Dance with Me

by Alexis Daria

  With a gasp, Natasha shoved against his chest. When he released her, she backed away from him, toward the door.

  “Let’s get something straight,” she said in a low voice, at odds with the heat in her gaze and the slow way she licked her lips. “We’re not roommates with benefits, okay? I thought I made that clear.”

  “Yeah, sure.” For now. “You’re my guest. I want you to feel comfortable here.”

  She narrowed her eyes like she didn’t believe him. “Thanks for the tour. I’m going to go unpack.” She hurried from the room, leaving him standing on the dance floor with his reflection.

  Dimitri scrubbed a hand over his face and trudged back to his office. Well, that had been a fucking disaster. He wanted Natasha more than he’d ever wanted anybody or anything, and he’d managed to insult her and put her on guard. Not just today, with his careless words, but by neglecting to give her a tour in the past. How had he never noticed that she’d only seen the spaces where they’d fucked? Why hadn’t he shown her the rest of his home?

  He sat in his desk chair and leaned back as far as it would allow, staring at the ceiling like it would give him some answers.

  In the back of his mind lived a tiny, flickering hope that someday they’d figure out how to talk to each other, be open with each other, and test how deep their connection ran.

  But what if sex was all they had? Or great dance chemistry? He didn’t have anything else to base his hunch on, that she was the woman for him.

  The contract on his desk caught his eye, mocking him. Those papers, stamped with The Dance Off’s logo, represented his failure to take risks and produce his own projects, and his reliance on the industry machine to keep him in the spotlight.

  Hell, maybe his focus on Natasha was further indication that he was just lonely and looking for a distraction. Someone to fill the space, consume his attention.

  No. Deep down, he carried an undeniable certainty that they were right for each other. Yet in the three years they’d been . . . whatever they were doing, she’d never shown any sign that she wanted more from him than what their arrangement allowed.

  He wanted more, and had since the beginning. But he wouldn’t ask, not until he was sure she wanted more, too.

  She was in his house now. He’d get to the bottom of it, find out what she wanted. They were good together in bed. She didn’t hide anything there, didn’t hold back in her pleasure. They’d start there, and once he was past her guards, he’d find out what else she was hiding.

  First, he had to get her to retract her rule.

  But for now, he’d give her space. Let her unpack and settle in. Even though he wanted to help, he stayed in his office instead, pushing aside the contract and pulling up a spreadsheet of wine orders on his laptop.

  The entertainment industry was an uncertain beast, and dance careers didn’t last forever. Nothing did. He’d learned from experience early on that the best move was to diversify his interests, and he went for low risk with maximum reward.

  The restaurant had been a sure bet. Everything had lined up perfectly to make it happen, but he hadn’t gone public as the owner until Krasavitsa was a clear success. It turned out he was good at running a restaurant, and of all his side ventures, it was the one he was most involved in, and left him most fulfilled.

  But it wasn’t dancing.

  His eyes wandered over to the bookcase in the corner, and the massive three-ring binder settled into one of the shelves, surrounded by classic Russian literature and gathering metaphorical dust.

  Not real dust. Trina, his housekeeper, would never allow it.

  An email popped up from one of the vineyards he did business with. Putting the binder, the contract, and Natasha out of his head, he got back to work.

  Half an hour later, his phone buzzed, and the Yeti King’s epic theme song from the Elf Chronicles movies rang out from his pants pocket.

  He pulled the phone out and swiped it on. “You’re up late,” he said by way of greeting. “It’s almost midnight over there.”

  “Yeah, but I knew you’d be up.” His cousin Alex sounded tired. “What are you doing?”

  Dimitri closed his laptop and played with a pile of paperclips on the desk, pushing them into ever-changing designs and patterns. “Going over wine lists.”

  “Ah, the best part of being a restaurant owner. Aren’t you glad I forced you to take that sommelier class?”

