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Adam uncurled from the bench. He was smiling. “I forgot you were such an easy blush.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Adam started to move away, but then he paused and leaned back to whisper. “It’ll make for interesting conversation later.”
Nick studied the whole time Adam and Quinn rehearsed.
No. That wasn’t true.
He pretended to stare at his textbook the whole time. In reality, he never turned a page, he never took a note, and he didn’t take his eyes off Adam.
This was ridiculous. Any minute now, he’d be doodling hearts down the margin of his notebook.
An easy blush. He wasn’t usually. But he could feel his cheeks warming just thinking of Adam’s last comment.
He wasn’t the only one blushing, either. Some younger girls were clustered and giggling in the doorway, whispering about Adam.
Nick couldn’t blame them. Adam and Quinn made an eye-catching pair as they spun across the floor. His dark hair and olive skin seemed to shadow her blue-eyed-blond-peaches-and-cream complexion. Nick wondered if Adam played to that, if he’d choreographed the dance to highlight their differences.
The routine was powerful, putting Quinn in the air as often as she was on the ground. She’d told Nick she was trying to live on lettuce and saltines to spare Adam’s biceps.
From where Nick was sitting, said biceps did not need sparing.
He forced his attention on Quinn. He’d seen the first incarna-tions of this dance a few weeks ago, when Quinn and Adam had scraped it together in the back room of the Y. Quinn had been awkward, trying to keep up with Adam’s polished movements.
But she’d been working hard—now her motions looked like a perfect extension of his.
The air liked their partnership. He could feel their energy in the atmosphere like an electric current through water.
It was good to see Quinn focused on something positive.
By the time they killed the lights in the studio and Adam was locking up, it was after ten. Nick told himself he could force physics lessons into his brain when he got home. It wasn’t that late yet.
Then Adam said, “Want to grab a cup of coffee?”
He should refuse. It was late enough, and he had Mike’s truck.
Then again, Michael would never give him a hard time about staying out. He probably wasn’t even concerned. Nick never did anything wrong.
But coffee would be public. Would Quinn come? Did he want her to?
“Don’t worry about it,” said Adam, his voice easy. “I didn’t mean to throw you into an existential crisis. It’s all right.”
“No! I want to. It’s—yeah. Coffee. Yes.”
“Maybe decaf,” said Quinn. Nick shot her a look.
She yawned. “What? Drop me at home first. I need to crash.”
So he’d be alone with Adam.
Normally it took fifteen minutes to get Quinn across town.
Tonight it seemed to take three-point-two seconds. Nick was very aware of his fake-girlfriend sitting between him and Adam, providing a buffer of estrogen and snark and pretend heterosexuality.
When he couldn’t seem to generate any better than one-word answers, she turned her attention to Adam, prattling about the routine and Adam’s audition and their practice schedule for the rest of the week.
In her parking lot, Nick hoped she’d want a walk up to her apartment, if only to give him another minute for his nerves to settle.
