Page 46 of Watch Me

“Kristoff, we’re about to be announced.”

“This is true, but?—”

“Couple number one hundred three, Shanna York and Kristoff Palavin from Los Angeles, California.”

The crowd’s cheer isn’t as enthusiastic as Kristoff would like, I know. And I’m sorry for that since my icy reputation is mostly to blame. But right now, I'm sad that Alejandro chose not to use the tickets I left him.

Which means he’s given up on us for good, I fear.

Forcing a smile as onlookers clap, I strut onto the dance floor, Kristoff beside me, cradling my palm in his. We strike our pose and wait.

Doing my best to focus on the next three minutes, I plaster on a smile and project it to the crowd. The music bursts across the quiet; I arch, kick, and turn to face the other side of the room.

And there sits Alejandro.

His face gives away nothing, but the grin that shapes my mouth is my first real one of the day.

He’s here!

And he looks incredible in a black suit, white shirt, and a satiny charcoal tie.

I know he looks even better out of that suit.

Before I whirl to face Kristoff again, I flash Alejandro a look I hope communicates just how thrilled I am that he’s come.

Over the next two minutes, forty seconds, Kristoff and I pour our souls into the dance. And he’s spectacular, as if some light has been turned on inside him. Relaxed yet crisp. Strong. God,he plays to the crowd. He really is incredible. I respond, acting the part of the seductive female to his commanding male in the cha-cha-cha.

No doubt in my mind, we sparkle, shine, bring the WOW to the dance floor. I can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed dancing so much.

When the music ends, I know we did our best. Yes, I’d love to win tonight, but if that isn’t in the cards, then screw it. I'll suck it up and give myself one more year to compete. We'll do everything possible to live down the scandal. We'll practice our butts off, and we will conquer this trophy next season.

The crowd stands and cheers, their enthusiasm catching. Never before have I felt so accepted by the audience, so connected to them as Kristoff and I bow.

I turn my head slightly to see Alejandro. He, too, stands and claps, then bends to whisper into the ear of a small but striking middle-aged woman who shares his eyes. His mother.

Then he turns his attention to me, affixing his burning hazel gaze on my face. I feel the zing and sizzle all the way to my toes.

Damn, I love that man.

“You and Alejandro?” Kristoff asks as we leave the dance floor. “You have a...thing?”

“What?”

“You look at him as if you cannot wait to devour him, as if you are all his. Or as if he is all yours. Is that true?”

I swallow a lump of nerves. God, I hope Alejandro being here means that he’s forgiven me for running away and being afraid to believe in us... If not, I’m not giving up. No more switching partners for me when things get difficult—not professionally or personally.

“That’s my plan,” I say.

21

“In fourth place…” the announcer drones.

I listen long enough to realize my name hasn’t been announced, then clap politely.

This is usually the part of the event that makes me most nervous. Dancing is easy. Waiting is torture. How many times have I stood at the corner of the stage, trying not to pass out, praying I wouldn't be disappointed by failing to grab the trophy again, only to hear my name announced long before the first-place winners’? How many times have I trotted out my plastic smile, like third place thrilled me, while feeling crushed inside? Too many.

But tonight…I almost want the announcer to call my name now, so I can finish this dog and pony show and find Alejandro. His face still gives away absolutely nothing—not anger, not warmth. Has he forgiven me and come to be with me? Or is he simply here because I gave him free tickets and his mother likes to attend? No clue. That man could probably play a mean game of poker.

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