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“Yep,” he says smoothly and takes a sip.
Definitely losing my touch. “Whatever. Move over. This part is great.” We spend the next three hours engrossed in the show. Tate orders food and pays. Such a gentleman. We eat Thai food from a restaurant he recommended, and it’s ah-mazing—especially for a hangover belly. My reminder buzzes on my phone to go work out, and I silence it.Not today, fitness devils.We’re starting the next season when my ringtone sounds.
I don’t have to look to know who’s calling. It stops and immediately starts again.
“You need to get that?”
“No.” Yes, if I want to keep my job. The lightness of today quickly dissipates, and the knot in my stomach tightens. My leg starts shaking. I pretend to watch the show but find myself chewing on my fingernail. It stops, and I take a breath, only for it to ring again. “Fuck.” I lean forward and take the call. “Hey.”
“When you comin’ in?”
“I’m not sure. I really don’t think—”
“Last time I checked, I made your schedule. This isn’t ‘work as you please.’ You want out, I’ll replace you in minutes. Get your ass in here, or you’re fired.” He disconnects the call.
I squeeze my eyes closed.
“You okay? Somethin’ wrong?”
I inhale deeply and let it out, keeping my face blank. “No. Everything’s fine. Gotta go to work.” I grab our empty containers and toss them in the trash. “Feel free to keep watching. I’ve seen this one.” I disappear into my room, surprised and grateful Tate had gotten rid of my vomit can, and lean back against the door, trying to catch my breath. My chest feels tight. “I can do this,” I whisper. I push off my door and grab my costume bag the police had thankfully returned. The last thing I need is to lose hundreds worth of lingerie. That’d be fun to explain to Russell. A sliver of calm washes over me, and I exit my room.
Tate is leaning against my kitchen counter, his arms crossed. He looks pissed. “I guess it’s my turn to askyouwhat’s wrong.” He doesn’t move. His eyes never leave mine. When he doesn’t answer, I go on. “Cool. I need to get to work. I’m capable of driving—”
He pushes off the counter. “Let’s go.”
“Okay then.”
Within ten minutes, we’re in his SUV, en route to the studio. I break the silence when we pull into the parking lot. “Are you going to mention why you’re in such a sour mood, or are we just gonna continue in silence?”
“Silence ain’t a bad thing.”
I don’t know what changed his mood, but I’m not playing these games. “Whatever, pal.”
“Fine. Why do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“This job. Why do you do it?”
“Because I like being able to pay my rent?”
“You know damn well what I mean. Why do you do it? You can do anything. You don’t need to do this.”
What the hell? “Wow, did you just go from my guard dog to my therapist? Thanks, Doc. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slams his fist against the steering wheel, cocking his angry eyes at me. “Stop deflecting for a goddamn second and answer the question. I know you’re better than this.”
“Excuseme? You know nothing about me.”
“I know enough. I know you came here to become a professional dancer. I know shit got tough for you, and you gave up—”
“Fuck you. You know nothing. About. Me.”
“I know you don’t need to be doing this.”
“Why? Because you read a file on me? You don’t know shit. Maybe you need to stick to your own script. I’m a job for you. You can go to hell—”
His hand shoots out, capturing the back of my neck, and his lips crush against mine. This kiss… it’s not gentle or slow. It’s brutal and telling. It’s angry, making a statement. And so fucking hot. It doesn’t last long, though, before he pulls away.
