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“Yes.” I say forcefully, not expecting the flash of hurt that crosses his eyes. “It’s just that I’m not ready to explain how we happened. I’m not ready for the inquisition.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m not ready to watch your friendship implode.”
“Con’s distracted by the twins right now. It might be the best time to tell him everything. That way he’s not stewing over us.”
“Maybe…” I rub circles over the back of his hand. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not ready.”
“Have you at least confided in Friday?”
“No, you’re still the only one.” I’m starting to get frustrated by him pushing me, and I don’t want to fight. I want to let this go. “I have the name of a therapist that works with people who are given terminal or incurable medical diagnoses. I’ll make an appointment with her this week.”
“Okay,” he accepts my peace offering with only a hint of disbelief. “I’m going to need proof of your appointment once you make it.”
I roll my eyes but drop it. He’s appeased for now. We spend the rest of the night binge watching a show on Netflix and cuddling.
* * *
“Claire, you need to stay back,” Kent says after practice.
I barely hold back the groan as I look over at Friday. He’s been more and more insistent on me staying after so he can “help” me. His help includes getting handsy and heavy innuendos.
“I’ll wait for you in the lobby since we have our appointment,” Friday practically yells across the studio. I haven’t told her about my diagnosis yet, but I have talked to her about Kent’s creepy behavior.
I give her a smile as she walks out the door before turning back to a scowling Kent.
“You have a lot to work on in the next six weeks. You need to plan to stay an hour later than everyone else if you don’t want to look like a complete joke on stage. Maybe even come in some Sundays.”
“If I’m so terrible, why did you give me the position?” I retort. I’m not bad. I’m fucking good, and I’m sick of his shit.
“Because I see your potential,” he grips my shoulders, “and watch your tone with me.”
“Watch your hands with me,” I lean into his space, “I’m not going to sleep with you. I’m not some dancer you can push around and fuck with. I have enough money to buy this ballet company hundreds of times over. I don’t want to use my money to get ahead in the dance world, but if you force my hand I will. Back. The fuck. Off.”
“There’s no need to be such a nasty little cu-”
“Trust me,” Griff interrupts from the doorway, “you do not want to finish that sentence. Claire might stop at buying the company and firing you. I will annihilate you, slowly, methodically until you can’t even get a job cleaning the floor of a strip club in Oklahoma. Don’t ever touch her again. Don’t ever insinuate that she needs extra practice. She’s the best dancer in this company, by far, and you will treat her with the respect she deserves.”
He’s so damn sexy, one shoulder casually leaning against the doorjamb while he threatens to eviscerate a man on my behalf. I don’t think I could love him any more than I do in this moment.
Wait.
Love?
Am I in love with Griff?
Kent throws me an uncertain glance before looking back at Griff. “Who are you?”
“Claire’s boyfriend.”
My what?
“Do you have a name?”
“Yes.” Griff pushes off the wall and pulls a business card out of his wallet, handing it to Kent before grabbing me and planting a deep kiss on my lips.
I kiss him back with a little moan. Between my realization of being in love with him and this kiss, I can’t even focus on asking why he’s here. I just want to drown in him.
“Hi.” I say when he pulls away.
“Hi,” he chuckles at my dazed greeting.
