by Alexis Daria
Her breath halted. She’d still been sleeping in his bed. There’d been a lot of cuddling, but nothing more. As much as she’d complained about it at first, she’d gotten used to sleeping beside him. She didn’t want to go back to the other room. But did he want her to?
“And if it is a complete success,” he went on, “you have dinner with me tonight at the restaurant.”
The restaurant. His business venture that took so much of his time. She’d never been there.
It shouldn’t bother her that he’d never taken her. They didn’t go out together. They didn’t date. They worked together, occasionally went out with the cast as a group, and sometimes they screwed. But they weren’t a couple, and this wasn’t a relationship.
But if all that were true . . . his words echoed in her head. Would I be in love with you? If they were just fuck buddies, just roommates with benefits, why would he say that? And now, with this stupid bet, he was either going to kick her out of his bed, or take her on a date. None of it made sense.
“So, is it a bet?”
She blinked. They were about to enter the studio, and he was holding a hand out for her to shake.
“Um . . . whatever.” She shook his hand. “Open the door. And remember, no cursing.”
He shot her a wounded look. “Do I look like an idiot to you?”
“You really want me to answer that?”
He laughed and held the door open for her.
As she crossed the threshold, Natasha switched over into teacher mode. With a big smile on her face, she hobbled into the room on her crutches, noting the looks of surprise and worry on their small faces.
“Hi, friends!” she said brightly, hoping her tone would allay their fears.
Cara, a three-year-old with thick dark hair and a purple tie-dye leotard, hopped up from her spot on the floor and touched Natasha’s left hand where it gripped the crutch. “Miss Tasha, you have a boo-boo?”
“What happened, Miss Tasha?” Emiko, the oldest in the class at five-and-a-half, came closer, and the others crowded in around them, asking questions.
Natasha made her way to the chairs Lilah’s assistant had put out for her, next to the sound system. She took a seat and propped her foot on the second chair. “I was dancing and a took a bad step,” she told them. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine in a few days, but for now, I have to take good care of myself.”
“Does it hurt?” Ryan, an energetic five-year-old boy, stared at the wrapping around Natasha’s bare foot. His little hand crept closer.
“Not anymore, but it hurt a lot when it happened,” she told him. “I still have bruises, so please be careful.”
Ryan snatched his hand away, then shifted through the crowd of kids so she could give him a one-armed hug. He’d been in the class since he was three, and of all the kids, he was the most attached to her. He had already cried twice about not being in her class next year.
As she assured them she was okay, their curious gazes drifted over to Dimitri, who stood off to one side.
“Who’s that?” Sofia, at four, finally voiced the question that must have been on all their young minds. She pointed a finger straight at Dimitri and did not look impressed.
“That’s Mr. Dima,” Natasha told them. “My friend. Since I can’t stand up for very long, he’s here to help me teach the class.”
Ryan looked skeptical. “Can he dance?”
Natasha stifled a chuckle. “Um, yes. He’s a very good dancer.” She clapped her hands. “All right, friends. Time to take your places.”
The children scrambled to their spots on the brightly colored plastic circles spaced around the floor, already set out by Lilah’s assistant, who sat in the front waiting area, watching the parents.
Dimitri sidled closer as the kids took their places. “Mr. Dima?”
“Dimitri has too many syllables,” she said from the side of her mouth. “You don’t want to hear them mangle it.”
“Actually, I kind of did.”
They shared a smile, and then she directed him to take her usual spot in the front of the room. She turned on the music and called out instructions from her chair. Dimitri demonstrated, and the kids followed his moves, sneaking looks at her periodically. Natasha kept a smile fixed to her face and counted the beat out loud.
When it came time to put the moves in order, Dimitri took over, leading the class. She manned the music, stopping and starting as necessary, and tried to close her heart to the scene before her.
It was impossible, of course. Dimitri was a natural, damn him. His deep, booming voice, so intimidating for some of the top dancers in the industry, managed to convey comforting, encouraging tones when he talked to the children. He did silly moves to make them laugh, and gave direction with kindness. He was attentive to each child, looking them in the eye as he listened, and speaking to them as equals.
There was something wrong with her. She’d never been the kind of woman to get all sappy about a guy interacting with kids. But she knew these kids. She cared about them, cared about the work done at this school, fostering an appreciation of dance that had nothing to do with how well the children completed moves and everything to do with how much they loved what they were doing.
Dance had done that for her. It had saved her, given her a focus for her life, and a community of people who understood her. Dance gave her value when her mother hadn’t.
