She should text her friends, see if they were free again tonight. So what if it made her look desperate and relationship-less? She was desperate and relationship-less. Desperate not to imagine Reed’s sweaty shoulders every time she blinked.
What she needed was a distraction. A real one. Not from her choreography, but from him.
She opened Tinder.
It wasn’t conducive to a weekend of laserlike focus on the pas de deux. But she couldn’t believe even Stacey had been all Giselle, all the time when the lead role was hers. Hadn’t she been dancing all week? Didn’t she deserve a break?
She had a few conversations going that she’d let cool since her life turned upside down. She picked the most promising one—a guy named Eric who worked at a consulting firm.
Or maybe that was Eliot. It was hard to keep track. Also, she was never quite sure what consulting meant.
It didn’t matter. Eric may not be ripped enough to tear her panties off with one twist, or hot enough to melt them with his steely, sweaty gaze, but he was reasonably cute. And she wasn’t already living in his apartment, intimately familiar with the spring of his mattress, the scent of his sheets.
Of all the ways Eric wasn’t like Reed, number one turned out to be that he was capable of carrying on a conversation—which he seemed more than happy to pick up as soon as she messaged him. In fact, after she apologized for dropping the ball, he was the one saying how bad he’d felt that he’d gotten slammed at work and let their conversation slide. Was she free tonight for a drink?
Bingo.
While Reed was in the shower, she grabbed everything she’d need from his room. Thank God she’d packed that little red dress.
She wasn’t going to sleep with Eric. It’d be just one drink to loosen her up. She’d still go to bed early and be ready to dance.
But she wanted to look good. She wanted to flirt with Eric and sip a cocktail and remind herself that life existed outside of her suitcases and this one-bedroom apartment and her friends who all had plans. She lifted onto demi-point in her bare feet and did a quick bourrée across the floor with the dress in her arms.
All the pain in her toes, the other dancers circling around, waiting for her to mess up so they could take over her role. The hours she’d been criticized in rehearsal about “not being Giselle, not feeling her anguish, not letting the movements flow.” It was worth it for the feeling that blossomed when she rose on her toes. A sense of buoyancy, of air. Like anything was possible.
When Reed was out of the shower and safely hidden in his bedroom, where there was no chance of her catching sight of him in a towel and spontaneously combusting on the spot, it was her turn. She locked herself in the bathroom and got to work showering, shaving, moisturizing, and washing her hair, humming the music from Giselle as she lathered and rinsed. She’d finished toweling off and was dividing her long hair into sections when Reed knocked on the door.
“Just a sec,” she said. Didn’t he know she was in there? It wasn’t like he couldn’t hear her humming.
“Did you drown?” he asked through the door.
“Go away,” she told him.
He knocked again when she was finishing her hair, then again when she was twisting into a pretzel to try to zip her dress in the back without a roommate to help. And then again when she had only half her makeup on.
“Are you kidding me?” His fists pounded on the door.
“Pee in the kitchen sink,” she called, leaning into the mirror to finish her eyeliner. She’d be damned if Reed and his walnut-size bladder was going to get in the way of her night.
He banged again, even harder. “This is why I don’t live with women,” he yelled.
“Are you sure it isn’t because women won’t live with you?” she shot back. Red lipstick to match the dress, right?
Loose, beachy waves, a killer dress, makeup on point, her feet hidden away in her best fancy shoes… Eric wasn’t going to know what hit him.
Neither, apparently, was Reed. He was in the middle of banging the door down with his fists when she swung it open, catching him with his arm up, standing so close to the door that she nearly ran into his chest.
“It’s all yours,” she said, stepping aside in a grand gesture to let him get to his throne.
But he just stood there.
“The bathroom,” she said again. “It’s free.”
That was when she realized that—shit. Her thong was on the floor, along with her yoga pants and her towel. She went to sweep them up.
But even after that lovely embarrassment was safely tucked away, Reed still didn’t move. Was he pissed about the Band-Aids and gauze in his trash? Her bobby pins scattered around the sink?
“Are you—” he started, then faltered.
She arched an eyebrow. “Use your words,” she prompted.
“Are you going out tonight?”
“Again, you with the special agent skills.” She pressed down a smile. No, not pissed. That wasn’t the look on his face.
“You look—” His eyes went to her, then away, then back to her again. “You look nice.”
“Thanks.” The smile made its way out anyway.
“I mean…really nice.”
“Don’t look so surprised,” she told him, not sure whether to be flattered or offended. She did a pas de bourrée to get around him, then threw her things in the room and grabbed her heels.
When she came back out, she couldn’t believe he still hadn’t moved. Looked like he hadn’t needed the bathroom that badly. Which only confirmed her suspicion that he was simply a pain.
She perched on the edge of the couch to put on the shoes. “What’s wrong with you?” she finally asked.
That seemed to snap him out of it at last. “Nothing,” he said. “You look nice.”
“You said that already. Twice. Can you zip me up?”
She stood in the heels. She felt him come up behind her. Heard him, obviously. But felt him, too. The nearness. The touch of his breath.
