Page 42 of Ice Dance

I crossed the floor. Dance shoes on. Simple we could do. No speed, no risk.

I lifted my hand. Navarro stepped in, took it. His palm was warm, damp from the heat. His gaze stayed on our joined hands for a moment, then came up to my face.

“Don’t lead like you’re trying to win an argument,” he said, and I couldn’t tell from his constant smile if he was joking.

“I won’t.” I tightened my grip.

His eyebrows rose. “Easy.”

Loosened my hold and breathed.

He stepped in, closer than Alisha would have. Too direct, too sudden. I clenched my teeth and dropped my other hand to his waist, found hard muscle instead of Alisha’s curve. Before I could think too much on that, his other hand came up to my shoulder.

I moved too soon.

He resisted. Our feet almost clipped. His shoulder turned, mine stayed square, the whole shape broke before it had begun.

He stepped back and shook out his hands. “Music, I think.”

That was probably a good idea.

He put “Cinnamon Girl” on, by Lana Del Ray. It had a softer, slower count, that we clearly needed to become familiar with each other again.

“Again,” I said.

“Yes, thank you. I was getting to that.”

Hand up. Posed. I waited.

He took a breath, took my hand, and stepped back in. My hand on his hip. Step, count, step. His hip moved against mine, pushing in.

We lasted three steps, before coming apart again.

His body wanted to roll with the music, I could feel it. Mine wanted to contain. He gave too much, too soon. We caught each other in the wrong places, corrected at the wrong time.

“Again,” he said, losing some of his smile.

We stepped in, hands placed, and moved. Again, the push, the roll, the firm heat of him, trying to break free. My instinct to contain, control. We collided, and broke apart, breathing too hard, as though we’d been doing more than just steps.

He came back in, without speaking this time.

Hand up, fingers cupped in mine. He blinked, lashes fluttering, then looked down at my hand on his hip. When he looked back up, his smile was back. “You know, you can ask my body before you move it.”

“I know how to lead,” I told him, heat warming my back.

“That’s the problem.”

“There’s no problem here.”

He laughed, as though I’d said something absurd. His whole body trembled with that laughter, and I felt its waves travel through my hands, into me. I felt my lips curve, and almost fought it.

“There he is,” he said. “Let’s go.”

And this time, when we moved, his push leaned into my pull, and it worked. We continued step work for the next twenty minutes. The same song on a loop. His body under my hold, hips moving, shoulders flowing, feeling like it belonged again.

The tension I’d carried with me into the building evaporated in those twenty minutes as I remembered what it felt like to dance with Navarro. How easy he could make it, in so many ways. All I had to do was stop fighting and give a little. We eventually danced through the entire song, his face neutral, eyes calm. I caught our reflection a few times, the unusualness of it, and something else . . . How balanced we appeared. Him and me.

Our bodies worked together. He was shorter by at least an inch, and we both carried dancer’s physiques, but I carried slightly more muscle.