“You don’t know me.”
“I’m starting to.” He reaches over, brushing a strand of hair from my face the way he did in the studio. “And I think you’remagnificent, Isadora Solis. Not because of the trophies or the technique or the studio. Because of the fire underneath all that control. The passion you’ve spent your whole life trying to contain.”
“I don’t?—”
“You do.” His hand lingers at my jaw. “Every time we dance, I feel it. This force, this hunger, this desperate need to feel something real. You’ve built walls around it, but it’s there. Waiting.”
“Walls are necessary.”
“Walls are prison cells.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “What are you so afraid of?”
Everything, I think. You. Me. This. What happens when I stop being perfect and the whole structure collapses.
But I don’t say it. Can’t.
“I should clean up.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “It’s getting late.”
He lets me go. Of course he does. Whatever else Mal is, he’s never pushed past a boundary once I’ve established it. That almost makes it worse.
Cleaning up takes longer than it should. Not because there’s much to clean, but because the cottage suddenly feels too small. Every time I turn, Mal is there. Handing me a towel. Reaching past me for the soap. Standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“You can go,” I say finally, shoving dried dishes into a cabinet with more force than necessary. “I can finish this.”
“I don’t mind helping.”
“I mind you helping.”
“Why?” He’s leaning against the counter now, watching me with that infuriating half-smile. “Because it disrupts your system? Your carefully organized approach to dish management?”
“Because you’re in my way.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” He doesn’t move. “Because it seems to me like you’re in your own way. You’ve been circling this kitchen for ten minutes, moving the same three items back and forth, clearly avoiding something.”
“I’m not avoiding anything.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m standing three feet away from you.”
“Physically, yes.” He pushes off the counter, closing the distance between us. “But you’ve been somewhere else since I asked what you’re afraid of. Since I got too close to the truth.”
“You don’t know my truth.”
“I know you’re shaking.”
I look down. My hands are trembling around the dish towel I’m clutching like a lifeline.
“This is unprofessional,” I say.
“We’re not in the studio.”
“It’s still?—”
“What? Inappropriate? Complicated?” He’s close enough now that I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. “Life is complicated. People are complicated. The only thing that matters is what you want.”
