Even from here, I can see the red glow of that single stone.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Your hip is dropping.”
“My hip is fine.”
“Your hip,” I repeat, stepping out of frame to physically demonstrate the problem, “is creating a diagonal line that throws off our entire silhouette. Watch.”
I execute the sequence alone, keeping my pelvis level through the turn. The mirror reflects textbook technique—clean lines, controlled movement, nothing out of place. Then I deliberately drop my left hip the way Mal has been doing for the past forty-five minutes.
“See the difference?”
“I see you being pedantic about millimeters.”
“Millimeters matter.”
“In surgery, maybe. In engineering. In?—”
“In competitive ballroom, where judges sit fifteen feet away with eagle eyes and decades of experience spotting exactly this kindof flaw.” I plant my hands on my hips, which are level, thank you very much. “Again.”
Mal groans. It’s become his signature sound over the past weeks—a dramatic exhale of suffering that would be more convincing if his eyes didn’t crinkle with amusement every time he does it. “You’re relentless.”
“I prefer ‘dedicated.’“
“Relentless. Obsessive. Possibly unhinged.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“It usually gets me everywhere.” But he takes position again anyway, one hand extended toward me in invitation. “Fine. Show me what perfection looks like, oh mighty dance tyrant.”
I should correct him. I should maintain the professional distance that’s been eroding steadily over the past three weeks of intensive rehearsals. Instead, I step into his frame and let his hand settle against my shoulder blade, warm through the thin fabric of my leotard.
This is just work,I tell myself.This means nothing.
The music begins—that same tango we’ve been drilling until it haunts my dreams—and we move.
Something is different tonight. Maybe it’s the late hour, the studio dim except for the strip of lights above the mirrors. Maybe it’s exhaustion stripping away our usual defenses. Maybe it’s the strange energy that’s been building between us, session after session, touch after touch, until ignoring it takes more effort than acknowledging it.
His hip stays level.
We flow through the promenade, the corté, and the dramatic pause where our faces hover inches apart. His eyes catch mine and hold. Those little crimson sparks are back
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about how good he smells or how solid his arms feel or the way his thumb traces small circles on your back when he thinks you’re not paying attention.
I’m always paying attention.
The sequence ends. We freeze in the final pose, breathing hard, neither of us moving to separate.
“Better?” His voice is lower than usual. Rougher.
“Better.”
“Just better?”
“Much better.” I step back, breaking the contact, trying to ignore the way my skin protests the loss of his warmth. “Your frame held. Your hip stayed level. You actually followed the choreography instead of improvising.”
“I live to exceed your expectations.”
