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“Yeah. Addison has a cold and I lost track of time. Plus, traffic.”
Madame Hubert tapped her cane on the floor, and the entire company came to attention. Class was familiar. Class was a safe place. Even with the chaos swirling around outside of it, there was value in having this be the same. It never changed.
Wechanged. What we could do on a given day. Our mood. The struggles of a piece or in rehearsal. But every day we all started in the same place. You could have the worst day ever, and it was made better because you knew you could start over in the morning.
It went by too quickly, and before I knew it we were bowing, chatter rising and everyone grabbing their gear to move to smaller studios.
The principal studio was one floor up. Asher left first. I followed the trail of his scent, stomach growling because I wanted the cookies he smelled like. I’d been so nervous I hadn’t eaten breakfast. Later though? Later, I needed some fucking sugar.
He stood by the back barre, looking down at his phone before I approached him. Dion had been behind me, and though he was in our group, he kept his distance. The traitor. Claire was in a different studio today.
I set my bag down gently.
“Sloane.” Asher’s voice was quiet.
“Hi.”
He reached out to touch me and stopped. I had to stifle the whine that rose, because not touching him felt just as wrong as touching him did. Nothing about this wasrightyet, and I hated it.
“I didn’t ask for us to be paired,” he whispered. “If you don’t want to dance with me—”
“No.”
The hope in his eyes was painful. “God, I missed you.”
Tears pricked my eyes, and I wrapped my arms around myself. The others were entering the room. “I missed you too.”
Asher stepped into my space. His scent filled every crevice around me. Sweet and warm. Nothing had ever felt like this. He lowered his voice so no one could hear him but me. “I am never going to be able to make it through this day if I can’t touch you,” he breathed. “Please.”
One nod was all it took.
He pulled me into his arms again. Gentler than yesterday, but his hands betrayed him, the way fingers tightened and released like he had to remind himself we weren’t alone. He let out a shuddering breath as we both relaxed and my body melted into his.
“When rehearsal is over, you and I are going to talk about this.” No room for argument. “Understood?”
“Yes.”
So slowly it nearly felt like slow motion, Ash turned his head and brushed his lips across my cheek. “No running away.”
The only reason I wasn’t perfuming right now was the suppressant I took this morning. It wasn’t that I was embarrassed for perfuming, but when you were in rehearsal with twenty other people, perfuming was distracting. Plus, it was no one else’s business.
“Like old times until then?” He pulled back and smiled, more light in his eyes now.
“Like old times.”
Ian strode in followed by a woman in dance gear. His choreography assistant. “Stagger your groups,” he called, pointing to spaces on the floor. “I know this is going to be tough. Anyone here who hasnoknowledge of the choreography?”
Thankfully no one raised their hand. I wasn’t the only one who’d been frantically reviewing notes and videos the past couple of weeks.
“Good. It’s going to be a long day, and we need to get through act one. We’ll review the choreo, see where everyone is so we can refine and dictate the rest of the week as we see fit.” His eyes fell on me. “Good of you to be on time, Miss Glass.”
I flushed, but said nothing. Beside me, I felt Asher look over. Now wasn’t the time to explain that particular dig.
That was about as much warning as he gave us. We began at the beginning, moving through the principal choreography.
Muscle memory was a hell of a thing. When you danced as much as we did, it was almost better than youractualmemory. All of us were a little off, but for going from zero to sixty, we weren’t half bad.
The first time Ash put his hands on my waist to help me turn. The first lift. The first time he looked at me as Albrecht the love struck prince, I thought I would pass out. The passion in his gaze and body was entirely real.