  Dimitri grunted. Alex had not only pushed him into taking the wine class, but he’d facilitated the purchase and opening of the restaurant. He put the phone on speaker and leaned back in his chair. “I know you didn’t call from New Jersey in the middle of the night to discuss wine. Spill it.”

  Alex was silent for a long beat. Dimitri abandoned the paperclips and sat up straight. Alex always hesitated before telling him something he didn’t want to hear.

  Like the time they’d had to close their Broadway show. Alex had hemmed and hawed like an elementary school kid trying to get out of trouble before he broke the news. Despite great reviews, ticket sales weren’t where they’d needed to be. Dimitri had sunk everything he had into it, both financially—borrowing and scraping together every cent from other gigs—and professionally, working on all aspects of the choreography, the story, even the production and the marketing.

  It hadn’t been enough. No matter how good you were, no matter how big your name, if the money wasn’t there to back you up, you were a failure.

  The line was quiet for so long, Dimitri worried the call had cut out. “Sasha?” he said, using Alex’s family nickname.

  “I have news, Mitya,” Alex finally said, using Dimitri’s own nickname.

  “Tell me.”

  “Marina’s pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

  Dimitri blew out a breath. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought you were calling to tell me something bad. That’s great news. Pozdravlyayu.”

  “Spasibo.”

  Dimitri switched to Russian. “So, why don’t you sound more excited?”

  Alex sighed. “I am. I’m thrilled. A little exhausted, because we just found out, and Marina’s been up early with morning sickness. By the way, don’t tell anyone else in the family. I’m only telling you.”

  That was suspicious. “Why haven’t you told your parents yet?”

  “We will, but we want a little time before they start smothering us.”

  “I’m flattered you chose to share the news with me first, but why?”

  “Two reasons. One, we want you to be the godfather.”

  A warm feeling sparked in Dimitri’s chest. His cousin’s child, still just a little bean, would soon be connected to him, too. He swallowed hard.

  “That’s . . . yeah, of course. Of course, I’ll be the godfather.”

  “And the second reason . . .”

  Shit, he’d forgotten there was a second reason, and he’d fallen victim to Alex’s stalling tactics.

  “This puts us on a deadline.”

  Dimitri wrinkled his brow and glanced at the contract pushed to the corner of his desk. “A deadline for what?”

  “If we’re going to do another stage show, it has to be now. I want to be around more once the baby’s born. I can’t be flying to LA whenever you need me, or spending all my time in Manhattan. I’ve got a wife and a home in New Jersey, and my own business that I run full time. If we’re going to do this, it has to be now.”

  It was Dimitri’s turn to fall silent. He sucked in a breath through his nose and leaned his head on his hands. “When is the baby due?”

  “Mid-March.”

  Shit. That was hardly any time at all.

  “Look, I know you’re sitting on a ton of ideas. If we go all-in for the next seven months or so—”

  “It’ll be a risk. Especially to rush it.”

  “It will always be a risk, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it. Think about it and get back to me, okay? I’m going to bed. I just wanted to let you know.”

  “Thanks. And again,
congratulations. I’m honored you asked me to be the godfather.”

  “Who else would I ask? Ivan?”

  They both laughed. Their youngest cousin was trying to become famous for filming himself playing video games on the internet. Dimitri had supplied him with camera equipment, but didn’t ask how it was going.

  “You sure you didn’t just throw the godfather thing in to keep me from getting upset about this deadline?”

  “You’ll never know.”

  The call ended, and Dimitri stared at the phone for a minute. Then he picked it up and dashed off a text to his agent.

  When is the contract due?

  The reply was almost immediate. The man lived with his phone in his hand.

  In a few weeks. Why? You got the copy I sent you, right?

  Yeah, just checking.

  After placing the phone carefully on the desk, Dimitri slid the contract over. Grabbing a pen, he scrawled his obnoxiously bold signature across the line, but hesitated before dating it. Instead, he shoved the whole thing into the bottom drawer. When he slammed it shut, his phone rang, and he jumped. It was a regular ringtone, one that mimicked an old telephone.

