“Dancing. We should practice dancing.”
“If you insist.” But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t step back or assume position or do any of the professional things I’m desperately hoping for. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“I don’t want your deals.”
“Hear me out.” His hand catches mine lightly, just his fingertips against my palm. “We’ll practice professionally. No distractions, no commentary, no references to last night. You can pretend nothing happened, and I’ll follow your lead.”
I wait for the catch. With Mal, there’s always a catch.
“In exchange,” he continues, “you admit—just once, just to me—that you wanted it. That you still want it. That this thing between us isn’t a mistake, no matter how much easier it would be to pretend otherwise.”
“That’s—”
“The truth. Nothing more.” His thumb traces a line across my palm. “Unless the truth is too much to ask from someone who builds their life around discipline.”
It’s a manipulation. I can see it for what it is—a verbal chess move designed to corner me into an admission I’m not ready tomake. He’s good at this. Too good. Probably centuries of practice at getting people to reveal themselves.
Thirty years, my memory corrects. He said thirty years.
But I could have sworn...
“Fine.” The word escapes before wisdom can intervene. “Yes. I wanted it. I still—” I swallow. “I still think about it. About you. About what happened. It’s distracting and inconvenient and absolutely the last thing I need with the showcase approaching.”
His face softens. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
“Stop reading me.”
“Stop being so readable.” He releases my hand, and I feel the loss more acutely than I want to admit. “Now. Shall we practice? I believe you were correcting my promenade.”
I stare at him. “You’re just... going back to practice? No gloating? No further psychological warfare?”
“I made a deal. Unlike some demons of my acquaintance, I honor my bargains.”
Demons of my acquaintance. Another strange phrase. Another slip that doesn’t quite fit.
But he’s already moving to the center of the floor, arms extended in invitation, and I don’t have the bandwidth to analyze word choices when I’m still reeling from my own admission.
“From the top,” I say, because falling back into instruction is easier than feeling.
“From the top.”
We practice.
For almost two hours, we practice—properly this time, with minimal arguing and surprisingly competent footwork. Mal seems to have finally internalized the choreography, his body moving through the sequences with a natural grace that makes my job significantly easier.
It would be perfect, if not for the touching.
Every point of contact burns. His hand at my waist. His palm against mine. The brush of his thigh during the close passes, the weight of his arm across my shoulders during the shadow position. Nothing inappropriate, nothing beyond what the dance requires, but it burns.
I step back and force myself to breathe normally. Then I reach for the remote with a hand that definitely isn’t shaking.
“We should work on the lift sequence.”
“The one you’ve been avoiding?”
