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“Huh, you say something?” Ron looks up from his phone, startled.
“Not you,” I say as I take a left turn. “My ex.”
The confusion clears from Ron’s face. “Oh, him.” He leans down to fiddle with the radio. “It was hardly a relationship, honey. It was more of a ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ kind of scene.”
“Thank you, Ron.” I stare at the road. “That’s helpful. You’re a good friend.”
He chortles. “I’m serious. You guys had a fling when he was drunk. I’m still surprised that he wants to know Mila. I’ve seen him in the tabloids. He ain’t no saint.”
I honk at the stupid car in front of me, which refuses to move even though the light turned green ages ago. Pulling down the window, I shout, “Move, asshole!”
The driver lifts a well-manicured hand out the window and flips me off before driving away.
“You know what’s worse?” I say, glumly, picking up the conversation. “Those pictures in the tabloids don’t do him justice. He’s still as hot as he was five years ago.”
“Did you want him to grow a wart or something?” Ron tunes into a nineties music channel and the car moves as he dances along to the Backstreet Boys’ song blaring from the speakers.
I hiss. “I don’t know. A beer belly would have been nice. Here I am with a C-Section scar and stretch marks and he still gets to look sexy as sin. It’s not fair!”
“Life’s not fair.” Ron dances and when I narrow my eyes at him, he sobers. “Sorry. Sorry. Do you want me to pretend to be your boyfriend if he shows up?”
I eye his soft face and can’t help but grin. “You look more like my masculine sister with a bad dye job. At this point, Mark would make a better fake boyfriend than you.”
Ron scowls at me. “You take that back! My dye job is fabulous. Mark loves it.”
I roll my eyes. “You could wear a potato sack and not have bathed for a week and he’d still find you appealing. That man is putty in your hands.”
Ron sighs, dreamily. “Isn’t he just? He’s perfect.”
I give him an affectionate look. “Yes, he is. For you, at least. I swear he hates me though.”
My roommate gives me an annoyed look. “It’s your damn fault for kissing me on the mouth on New Year’s. Now he’s convinced that you might have the hots for me.”
“Oh, please,” I scoff.
Ron isn’t offended in the least. “That’s what I said. Anyway, I’ll see you at dinner.”
I stop the car in front of the massive art gallery that Ron’s boyfriend owes. “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Ron waggles his eyebrows at me suggestively. “Don’t worry. I’m not on a celibacy streak. So we’re good.”
“Jerk,” I laugh as he closes the door behind him.
The dance studio is a ten-minute drive from the art gallery. The building used to be a gym before it went out of business.
Lorraine, the bubbly young receptionist, is on the phone, and I nod to her, grateful that I don’t have to engage in conversation with her. I hired her for her people skills but man, can Lorraine talk.
It is getting her to shut up that is the hard part.
She often babysits Mila and really gets along with her.
I have a belly dancing class in about ten minutes, and I quickly change in my office and grab a bottle of water before I leave for the classroom. I meet a few instructors on the way there who give me a friendly hello.
The class is full as always and as I proceed with the class, I feel a pair of eyes on me that make me stiffen.
Everybody's watching me as they mimic my movements, but when I turn around, I realize why that one particular gaze has me so on edge.
Zayn stands at the back of the class, leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets.