  The restaurant. He picked up immediately. “Dimitri.”

  He listened while Carlito, the manager, rattled off the latest emergency. With a sigh, Dimitri pushed to his feet.

  “Calm down. I’ll be right there.”

  He spared the desk drawer a glance before leaving the office, and headed to Natasha’s room.

  He stopped short in the middle of the hallway. Natasha’s room. Not Nik’s room, which it had been for years, and which he had still thought of it as until . . .

  An hour ago.

  Already, his mind was settling her in, making her a permanent fixture in his home, in his life. She didn’t view it that way. “Temporary,” she’d called it.

  They’d see about that. He had no intention of letting her move back into that tiny box of an apartment. Not when he had all this space here, just waiting for her to fill it.

  4

  This wouldn’t be a long stay. Maybe a week, max, until she got paid for all the gigs she was working. In fact, tonight, she’d start a search for available apartments. If she were lucky, she’d find a place that didn’t require a security deposit.

  Yeah, right. And maybe her nonexistent fairy godmother would swoop in to save her.

  Still, there was no point living out of suitcases. Tired as she was, Natasha unpacked her clothing into the empty drawers—or at least, the clothing she’d managed to salvage.

  Over her years in LA, working in television, she’d amassed a considerable wardrobe of beautiful outfits. They were her pride and joy. Some people had kids or pets. Natasha had style. When she went out, she dressed to the nines, looking like a fucking supermodel. Now, some of it was flat out ruined by the bathroom ceiling cave-in. Some was at the dry cleaners. The stuff she’d been able to salvage was mostly gym wear and casual attire that could survive being put through a hot dryer.

  And her shoes . . . she couldn’t even think about them. If she did, she’d cry. Again.

  Ignoring her reflection in the large oval mirror above the dresser, she tucked away the last of her garments. She didn’t need to see the dark circles under her eyes to know she was exhausted.

  Maybe she’d look up apartments tomorrow. Sleep beckoned, although knowing Dimitri was down the hall would probably keep her up.

  He’d acted so strangely during their “tour.” Although perhaps that wasn’t an accurate assessment. He always acted a little strange, except when they were dancing or screwing. His behavior alternated between sexual fiend and arrogant playboy, but today, he was more eager puppy.

  It threw her off. Dimitri was difficult enough to handle—running cool and hot—when he was trying to get in her pants, but this happy host version of him was even more suspicious.

  And still, here she was moving into his house, with no assurances, and no clear sense of where they stood.

  A knock sounded on the bedroom door, and her shoulders hunched, fingers stilling on the neatly folded pile of gym clothes. If she went and opened the door, he’d be standing there, too close. If she were going to live here and stick to her rule, they needed to keep her distance. Taking a deep breath, she called out. “Yeah?”

  The door muffled his deep voice. “Problem at the restaurant. I have to go out.” A pause. “Will you be okay?”

  She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “Yes.”

  “I’ll see you when I get home.”

  Not if she could help it. What the hell was she doing here, playing house with him, acting like they could be roommates? Even the sound of his voice through a door gave her a thrill, his simple farewell affecting her like a promise.

  Be strong. She cleared her throat. “See you.”

  The house was big, but quiet. She put her ear to the bedroom door until she heard the door into the garage open and close, then she stepped into the hallway and out into the living room. A minute later, the sound of the engine faded as he drove away.

  She let out a breath, and her shoulders slumped. Alone at last. In Dimitri’s house.

  It was weird being in his house like this. She’d been here plenty of times before, but this time, she wasn’t drunk or horny. She was desperate in a totally different way.

  The living room sofa mocked her, reminding her of all the times they’d fucked on it. She wandered past the dining table, noting the chair that had been repaired after they’d broken it. She still wasn’t sure how that had happened, but maybe it was a sign not to bang on top of tables.

  She hurried back to the bedroom—Nik’s bedroom? Her bedroom? No, the bedroom. It wasn’t hers. But at least it held no memories. She collected an armful of toiletries and carried them out to the hall bathroom, arranging her bottles in a line on the counter.

