Page 4 of Natasha
"I don't th—" Natasha began, but he was speaking again, this time taking two steps closer to her until they were only a hand span away from one another. Natasha hated that she was instantly aware of his body heat, that she knew how little effort it would be to move her hand and have it touching him.
"I'm Silas." He held a hand out to her.
"Natasha," she replied, slipping her smaller hand into his.
"I know." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
At Silas' answer, Natasha felt like she stopped breathing. She met his eyes for a moment before she looked away and licked her lips. "I—"
"It's on Maddy's paperwork, her schedule," Silas said quickly with a gentle smile that set Natasha at ease.
"Oh, yes, of course." She gave him as friendly a smile as she could manage before she clasped her hands in front of her. "I should really start class."
"Of course." Silas cleared his throat and took a hasty step backward. "Have a, ah, a good class."
Natasha paused before turning to the classroom of students. It was simultaneously exhilarating and frightening to have Silas' attention wholly focused on her. She had admired him for so long that finally speaking to him was almost like a guilty pleasure.
"Thank you, Silas," she said. She liked how his name fit in her mouth.
He gave her a curt nod and then turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Natasha wished she could say that she didn't stay rooted in her spot, staring after him like an infatuated teen, but that was precisely what she did until he turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Natasha allowed herself half a second more of staring after Silas before she clapped her hands in front of her to call the class to order. A moment of getting lost in Silas' eyes was okay, so long as she made sure not to indulge in her guilty pleasure again. A man like that was the type to make a woman forget herself, which was the exact opposite of what Natasha had in mind for the foreseeable future.
Thankfully, she had the next ninety minutes of instructing her students to keep her mind from wandering too closely after Silas. She had just given her students their final series of turns to execute when a scowl twisted her pretty features, albeit only briefly before her cool veneer was back in place.
The reason for her scowl was, of course, a man.
But this man was not like Silas. He wasn't the type to make her forget herself or to cause her to lose her way in too-blue eyes. This man's eyes were hungry in a way she recognized from her time as a dancer. His looks were the type that took from a woman, the kind that made her skin feel like it needed a good scrubbing before it was fit to be touched again. He was the father of one of her students, a new one Natasha hadn't had much time to interact with.
Though Natasha had wanted to voice her dislike about the father who lingered far longer than necessary after class, the man who invaded her space at every turn, who used any and every excuse to touch her, she hadn't. She wasn't sure what stopped her. Every time she had thought about approaching her mother about him, she had stopped herself because it seemed silly; he was only in her life for ten or so minutes at a time, after all. Every time he made her uncomfortable, it was with his daughter nearby, and that made Natasha question her distaste for him.
However, during her last class, there was no mistaking the man's interest in her. He had invited her to coffee, an invitation that she had skirted around by giving an excuse that she was busy, that she didn't think it was best to mix the personal with business. The man had persisted until his daughter had pulled him away with an embarrassed look on her face. She had, for all her eleven years of age, understood that her teacher was uncomfortable, and Natasha had never been more grateful to the girl.
Now she scanned the classroom, thinking of the girl, and raised an eyebrow when she saw that she wasn't in line with the rest of the students. How had she not noticed that the girl wasn't in her class today?Because you were too busy mooning after Silas, a voice whispered to her. Natasha fought the urge to roll her eyes at herself and turned her gaze back to the class, watching her students move through their paces. It filled her with more than a small measure of pride to watch them improve as dancers. Her time as their teacher made her self-exile from professional dance all the more bearable. It was hard to be upset with where she was in her life when she had so many eager and smiling students working their hardest to not only improve but to impress her. She smiled at them then and clapped as the final students spun across the studio floor.
"That was beautiful," Natasha told them, her voice holding genuine warmth for them all. She saw the students' eyes light up at the praise, and her smile grew wider. "I think we will have the best spring recital of all this year, with so many fine dancers to cast. Don't you think?"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the classroom, and her comment, Natasha saw, even pleased the parents whom she knew thought their sons or daughters were the next undiscovered star. Natasha stepped forward, ignoring the too intense father standing in the back corner, the furthest away from the rest of the students. It was when the students and parents began to filter out of the classroom that the father made his approach. Natasha's brow furrowed slightly as she tried to recall his name. She was almost positive it was Brandon. Brandon Peachtree. She gave him a neutral smile and nodded at him.
"Mr. Peachtree. How are you this evening?"
The man's eyebrow rose at the greeting, and he cleared his throat with a smile that seemed too slick to be genuine. Nothing like Silas. "Mr. Peachtree? Now, Natasha, I'd prefer it if you called me Brandon."
Natasha took a step to the side, toward the door where there was still a small group of students waiting to be picked up, and inclined her head toward him. "Of course, Brandon."
Brandon's eyes lit up at her use of his name, and he followed along beside her. "I wanted to speak with you...privately," he said, glancing at the cluster of people Natasha had been angling for. Internally, Natasha felt like screaming, but she couldn't let on that he bothered her. She knew men like Brandon. They took a no for a yes and seemed to thrive off of cornering a woman in the name of persistence, and Natasha had no intention of accidentally feeding into Brandon's advances.
"What about?" she asked, keeping her voice calm and measured, all the while watching the number of students dwindle. Now there were only a couple left, which made her want to wrap up the conversation as quickly as possible to avoid being alone in the studio with Brandon.
Brandon crossed his arms over his chest and said, "I know you said you weren't able to go on a date, but—"
"I thought you assured me it wasn't a date. That it had been to discuss your daughter's progress in the class," she said, interrupting him.
Brandon frowned and let out a sigh. "Well, yes, you know what I mean."
"I'm sorry, but I don't think that I do." Natasha stepped around him when she noticed he was cutting her off from the few remaining students. He had now put himself between the students and Natasha, hiding her small frame behind his much larger one. She took a hasty step toward the center of the room so that she had the empty studio to her back rather than the barre that had just been at her fingertips. Something wasn't right. She could feel it in her bones, and she had no intention of finding out what was telling her to run, to get away from this man as fast as her slippered feet could carry her.
Brandon let out an impatient sigh and tilted his head to the side, giving Natasha an annoyed look. "You know what I'm getting at. Don't play coy, Red."
"Red?" Natasha's mouth dropped open. A shocked laugh escaped her. "Are you serious, sir?"