His fingertips brushed her waist. Gentle, which she wasn’t expecting. She hadn’t thought a guy like him would be gentle. She braced herself for large, fumbling hands and a too-hard tug on her back. But he gathered her hair and softly pulled it over her shoulder, making sure it didn’t catch.
Her heart sped up, then stumbled. It was just a dress. Just a goddamn zipper. Just her neck and back exposed. Eric. Eric. Eric. Think of my date with Eric.
The movement happened so slowly. She hardly dared to breathe. He must have been holding his breath, too, because she didn’t hear it, didn’t feel it on her back anymore.
And then it was done, over in seconds, and he was stepping away. She let her hair fall back into place. He walked straight to the bathroom and closed the door, and she finally, finally, exhaled.
Thank God she had a plan besides sitting around the apartment all night trying not to ogle this freshly-showered man who smelled lickably clean. Thank God she was reminding herself other men existed.
Not that she was going to date them. But she could get a drink with them, and it could be fun.
She picked up her phone and opened Tinder to tell Eric she was leaving soon when she saw she had a message from him. Probably saying he was on his way, too.
She opened the chat. Stared. Then threw the phone on the couch. Which was more cost-effective than hurling it at the floor, but not quite as satisfying.
“What did that poor phone ever do to you?”
She hadn’t heard Reed come back into the living room.
“Nothing,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Didn’t look like nothing. I know,” he added before she could say it. “You can’t believe I’m not a lieutenant yet, what with these astonishing powers of deduction.”
She sat on the edge of the couch, perching carefully so as not to wrinkle her dress.
Then she said, “Fuck it,” and slouched all the way back.
Such a little thing, a Tinder date canceling at the last minute. It happened
all the time. She shouldn’t even care.
But she did care, and she couldn’t pretend otherwise. It wasn’t like she’d had all her life’s hopes and dreams pinned on “Eric B., half mile away.”
But it still stung. Anyone who assumed a ballerina would have her pick of dream dates had no idea. It wasn’t just her feet or the ice and heating pads and ibuprofen—too much reality behind the curtain.
It was also the hours. The dedication.
And maybe it was just her.
The fact that when the makeup and costumes came off, she was just like any other woman. Sometimes happy, sometimes not. Sometimes sleepy, sometimes not. As messy and complicated as everybody else.
Reed flopped down next to her. “Did your date cancel?” he asked.
“The special agent strikes again.” She didn’t say it sarcastically, or with any bite, like she might have if she were still in that good mood and wanted to tease him. She just said it sadly, because sad was how she felt. Why should she try to deny it?
“Come on,” he said gently. “You look too great to feel bad.”
She laughed a little. If only it were that easy.
“Let me take you out,” he said.
She waved her hand dismissively. He had to be kidding.
But he said it again. “Let me take you out tonight instead.”
She shook her head. “Thanks. But it’s not worth it. Besides—” She made a face. “The truth is I hate these shoes.” She reached down to undo the straps, then tossed them across the room like she’d wanted to do to her phone.
“We can stay in,” he offered, like she hadn’t just shot him down. “I’ll cook for you.”
She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“Don’t look so worried,” he said. “It’s not a date.”
She raised an eyebrow. It was Saturday night, she was in a dress with beach waves and eyeliner on, and he was telling her it wasn’t a date?
If it wasn’t, that was only because he was wearing jeans with holes frayed into the pockets. Which made her feel even more ridiculous for being so dressed up. For having tried, and failed. She hoped this wasn’t a sign of how Giselle was going to go for her, too.
“As long as you’re sure it’s not a date,” she said. Because what else was she going to do tonight?
“As long as you don’t say I’m being that word again,” he countered.
She mimed zipping her mouth shut. But then she whispered it anyway, resting her tongue behind her teeth and letting it slowly drop. Knowing he was looking at her red lips as she did it. Unable to stop herself from pressing those red lips together into a sly little smile when she was done.
Nice.
Chapter Seven
Reed nearly sat on his hands to keep from bolting off the couch. What was up with him and his big mouth?
Normally, things in his life were, if not easy, then straightforward. He planned a course of action. Followed through as best he could. His feelings weren’t a factor. He simply did what had to be done.
That was how he handled cases at work. How he kept going after his breakup. How he’d learned to step up after his father never came home.
Only now, he kept doing everything he wasn’t supposed to. Walking in on Talia. Inviting her home with him. Finding reasons she needed to stay.
And now, inviting her to dinner. Saying he’d cook for her. Doing anything to make her smile.
It was such a stupid idea, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. “Beer, or wine?” he asked, hoping the question would buy him time to screw his head on and figure out what the hell to do next.
Talia looked at him like she still didn’t believe he’d said, “I’ll make you dinner” and not, “You have three minutes to grab your stuff and get lost.”
“Beer, or wine?” he repeated, hoping he sounded steady. In control. All the things he didn’t feel inside. “It’s happy hour. Let’s get this non-date started.”
“Wine, I guess,” she decided. “Please.”
She moved to get up, but he motioned for her to stay. “Hang tight, I’ll grab it.”
