right?—and then texted:
“Good shower?”
Immediately, I regretted it. That was too flirty.

Minutes ticked by. No reply. Five minutes. Ten.

“Very good thank you ;)”
came back. She was flirting with me. Then, a few minutes later:
“Off to Harper’s now.”

Who was Harper? A girl? A guy? Was it some guy’s house? I thought of her going to some open house college party with kegs of beer and chisel-jawed actors, while I was stuck in Virginia. I didn’t want to go overboard on the texts, so I sat there and stewed for a while and then, while I should have been listening to some guy talk about jet thrust, I found
http://fenbrookacademy.com
on my phone and discovered under
Life at Fenbrook
that Harper’s was a coffee shop, and that made me feel a little better.

How was she doing this to me? I didn’t remember when I’d been this wrapped up in a girl. I wasn’t sure I’d
ever
been this wrapped up in a girl.

***

The next day, Tuesday, I couldn’t concentrate at all. I texted her again, but she was in class or at rehearsals most of the day so replies came slowly and I didn’t want her to think I was stalking her. By the end of the day I was mentally worn out and physically jumpy. I was used to working with my hands, feeling comfortably worn out at the end of the day. Nine hours in a conference room chair didn’t agree with me.

I hit the hotel gym and heaved dumbbells until my muscles burned. It felt good, but it didn’t feel satisfying like it should have done. I felt like I was hungry, but not for food. Like—