“Madison saw you,” Sophie says. “Through the window. She said you were eating his face.”
I’m going to kill Madison. Whoever Madison is.
“Okay, everyone back to practice.” I clap my hands with perhaps more force than necessary. “We have fifteen minutes left and I want to see improvement.”
The children scatter, giggling. I can feel heat climbing my cheeks and feel Bianca’s smirk boring into my back from across the room.
Eating his face.Honestly.
Although—and I will never, ever admit this out loud—the description isn’t entirely inaccurate. That last kiss had been... enthusiastic.
I shake off the memory and focus on corrections. Oliver’s frame needs work. The twins are going the wrong directionagain. Amelia is doing something interpretive that bears no resemblance to any waltz I’ve ever seen.
But my mind keeps drifting.
Plus one.
Mal, at my mother’s birthday party. Mal, meeting Carmen Solis. Mal, subjected to the particular brand of elegant scrutiny that my mother deploys like a precision weapon.The thought should terrify me. It does terrify me, in a distant, theoretical way. But underneath the terror is something else. Something that feels suspiciously like... want.
I want him there.
The realization hits me like a missed step—sudden, disorienting, and impossible to ignore. I want Mal beside me when I walk into that country club. I want his hand at the small of my back, his voice in my ear, and his steady presence anchoring me against the storm of maternal judgment.
When did that happen?
The flood? The children’s dance class? Or simply waking up this morning with his arm draped across my waist, his breath warm against my neck, and his face soft with sleep. He’d looked human. Vulnerable.Mine.
That last thought had terrified me so thoroughly that I’d pretended to still be asleep until he stirred, then performed an elaborate charade of just waking up, as if I hadn’t been lying there for twenty minutes cataloging the way morning light caught the planes of his face.
“Miss Izzie?”
I blink. Maya is standing in front of me, head tilted.
“Class is over.”
It is. The music has stopped. Parents are filtering in through the door. I’ve been standing in the middle of the studio like a statue, lost in thought while children danced around me.
Get it together, Izzie.
“Right. Yes. Good work today, everyone.” I clap my hands again, pulling on my professional smile. “Remember to practice at home. Same time next week.”
The exodus begins. Children collect belongings. Parents exchange pleasantries. Bianca handles checkout with her usual efficiency while shooting me meaningful looks that I steadfastly ignore.
By 3:15, the studio is empty except for the two of us.
“So,” Bianca says.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to ask if you’ve responded to your mother yet.” She perches on the front desk, swinging her legs. “Totally work-related inquiry.”
“I’m still deciding.”
“Deciding if you’re going, or deciding if you’re bringing your hot demon boyfriend?”
