Dance for Me (Fenbrook Academy #1) - New Adult Romance (13 page)

Like I missed her.

That was ridiculous. I’d seen her on Friday—it had only been four days! And yet—

The door crashed open and Carol strutted in, in designer workout gear and drinking from a water bottle that looked like it belonged in an art gallery. “Really?” I asked her. “I can’t even be alone
here?
”

“I didn’t come here for you,” she said with a sniff. “I came here to run.” And she stepped onto a treadmill and cranked it up to a jog.

For a few minutes, I lifted and she ran in blissful silence. Of course, it was too good to last.

“I need you up early tomorrow,” she told me over the expensive whir of the treadmill belt.

Her tone sounded warning bells in my head. “Why?”

She was silent.

“Where are we going?” I pressed.

She looked round at me and smiled. Realization dawned and I let the dumbbells crash to the ground, drawing angry looks from people around me. “No!”

“You’ll enjoy it. You always liked the Starbucks there....”

“Damnit, Carol, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have come to Virginia if I had?”

I stormed out.

***

The annoying thing was, as I sat there in the sun on Wednesday lunchtime, sipping an iced mocha latte, it
was
kind of fun. Just a little bit.

“I told you you’d enjoy it,” Carol reminded me from behind her huge sunglasses. “Who wouldn’t like this?” She indicated the sunshine, the happy office workers relaxing around us, and the five towering walls that surrounded the plaza.

Maybe for the thousands of people who worked there, it was normal—maybe they didn’t even think about it. But I’d only visited twice before and I still got a kick out of...well, just
being at the Pentagon.

“Maybe you could get your ballerina a pen,” Carol told me, sucking Frappuccino from her straw. “They have a gift shop.”

I smiled. Bringing Natasha a gift
would
be cool. It would be nice, to share a little of my world with her—the cool part. I pulled out my phone and typed a text to her:
“Guess where I am?”

A few moments later, as we finished our drinks, a reply.
“Where?”

And then I froze, my thumbs hovering over the phone.
What was I doing?
How in hell was I going to explain being at the Pentagon? As soon as I said it, she’d know I worked in defense. Then she’d want to know what I made for them....

Something knotted in my stomach. The last thing I wanted to do was to lie to her, but.... I typed out:
“Drinking Starbucks in the sun.”
Which must have seemed like the lamest reply ever.

“Come on,” said Carol, taking my drink before I’d finished it. “We have a general to meet.”

Part of me wondered if I was being stupid. Maybe Natasha wouldn’t care. Maybe she’d be just fine with me making weapons. But deep inside, I knew that wasn’t the case and not just because I was getting to know her. It was because I was starting, very slowly to look at what I did in a different way—an outsider’s way—and I didn’t like what I saw.

***

That afternoon, when my part of the briefing was done and Carol was telling the military about how this latest design would be
faster, more efficient, more lethal,
I opened up my laptop and started browsing the internet. I wanted to get Natasha a gift, to make up for lying to her even though she was oblivious to it. A dress for our date would be perfect...except I had no idea where to start. Sleeves or no sleeves? Long skirt? Short skirt? I could at least guesstimate her size, after studying her so closely while she danced, but in terms of women’s fashion I was shooting blind. I knew what
I
thought looked good, but that was it.

I knew my limits. That night, I drafted in two female hotel receptionists and let them argue over which of my shortlist they liked best, then picked the one they settled on. When the confirmation finally popped saying the dress was on its way to Natasha’s apartment, I felt slightly better.

I couldn’t wait to see her again.

Chapter Fifteen

Natasha

It was only Thursday and I missed him—a lot. It took me a while to admit it to myself, but I got there in the end.

He’d texted the first day. I still wasn’t sure about the winking smiley I’d sent with the text about taking a shower—had that been too much? Then a few days later, there’d been a cute text about him drinking Starbucks in the sun. I loved the fact he got a kick out of doing something simple. It made me want to sit out in the sun somewhere with him—Central Park, maybe. Listening to Karen’s quartet play, nestled up against him on the grass, sounded a lot like perfection.

I was jerked out of my daydream by my phone ringing. Not a text but an actual call, and his name was on the screen. It was after six—maybe he was done with work for the day.

I sat up on my bed. “Hi.” It was the first time we’d ever spoken on the phone, and it made me more excited than it really should have.

“Hi, Natasha.” The sound of him saying it made me smile. “Where are you?”

“At home. Quiet night in. How’s Virginia?”

There was a pause. “Dull,” he said eventually, and it sounded like he was surprised by his own answer. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Will you dance for me?”

I blinked. “You mean: when you get back?”

“I mean: right now. Got Skype?”

I looked across the room to my aging laptop. It was hunk of junk compared to Clarissa’s wafer-thin model, but it worked. “Yes....” I said doubtfully.

“Will you do it?” He paused. “I mean, obviously I’ll pay you....”

“You don’t have to pay me,” I said quickly. And then realized that that pretty much amounted to a
yes.

Why was I so hesitant? What bothered me about the idea? I mean, it seemed a little crazy, but so did dancing for a millionaire in the first place. Was it the thought of performing on camera, like some borderline-prostitute cam girl? Ridiculous. It was dancing, not sex.

“Okay,” I told him, and gave him my Skype address. He called, and suddenly I could see him.
Ohmygod he looks good in a suit!
His hair was sort of tousled, as if he’d been running his hands through it, and I longed to do the same. Those perfect blue eyes were staring straight back at the screen, almost as if—

Oh yeah. He
could
see me. I looked down at myself: a t-shirt and jeans, the minimal make-up I’d worn for class and bare feet. Not great, but it could have been worse.

