Page 43 of Watch Me

Still, those moments in Alejandro’s arms, maybe for the first time ever, I feel adored—and not because of what I might achieve or what competition I might win. I don’t have anything to prove to Alejandro. He cares about me. He shows me that in amazing, pleasure-drenched ways every time he touches me.

Now, I clutch a bag of bagels and cream cheese, along with a portable carafe of coffee I purchased at a bakery, and let myself into the house, calling out to my dad.

20

Ifollow the smell of burned toast with a poignant smile and head into the kitchen. My father may be older and gray at the temples now, his reading glasses askew, but he’s still vital and well-built for a man pushing sixty.

“Bagels?” I offer.

My dad plucks charred bread from the toaster, then drops it on the counter with a curse. “You’re just in time. Thanks. I’d love that...as soon as you explain why you’re wearing men's clothes, have cheeks rosy from whisker burn, and look like you’ve had a rough night.”

Certainly nothing off about Dad’s eyesight.

I fight back a blush. “I do things beyond work and practice at the dance studio.”

He sends me a pointed stare over the top of his glasses. “No, you haven’t. Until now, you’ve always been single-minded about winning.”

“I still am. What happened last night won’t happen again.” I pass him the bag of bagels, hoping it will distract him.

He ignores the gesture and arches a sharp brow, as if he disapproves. But I can’t shake the impression that he’s suppressing a smile.

“I suspected it would happen someday. Maybe it’s the female way. Who is he?”

I frown. “What do you mean, ‘the female way?’”

He shrugs. “Women follow their hearts, which usually lead them to some man or another, who may or may not respect their desire to keep pursuing their goals.”

Exactly. No doubt, he would lose respect for me if I made that choice. My brothers, too.

“Which is precisely why Alejandro and I are…done.”

“Alejandro? Do I know him?”

I shake my head. “Argentinean. He owns a nightclub. We met at the benefit a few months back.”

God, it’s weird to be discussing my love life with my father in the kitchen of my childhood home at seven in the morning. I need coffee for this.

“Hmm.” My father hesitates. “What does he think of your dancing?”

“I assume he’s okay with it. Not that it matters.” I sip the brew and let the caffeine sink into my hazy brain.

He reaches for the carafe of coffee and pours a steaming mug. “A hindrance, is he? Resenting your practices?”

“No.” Not unless I’m avoiding him.

“Latin men are notoriously jealous. He can’t handle your time with Kristoff and the way your partner has to touch you?”

I have to laugh. “No, he knows way too much about Kristoff to be jealous.”

“So you’re just worried Alejandro would be too much of a distraction?”

“He would. The other night, I was headed for a sensible dinner and an early evening to bed. Big day of practice the nextmorning, which is vital before the biggest competition of my career. He came by and just assumed I’d go out for ice cream with him.”

“Ice cream. That’s a huge problem.” My father sips his coffee, a seeming smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m serious. I can’t afford to blow off sleep and eat a gallon of ice cream to satisfy some romantic notion of his. And then he tells me personal stuff, about his childhood and friendships. He blurts out his views that commitment is absolute and infidelity is inexcusable. Why tell me? The whole incident is taking up real estate in my head that should be directed to the California Dance Star, which is tomorrow. And last night?—”

Realizing I’ve nearly spilled the details of my sex life, I flush, then continue with a safer topic. “Well, the man is just too…consuming. No matter what he does, he steals my attention and leads my thoughts astray. Every trick I’ve used in the past to ward off would-be fukbois doesn’t work with him. He doesn’t give up, and he won’t go away.”

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