“Better.” My own voice sounds strange to my ears. Breathless. “Much better.”
We stand there for a moment, frame still intact, the music fading into silence. His eyes are fixed on mine with an intensity thatmakes my skin prickle, and there’s something almost hungry in his expression.
The Showcase. The thought surfaces from somewhere practical, somewhere that hasn’t been completely compromised by proximity and pheromones and whatever spell this man seems to cast. He could do it. With more practice, with proper training, he could?—
“I have a proposition.”
The words come out before I’ve fully decided to say them. His eyebrows rise.
“Do you now?”
“The Bellamy Cove Showcase. It’s in six weeks.” I step back, breaking the frame, needing distance to think clearly. “I was planning to enter solo, but the couples’ division has better prize visibility. Better press coverage. Better—” Better chances of saving my studio. I don’t say that part out loud.
“You want me to be your partner.”
“I want you to consider it.”
“Isadora Solis.” He says my name like he’s tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue. “Are you asking me to dance with you?”
My face heats. This is ridiculous. I’ve partnered with dozens of students over the years, entered countless competitions, stood in front of judges and performed routines that required far more intimacy than a simple waltz. There’s no reason for this to feel so monumental.
But it does.
“It would be... mutually beneficial.” I force my voice to stay level. “You’d get accelerated training, real performance experience, and I’d get?—”
“A partner who can actually keep up with you.” He’s smiling now, that crooked smile that transforms his face from handsome to devastating. “I’m flattered.”
“It’s not flattery. It’s strategy.”
“Of course. Pure business.” He takes a step closer, and I hold my ground through sheer force of will. “No other motivations whatsoever.”
“None.”
“Purely professional interest in spending six weeks in close physical proximity.”
“Purely professional.”
“Dancing together. Practicing together. Developing the kind of chemistry that makes audiences believe we’re?—”
“Are you going to say yes or not?”
The words come out sharper than I intended, and he stares at me with an expression I can’t read before bowing his head.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Was that not clear?” He extends his hand again. “I would be honored to dance with you, Isadora. For the showcase. For whatever comes after.”
I should correct him. I should establish boundaries, expectations, and a strict professional framework that will keep this from becoming anything more complicated than a business arrangement. But his hand is waiting, and the music is still echoing in my ears, and before I can stop myself, I take it.
“One run-through,” I say. “To see if we’re compatible.”
“Aren’t we already?”
I ignore that. I move to the stereo and queue up the piece I’ve been choreographing on the nights when I can’t sleep. It’s dramatic, passionate, and technically demanding—exactly the kind of routine that would make judges sit up and take notice.
“Tango?” he asks, reading the title over my shoulder.