She looked skeptical. But she held up her hands in surrender and let him get to it.
There was the wine, yeah. But also, he had things to do. Like sneak into the bedroom and change.
Where were his better jeans that weren’t frayed? And a button-down shirt. Black. Not totally wrinkled. Just kind of.
He put the clothes on, rolling up his sleeves so the shirt looked intentionally relaxed and not like it had been shoved in the back of the closet for months, because since when did he go on dates anymore?
Or non-dates. He had to remember his promise that this wasn’t a date. It was just a night not to wear his rattiest jeans, because he wasn’t a dick.
He flexed his forearms, glancing at the tattoos. There was no reason to make a big deal out of this. It was like he’d said. Like they’d both said. They needed to eat dinner at some point. And he sure as hell wasn’t letting her cook.
A smart move, he decided. Not as completely boneheaded as he’d first thought.
But he stopped in front of the mirror and ran a hand over his jaw, hoping he didn’t need a trim, wondering if there was any chance Talia had a thing for shaved heads.
Then reminding himself that it didn’t matter what she wanted, since no matter what, it wasn’t going to be him.
In the living room, he opened a bottle of red and poured two glasses. He brought hers over, then turned on the speaker by the TV and scrolled through his phone. How was the only playlist he had that was good for something like this literally called Date Night?
He should rename it Wine on the Couch Night. It’d be more versatile that way.
As it was, he was surprised that playlist still existed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d played it—even when he’d had a girlfriend to go on dates with. It wasn’t the sort of thing he did. He had work, he was busy, he wasn’t a sap.
The music started, low and soulful. Talia looked up, her expression somewhere between startled and amused with a healthy dollop of you’re crazy on top. She eyed the wine without drinking it.
“It’s not poisoned,” he said, coming to sit next to her on the couch.
On second thought, maybe he’d taken that next to her thing too literally. He slid farther away.
“I thought you said no date,” she said, holding the glass like it was a bomb with wires sticking out of it and a countdown clock that all pointed to very bad news.
“Wine doesn’t make a date.”
“There’s music playing.”
“Beats silence.”
“And you changed.”
“Pants don’t make a date, either.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You’re right, I guess that would be setting the bar too low, even for me.”
“You should have standards for guys you go out with. Pants are a good start. Then you can move on to judging their music selection.”
She laughed. Good. He couldn’t stand the thought of her looking as miserable as when that loser bailed on her without so much as a phone call. He didn’t know who the guy was, or what the hell was wrong with him, but he’d be damned if he was going to let Talia feel like shit about it.
The feeling surprised him. He hadn’t felt this protective about anyone since Lisa. But it was more than that. Talia hadn’t shrugged and said, “Who cares?” or steeled herself to feel nothing at all. As strong as she was, she still had feelings. Feelings she was okay sharing with him.
It made him want to put his arm around her, refill her glass, and make sure she never turned as hard and jaded as him.
“I don’t actually know what food I have to offer,” he admitted, trying to get a grip on his spiraling thoughts. “I should have thought of that before I got all gallant on you.”
She smiled. “Anything is fine. As long as it doesn’t come with a side of cancellation.”
“I’ve got salmon in the freezer. I know, frozen fish isn’t ex
actly the best. But single guy, not around that much—”
“Salmon is great,” she said. “Can I help?”
Now it was his turn to laugh. “Not a chance.”
“I can’t even peel a potato?”
“I don’t trust you,” he said. “Let’s make rice. Green beans?”
“I can wash them.”
“Nah. This one’s on me. You just stand there and—”
“Try not to light anything on fire?”
What he’d really been thinking was You just stand there so I can admire you. But he didn’t think she’d get that he was kidding.
Sort of.
A little bit kidding, a lot of just wanting her to be near him.
Christ, he was losing his mind.
“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly.”
He cooked while she talked and made sure their glasses stayed full—a division of labor he was more than okay with. She told him about her brother, Shawn, who lived in Brooklyn and was dating her best friend, Jessie. About dancing, a summer spent in London performing until she’d injured her knee. The months of rehab she’d recovered from, then the audition where she’d landed the role as an understudy to Stacey.
“So that means what?” he asked. “If I hadn’t lost her, you wouldn’t be in the show?”
“Something like that.” She leaned against the counter while he slid the fish into the oven.
“Then there’s a silver lining to this whole disaster,” he said, trying to look at the food, the kitchen, and not at the curve of her red-clad hips.
She made a face. “I don’t know.” Her sigh was long and deep.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I keep thinking… What if I’m better off as the understudy? What if I’m not cut out for this?”
This time, he turned his full attention to her. “I’ve known you less than two weeks, and I already don’t believe that.”
“Tell that to the choreographer. All he does is yell at me. Step there! No, not there! THERE! Now jump! Higher!” She imitated a sharp, nasally voice, accentuating each command with a clap. Reed both laughed and shuddered.
He could picture Talia on stage with her acting skills, her energy. No matter what she said, he could absolutely picture her as the star.
Wrong Bed, Right Girl Page 6