Page 125 of Uncoachable

She’s good at this. Not just dancing; reading me, adjusting to the slight stiffness in my injured shoulder, and trusting me when it counts.

If anyone is watching closely—and in this city, someone always is—this already looks like too much. It’s too familiar. It’s too intimate.

I can almost hear the analysis forming in the minds of the gossip columnists. They’ll have commentators pretending this is about “team chemistry” instead of raw proximity.

One wrong move, one look that lingers a second too long, and everything she fought for in that locker room becomes negotiable again.

The thought sobers me for a moment. It should make me pull away. It should make me find a reason to go get a drink.

It doesn’t.

“Careful,” she murmurs, amusement threading her voice as she looks up at me. “I don’t usually let people lead me, Callahan.”

“I’m not just anyone,” I reply, my voice dropping an octave as I lean in closer than I should.

She tilts her head, her eyes dark and intent. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” My throat tightens. “And you’re… impossible.”

Her smile is slow and dangerous.

“Flattery again,” she whispers. Her lips brush close enough to my ear to make my grip on her waist tighten involuntarily.

Every step, every turn, and every shared breath magnifies the tension coiled between us.

The room ceases to exist.

There is no more gold trim or crystal chandeliers. There is only the curve of her waist beneath my hand, the graceful tilt of her neck, and the heat pooling in the narrow space between our bodies.

I slide my hand from the small of her back until my palm rests flat against the heat of her skin just above her hip. My thumb hooks into the dip of her waist, a possessive, grounding weight that pulls her inches closer, until the friction of her thighs against mine is the only thing I can feel.

My gaze drops to her mouth, lingering there with a heavy, unvarnished hunger that has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with how easy it would be to ruin us both right here on the marble floor.

Her gaze lifts fully to mine, and for one suspended heartbeat, everything condenses to that single look—want, restraint, challenge, and something much deeper and more dangerous beneath it all.

“Iveline—”

“I’m done avoiding this.”

The confession hits me like a punch of adrenaline straight to my chest.

My hand convulses at her waist, dragging her that final, impossible fraction of an inch closer until there isn’t room for a ghost to stand between us. Her lips part, a sharp, broken hitch in her breath betraying her as she stays pinned to me, not retreating, not advancing—just waiting for the spark to hit the gasoline.

Then reality intrudes.

The orchestra shifts tempo, moving into a more upbeat number. Someone stumbles near the edge of the dance floor, causing a small ripple of laughter. A voice from the sidelines calls her name—one of the primary donors wanting a word.

The spell fractures just enough for me to step back, my jaw clenched, forcing distance between us before I do something irreversible in front of a thousand witnesses.

She laughs softly, her eyes bright with a mischief that makes my heart race. “You’re blushing, Callahan.”

“I’m not,” I mutter, feeling a staggering sense of déjà vu from the very first time we danced months ago.

“Sure,” she says, clearly unconvinced as she adjusts the silk of her dress.

She steps away gracefully, her fingertips brushing mine as she turns.

***