“Is that your hotel?” I asked, looking at the huge bed behind him.

He nodded. “Want to see?” And he turned his laptop slowly around, giving me the tour. It was a suite, with its own lounge and dining areas and a huge bathroom. It was several steps above any hotel room I’d ever stayed in, even if looked more business than romantic.

“Yours looks more interesting,” he told me. “Nice bike.”

I looked over my shoulder so fast I almost gave myself whiplash, taking in the hulking great exercise bike in the center of the room, the unmade bed, the washing on the floor. Now I realized why I’d been hesitant about doing this: he was getting a glimpse into my personal world. The weird thing was that even though it made me a little nervous, it didn’t feel anywhere near as bad as I would have thought. It actually felt kind of good, that he was seeing the real me—or at least some of me. If I’d had time to think about it properly beforehand, I probably would have said no, but having done it I was glad I’d agreed.

“I like riding it,” I told him, and then wanted to kick myself because that sounded so stupid. “When I’m riding it, I’m just doing that, you know? It helps me forget stuff.”
Careful!

But he just nodded as if he understood. “It’s building things, for me.”

We just looked at each other for a second, realizing that maybe we were more alike than either of us had suspected.

“So. How do we do this?” I looked around. “There’s not a lot of room.”

He nodded. “I’ll be happy with whatever you can do.”

I found some slow and tranquil music online and was about to hit “Play” when I realized I was still in a t-shirt and jeans. Combats I could dance in, but jeans were impossible. I’d have to get changed.

“Umm. Hang on a sec,” I told him.

“What’s up?”

What was the thing to do here? Go to the bathroom and come back? That seemed rude. But I couldn’t just strip off in front of him, or this really was going to feel like some webcam sex thing....

...the idea of which didn’t completely fill me with horror.

“I’m just going to put something over the camera while I change,” I told him. I found a black t-shirt, thick enough to be opaque, and draped it over the top of my laptop. “There. Can you see?”

“Not a thing.”

“Really?”

“Completely blind.”

I put my hands on the hem of my t-shirt...and then, still shy, I turned my back to the screen. I pulled off my shirt and jeans and got into tights and a leotard. Only then did I turn back.

The t-shirt was lying on the keyboard, having slithered down at some point. Darrell was looking right into my eyes.

“When did that happen?” I asked lightly.

“Seconds ago,” he deadpanned.

I just stared at him, a dark heat building inside me.

“I averted my eyes,” he told me.

I was pretty sure he was lying, which only made me hotter. God, how did he do this to me? I wondered if it was the same for Clarissa, with Neil. To cover my embarrassment, I sat down and strapped on my pointe shoes.

“Does it hurt?” he asked me. “I mean, going up on pointe. It looks like it hurts.”

I shook my head. “Not really. Tiring, not painful.” I stood up and started the music.

There wasn't a lot of room, so I focused on my arms—slow, measured sweeps that took me from bras bas to second to fifth. I leaned forward into third arabesque, one leg up behind me. The floor was wood, and glossy enough that I managed a promenade, rotating on one leg as I had in the park. Part of me still only wanted him to see the perfect stuff—the perfect me. But as I danced for him in that messy room, my outstretched foot inches from an exercise bike, things started to change. I stopped thinking about impressing him and started just doing it because it gave him pleasure. I came up on pointe and then sank down into a plié, and I was close enough to the screen that I could look him in the eye as I did it, watching him watch me. I formed a wide "n", lower legs vertical and calves horizontal and straining.

"You're beautiful," he said, and it was so out of nowhere that I wobbled. "Sorry," he said quickly. "But you are."

I flushed, unsure what to say. I wanted to tell him how much I loved his eyes, or the softness of his hair. But I just sort of nodded awkwardly. And going through my mind was,
You think that because you don't know me.

But he was getting to know me. I'd wondered before if he felt the same way and now the texts and this call had given me my answer. He really did like me, maybe just as much as I liked him. Maybe more than "liked". This was going beyond just physical attraction, now. This was getting into serious territory—seriously exciting and a serious risk of him finding out about me.

I rose up out of the plié before my legs collapsed, and as the music ended, I leaned forward, closer and closer to the screen. We both had the same idea at the same time. We didn't actually kiss the screen—we stopped just short of it, with our eyes closed and our lips slightly parted—but it felt like we kissed.

"I can't wait for Monday," he told me. "I'm sorry I had to go away."

"Me too."

We talked about the date. Dinner at a fancy restaurant I hadn't heard of. A drink first at a bar I definitely had—the same one celebrities were photographed in, in all the glossy magazines.

And then what? Back to the mansion? Back here? A demure kiss on the cheek? Would it count as our first date, and sex would be too much, or were we technically on our third now?

I said goodbye and ended the call, then sat there staring at the screen. Monday still seemed like a month away, and with every day, the feelings grew more solid, more real. Being apart only seemed to make it more intense—what the hell did
that
mean? That this was the real thing? Or that I was setting myself up for some huge disappointment when he returned?

***

The next day when I got back from classes, Mr. Kresinski had taken in a package for me. When I stripped off the outer paper, I found a gold and green box with the black lettering of some store I’d never heard of.

The printed note said,
“For you to wear on Monday.”