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“Will do.”
I end the call and stare at the top of my desk. I’m sick of being in this office. I’ve never sat at a desk like this in my life. I don’t want to.
A recurring question prods my mind. What do I want to do? The age-old question: What do I want to be when I grow up?
Months of getting blasted by sand while getting shot at gave me enough time to work through my anger. The contract work gave me enough money to live on. Other than the PI gig and being Penelope’s bodyguard, I don’t have a variety of experience.
Am I going to return to LA and sell used cars?
I have a buddy from the Army who sells cars. I haven’t talked to him in years, but he laughed about the job and said he didn’t mind it. The boss would pressure him for sales, but he could just go to another lot if it got bad. He liked being in control of his life. Having normal hours. He liked that people left his office happy and excited. When it came to the cars, there were no convoys; he didn’t have to worry about bombs, and nothing was bulletproof. “I just drive around and talk,” he’d said.
Sounds like pure hell for someone like me.
My social circle is small, but it’s filled with people who’ve got their shit together when it comes to what they’re doing with their lives. Penelope’s in a situation right now, but she wants to run her own damn studio, teach kids how to ballroom dance, and to compete in dancesport. London’s passionate about Natural Glow, and Jacobi’s got his IT thing. Kase might be an exception, but he’ll never tell us. At least he has a job.
Once Penelope’s safe, what am I going to do with my life? What do I want to do with my life?
I push away from my desk and roam down the hall, through the living room, and into the kitchen. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’ve got nothing. I’m a lot like Penelope. When I’m not chasing down losers, what the hell am I doing?
But it’s not like a person can just pick a hobby. You have to be drawn to it, intrigued by it.
Music drifts up from downstairs. She’s been there for an hour, but she could be down there for two more. The urge to see her dance propels me downstairs.
I prop a shoulder against the doorframe. This isn’t the first time I’ve watched her since we jumped back into bed together. She flashes me a grin in the mirror and continues her solo cha-cha, pretending as if she has a partner. I picture her in a blue-and-black dress, like the first night I saw her.
She’s in the cream leggings that Holland packed for her with a loose, off-the-shoulder beige sweater covering a pink camisole. Energy brightens her eyes, and the flush on her cheeks makes the green of her eyes pop.
The final note of the music hits. Penelope ends with the snap of her heel against the floor and her arms curved into the air. I can almost hear the sound of the shoes she would wear while competing. This style of dance is so different from ballet.
“You did the choreography for that number?” I know the answer; it has the same feel I saw when I guarded her at the studio, but I want to hear her talk about it. She’s vibrant when she discusses her profession.
She nods, her expression brightening even more. “Sort of. Juan Pablo and I designed this routine. When it comes to the students’ routines, Pierre and I will either take turns or collaborate. For the competitive routines, Juan Pablo and I work together, and our instructor often helps us. I like to tell my students that a lot of fun can be found off the dance floor too.”
“I was never involved in the choreography.” I stuff my hands into my sweats and wander into the studio. I’ve braved being in here before. Each time, the déjà vu impact is a little less. Old memories of betrayal are weaker. I can be inside this room and be in the present, not rooted in the past. “I was interested in it, but I had my own schooling to finish, and I had to learn my assigned choreography, so there was no room on my plate to design it.”
“It’s a natural progression, unless you’re one of those that’s super gifted with design and the routines just come to you.” She goes to the corner and lifts her clear plastic water bottle off the floor. I unabashedly watch her throat work as she swallows. She catches me and shoots me a small scowl, but she can’t hide her smile.
She sets her water bottle down and stands in the middle of the room. “I’ve been working on a new waltz routine.”
Sympathy sifts through me. This is her passion and she’s not letting it go. When is she going to have a chance to try her routine with a partner? To compete again? To teach again? Roman locked her in a room, but she’s just as cut off from life here.
“Want to show me?” I can’t do much but be an audience of one.
Her smile is shy. “It’s rudimentary yet, but sure.”
I stay in the doorway to give her as much room as possible. I know dick about the waltz, but she flows through the steps with her shoulders back, her chin lifted. Without a partner, the way she turns her head might seem odd to others, but I’ve only ever watched her.
Barely a minute passes before she stops. She folds one arm across herself and sheepishly drops her gaze. “It’s just a start. Sometimes, it takes a lot of refinement.”
I cross to her and lift her chin until she meets my gaze. “It’s beautiful, and it’s only going to get more so. Just like you.”
Running her fingers over my pecs and down my abdomen, she says, “I like that you started coming down here. I like when you watch me.”
“It seems my hobby is watching you.” The truth of that hits home. How obsessed can a man get before it’s considered wrong? “Has been for a while.”
She hooks her fingers around the waistband of my sweatpants. “We both know how significant it is that you’re coming in here. That you watch me dance. That you’re opening yourself up again. I’m glad I can be part of building new memories—good ones. And I want to give you another good memory.”
I’m not sure what she means until she drops to her knees, rolling my sweats down with her. Christ, I’m not expecting this.
