Page 13 of Guarded Hearts
At the same time, I wanted him to catch on faster, get the steps, be better, make me look good.
“No, no, no.” He avoided eye contact with me and instead ran his hand down Mia’s arm. “S’okay. I’ll be fine.”
The casual contact, the clear affection between them forced me to turn away, embarrassed to be watching, speculating at their connection. I didn’t want to care.
He was off-limits. My job, this one and the next, was dependent on keeping a level head around him. Men were trouble. His gentle brand of protectiveness was no exception—trouble, one way or another.
“Thanks, Alyssa,” Mia called over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Whenever we’re rehearsing. I haven’t even had a chance to check.”
“No problem.” I kept my head down while I gathered my things and dropped them into my bag.
The practice room in the arena was an oversized change room and smelled faintly of sweat, even though none of us had done anything to cause even a thin sheen of perspiration. That would come, but today had been a learning curve.
I learned I was going to struggle around Pasha, even when I wasn’t touching him. I hoped my body wouldn’t mutiny, overriding my common sense.
So far, my body seemed to be winning the battle. I needed to batten down the hatches, break out the chastity belt. No touching. No thinking about touching or having him touch me.
Rough hands.Soft lips.
A shiver ran down my spine, and I wiggled, trying to force my hormones back in line.
“Cold?” Pasha asked. He was in front of the mirror we put up so he and Mia could see themselves.
“A little.” It was chilly in this part of the arena, so that wasn’t a complete lie. I caught sight of him in the reflection, counting to himself and trying the steps. “You’re close.”
He let out a frustrated grunt and ran his hand down his face, our gazes connecting in the mirror. “Any other dancers on the tour know swing?”
I straightened from shoving the last item in my bag and frowned. He wasn’t going to ask me for help? Had Mia told him I already rejected the extra money to help him?
“Why are you asking?” Might as well be direct.
“I need help.”
The wordswhat about mehung in the air between us. Letting him work with another dancer created a slew of other problems. Would he sleep with Amy or Jazz or whoever I suggested? Start a relationship with them? Would they end up fired instead of me?
Mia would be upset if I let anyone else know her secret wedding plans. Could I listen to locker-room gossip about the size of his hands, the firmness of his grip as he spun some other woman around a room, across a bed?
He wasn’t mine, and I didn’t want him to be mine. But I felt a strange possessiveness over him, this routine, this moment.
“I could help you.” The words slipped out by accident but with purpose.
He stared at me in the mirror, but he didn’t turn to face me. Tension filled the room, and I wondered if he’d say “no.” Or “no, no, no”because his objections came in threes.
Had the tables been turned? Was he the one throwing on the brakes? I was so busy pumping them that I hadn’t fully considered whether he wanted a repeat of the episode at the nightclub. I assumed he did because he was a man, and men didn’t turn down sex, no matter the package.
“You?” He raised his brows, surprise coating his face. “You’ll help me?”
I bristled. The routine was mine. I wasn’t giving someone else the glory of the performance. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I help you?” Theanswer to that was wide and varied, but I hoped he didn’t know any of the reasons.
“You avoid me.” He shrugged as though our connection was easy to dismiss. “So I thought I’d find someone else.”
Heat rose to my cheeks, and I broke our locked gazes in the reflection. He’dfind someone else. Of course he would. Wasn’t that what men did? If they couldn’t get exactly what they wanted all the time from a woman, they found whatever they thought they needed with someone else.
Ricky was probably holed up in another apartment with another woman right now. His new love den filled with allmythings. Pasha’s comment shouldn’t be a surprise. I didn’t mean anything to him, and I was foolish to believe otherwise.
“I can help you,” I said. “It’s my routine. I’m the best one to help you.” At least that much was true.
“Okay.” He gestured to the mirror. “Now? Can you help me now?”