  The most intriguing room in the house was the dance studio, but even that now held a memory. When he’d pulled her into the dance, she’d gone, like every time before that. Dancing with him was irresistible, something she’d dreamed of long before they’d met, when she was just a teenager watching him on the movie screen. The rush of a rollercoaster, but with the security of knowing he wouldn’t let her fall.

  And the damned man had known it. He always knew. Sometimes it seemed like he knew her body better than she did. When he’d pulled her against him, the thrill of the dance, her delight at the room, his warmth, his scent—all combined to set her body pulsing. It had taken all her strength of will to push him away.

  No sex, she’d told him. And she was sticking to it. Even if it killed her.

  Her phone buzzed with a text. It was a selfie from Gina. She had her arm hooked around Stone’s neck, and a beautiful landscape of water, mountains, and pine trees stretched out in the background. Gina added the caption, Look who’s hiking! #totesoutdoorsy

  After winning the previous season, Gina had accepted a gig on Broadway, and Stone had gone with her. They were splitting their time between New York and Los Angeles for work, and spending breaks at their new home in Alaska.

  Natasha smiled in spite of herself, but a pang of jealousy shimmered underneath the glee at hearing from her best friend and seeing her so happy. She smothered it, but a tiny voice inside whispered, I want that, too.

  Didn’t matter, though. That kind of love wasn’t for her.

  Natasha typed back, Don’t fall off a cliff! with a line of heart emojis.

  Since Dimitri was out, she took advantage of the empty house. She showered, lotioned up, and climbed into bed, intending to read for a bit. The bed was comfortable, but it was strange being in a bed that wasn’t hers—alone. The sheets and pillows smelled like fabric softener, and she wondered who did Dimitri’s laundry. She couldn’t picture him doing it himself.

  Nope, don’t do it. She shook her head to banish the thought. Better not to think about him in domestic terms.

  She’d just pulled up a classic British novel on her ereader when her phone
rang. Before she touched it, the name flashing on the screen made her snatch her hand back.

  Esmeralda.

  Her mother. The last person she ever wanted to talk to, but especially not when she was so out of sorts.

  With a sigh, Natasha leaned back into the pillows and answered. “Hola, Mami.”

  “Mira, nena.”

  Natasha rolled her eyes. Her mother still called her “girl,” even though she was now twenty-seven years old. And Esmeralda usually said it like a curse.

  She’d never once called her mija—my daughter. But at least Abuelita had.

  Her mother continued to rattle on in Spanish, skipping the pleasantries and getting right to the point.

  “One of my girlfriends from the salon is a fan and she wants to see the show. We’re flying out for the premiere. Get us tickets.”

  Pinching the bridge of her nose, Natasha fought for calm. She’d been offering her mother tickets to her performances since she’d first moved to LA five years ago. Now she was finally coming, but only because her friend wanted to see The Dance Off. It figured. Esmeralda didn’t even watch the show.

  “You have enough space in your apartment for us to stay with you?”

  She’d know if she’d ever bothered to visit. Before she thought better of it, Natasha said, “Sí, tengo un dormitorio segundo.”

  Carajo. Natasha smacked her forehead. Why the hell had she just offered her mother the second bedroom? The one with all her stuff sitting in it, in an apartment with a hole in the ceiling, in a building with a mystery bug infestation. Exhaustion, nerves, tension. She was losing her mind.

  “Claro.” Her mother said it like it was all settled. “See you next month. Hasta luego.”

  “Bye.” Coño. Natasha dropped the phone on the bed and rubbed her eyes. What the hell had possessed her to agree to letting her mother stay with her in an apartment that was currently off-limits? Temporary insanity? Short-term memory loss? It was like she’d forgotten her home was currently in shambles, her bank account nearly empty, and she was staying with a man whose relationship to her could most accurately be termed a fuck buddy.

  Of course, her mother would pick now to finally visit her.