Page 23 of Deceitful Promises

“Are you kidding?” I snap back. “You’re going to make stupid, immature comments like that after what just happened?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

God, I wish it was harder not to smile when he chirps at me like that. It’s like the corners of my lips belong to somebody else, and I don’t even care how crazy that sounds. “Do you want me to be jealous, bro?”

He sighs, nodding as if to say,I get it. The gun’s over. Part of me is pathetically guilty for ruining the moment, whatever it was. The waitress seems more detached when she brings over the coffee pot and my water. Maybe it has something to do with how I look at her.

“She’s just doing her job,” Aiden says once she’s gone.

“You sure love defending her, don’t you?”

Aiden sighs. “She hasn’t done anything that needs defending. If you’re not jealous, who cares?”

“You should get her number, then.”

He leans forward, seeming bigger. “I don’t want her number. I haven’t dated in years.”

My lips do that annoying twitching thing again, turning at the edges without my say-so. I take a big gulp of water so he can’t see. After placing it down, I say, “Well, that’s interesting, I’m sure. To somebody, not to me.”

“Okay, sleepwalker.”

That gets a laugh from me, a spontaneous release that has me grinning like a loon. It’s so annoying how powerless I feel about everything he does. People never usually joke about that stuff, and it feels weirdly good like it’s not so big and scary now that we’re laughing about it.

Soon, though, the food is here. There’s a big platter of eggs, sausage, and other stuff—toast, butter, and all the smells. I lean back, putting my hands on my stomach.

“You seemed interested in why I wanted to sit here,” Aiden mutters, looking at me closely.

“Uh, yeah, maybe,” I mutter.

“Well, why don’t we play a game? You ask me a question. For every answer, you eat a mouthful of food.”

“Thisagain?”

“Ania,” he growls, leaning forward again, staring at me as if he has some possessive hold over me. Would that be such a bad thing? Yes, yes, it would. “Let’s stop messing around. We both know what you’re doing to yourself. We both know you think it’s what you must do for your career, but you’re wrong. Ballerinas are athletes?—”

“You don’t know?—”

However, unlike everybody else in my life, he doesn’t care about protecting the Sokolov princess’s feelings. He just keeps going. “Athletes need calories. So if you’re telling yourself that this is the way to be the best ballerina, it’s a lie.”

I’ve torn the napkin to pieces but keep tearing it into even smaller ones to keep the pieces of me together. “You’re doing alotof assuming.”

“Maybe,” he replies. “Or maybe I’ve spent my life reading people. Maybe I’ve been watching you, and maybe, as much as you hate to admit it, you know I’m right. You know you need to listen to me. Aren’t you curious? It’s not normal, is it? Waiting outside so I can get the corner booth?”

“About as normal as going to the bathroom and—” I bite down.“That.”

He reaches across the table and places his hand on mine. It’s like he does it without thinking. I look down at his hand and feel the warmth, almost with a surreal sensation. It’s like I’m looking at somebody else’s clasped hands. He moves his finger over my knuckles, and then I slide my hand away. I can’t let this happen: this connection, this closeness. It’s too tempting.

“Shall we play the game?” he asks.

“Do you believe all that stuff you were saying? About ballerinas and athletes?”

“It’s true. Athletes need fuel,” he says eagerly.

“But they’re all so thin.”

“Maybe they fuel up during training season, then cut when it’s time to perform. Lots of athletes do that—bodybuilders, boxers, MMA fighters. They fuel, they lean down, and they perform. Have you got a show coming up?”

I swallow. “Um, well, no. Not yet. I’m still learning. I mean, not on the East Coast, anyway, so …” My belly warbles as I look down at the food. “That’snot fuel, though. The bacon? Look how fatty it is.”

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