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I stare at the ceiling,an arm flung over my head and the other draped over my abdomen. My breathing’s steady as I watch the ceiling fan lazily twirl over my bed.
Penelope woke an hour ago. She tried to be quiet, but the interior walls of this house were not constructed as solidly as the stucco exterior. A drawer opened. The lock on my bathroom door clicked as she washed up. I listened to water splashing and forced my mind away from the reminder that she might be half naked or—God help me—fully naked.
Her dance outfits cover her body, but my brain has inappropriately filled in the blanks. Small but high breasts that would mold perfectly to my palms. Tight little nipples. Slightly flared hips, but so many planes and angles to explore thanks to her muscle tone and long limbs.
She’s been gone from her room for a while, and the raging erection tenting my bedding has finally diminished. I swing my legs over the side of the bed. This fucking job is going to kill me if I have to fight hard-ons like that every day.
I’m giving it a week before Roman calls to recruit me. My mind tries to drift back to Penelope in the bathroom.
It’s going to be a long fucking week.
There’s a home gym. Penelope’s mother said she doesn’t use it in the morning. Her sessions with her personal trainer are in the afternoon.
I toss on a pair of basketball shorts. The house is quiet. I’ve been apprised of the typical routine of the staff, but Brittany cut their hours while Penelope and I are here. Nondisclosure agreements stop only so many people, and she claims to want to protect Penelope’s privacy.
The gym is attached to the main house by a breezeway. Technically, it’s in the house if Penelope wants to use it. I’m not sure if she’s there or eating breakfast with her mom.
I near the gym, and the soft notes of music reach my ear. Dammit. After this morning, I could use a killer session on the treadmill. But I don’t turn around. The door’s cracked open. The inside is dark; the shades are drawn.
She can’t dance in the dark, and I doubt the gym is set up for a damn waltz. Does she work out in the dark?
I approach the door, standing to the side like I’m going to push in and clear the room of danger. From this position, I have the perfect view of Penelope.
A pink Himalayan salt lamp glows in the corner. Her hands are pressed into a yoga mat and one foot is on the floor. Her other leg is stretched behind her, high in the air. Three-legged dog. One of my favorites, but no one would expect me to be a yoga guy. No one would expect most of the athletic skills I have in my arsenal.
Smoothly, she lowers that leg and raises the other. She stays in each position for an exhale, then inhales and transitions into a new position. Her form is impeccable, and her flexibility is enviable. I didn’t consider ballroom dancers to have the same physical range as other dancers, but Penelope’s proving me wrong.
Her eyes are closed. Moving meditation. The quiet confidence I witnessed in the studio is the same in the gym. Penelope might be unsure of several aspects of her life, but not with how she moves her body.
This is exactly like last night, during her final dance with Juan Pablo. She’s grace and power. She’s art, and I’m captivated.
She flows from mountain position to downward dog to cobra to warrior. She lands at warrior three with her forehead on her knee and her leg high in the air behind her. She reverses all the positions and does it again on the other side. There are no instructions. There’s no trainer. Just Penelope, moving from memory and passion.
She’s fucking beautiful.
What’s she like to dance with? She’d be strong but soft in my arms. Warm. Ready for me to lead—
She gasps and spins toward the door. Her eyes are wide because I’m staring at her like a fucking creep from the doorway.
“I didn’t want to interrupt,” I say gruffly. “But I gotta have the lights on to use the treadmill.”
That sounds reasonable enough.
“Oh.” Pink dusts across her cheekbones, dark enough to see in the faint light. “Sorry. I get lost in my head when I do yoga.”
Her gaze darts around the room like she’s trying to hide the guilt in her eyes. Her expression’s as open as a paperback in the wind. She’s not ready to face her mother. Whatever conversation I interrupted last night, she doesn’t want to continue.
I’m irritated. A girl like her gets eaten alive in LA even if it’s her family doing the chewing.
She should’ve been born in a small rural town where the most exciting thing to happen is the Fourth of July corn fest. She could’ve been in a small dance club as a kid, gone on to teach at the same club, married a nice guy who sells insurance and who’ll clap at all of her recitals.
And why the fuck does that upset me?
Because I’m not going to be the one clapping at her performances? I’m leering at her like I’m the one leaving notes and claiming to be her biggest fan.
“It’s going to take us an hour to get to your studio, so you can’t hide in the gym all day.” The words come out in a snarl. I sound pissed off at her, and I can’t even explain why I’m so upset.