Her first dance teacher, Mr. Richie, had seen promise in her. He’d nurtured her talent and interest. At the time, she’d hoped her mother would see her skill and be proud of her.
It had never happened.
So, she did her part here, instilling a love of dance in the younger generations. She listened and cared for the kids in her class, because she knew firsthand how much it meant to have an adult who wasn’t a parent be invested in your well-being.
For her, it had been priceless. And she’d been blessed to have other dance teachers who had also cared.
Who would she be now if not for them?
Who are you if not a dancer?
No, not the time to think of that. She was a dancer. She had to be.
It was all she had.
She glanced at her ankle. It was almost fully healed. She’d be back in fighting shape in a day or two, would probably be running around already if not for Nursemaid Dimitri.
He was singing a song with the kids while they waved their arms and acted out the lyrics. He was a terrible singer—not that she was one to talk—but his deep, rich voice made up for being off-key. Normally, his voice gave her delicious chills, goosebumps, and a sweet tingle she craved. When he growled her name, or called her Kroshka—hell, even when she overheard him backstage at The Dance Off—she came close to throwing herself at his feet.
But she didn’t. That would give the game away. That would reveal how much she wanted him.
Today, though, his voice had a different effect. Rather than setting her on edge in a sensuous way, keeping her in a state of suspended tension where she never knew what he’d do next, today his voice comforted her. All these days of living with him, hearing him call her from a different room, or muttering into the phone in Russian, she’d grown accustomed to the sound. He’d twined his way into her consciousness like he belonged there. Like he fit. Like it was right.
Longing. Yeah, who was she kidding? She longed for him. He had two kids hanging from each bicep, their delighted squeals ringing through the air, but it was his booming laugh that wound its way into her heart.
“Time for the last song,” she called out. “Will you all show Mr. Dima what we’ve been practicing?”
They ran to take their places. Dimitri stepped to the side to watch. Natasha turned on their recital song, calling out the moves while the children went through them with uncharacteristic seriousness.
When they were done, she and Dimitri broke into applause. Dimitri stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled.
The kids beamed and rushed them both, full of smiles and questions.
&nb
sp; “Miss Tasha?” Talia, a tiny four-year-old with big eyes, squeezed in next to her. Talia loved that they had similar names, and often announced that fact proudly to anyone who would listen.
“Yes, Miss Talia?”
Talia giggled, then shot a shy look at Dimitri. “Is Mr. Dima your husband?”
Natasha’s breath seized in her chest. She forced a smile. “No, he’s not. We’re just friends.”
“Oh.” Talia’s brow creased and she frowned. Then she leaned in and whispered in Natasha’s ear. “I think he should be your husband. Even though he has a beard and moo-stache.”
Stifling a laugh, Natasha nodded like she would take this suggestion seriously. She met Dimitri’s eyes over the children’s heads, and he shot her a smile so full of . . .
She didn’t even know what. It scared her too much to put a name to it.
But at that look, her heart rolled over in her chest and woke the hell up.
26
“You were really good with the kids,” Natasha said in a quiet voice.
Dimitri cut her a quick look as he drove. After they left Little Lilac, she said she had to make a quick stop on the way home, to hand something off to someone who was covering one of her classes.
“This isn’t my first rodeo, Kroshka. My mother owned a dance studio, and I used to help her teach ballet.”
She twisted in the seat to face him. “What does that word mean? Kroshka.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You’re just now asking this? I’ve been calling you that for years.”
Her chin dipped. Half her face was covered by big, dark sunglasses. He wanted to slip them off her face so he could see her eyes, but kept his attention on the road.
“I . . . didn’t want to ask, I guess.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “Just tell me what it means.”
“It’s the equivalent of ‘baby.’ It’s a very sweet name, like sugar, or sweetie.”
“Huh.” She turned her head to gaze out the window.
“Why do you call me Macho?”
She smirked. “That should be obvious.”
“So, it means what I think it means?”
“Exacamente.”
The urge to touch her was killing him. He gave in, dropping a hand to her bare knee and squeezing. “You should learn Russian.”
She snorted. “Dude, I had a hard enough time learning English.”
“Me, too. And I bet I was older than you were.”
She shifted in the seat, and his hand slid further up her thigh. “How old were you when you moved here from Ukraine?”
“Ten.”
“Wow. Yeah, you were older.”
“You were born here.” It wasn’t a question. He already knew she’d been born in New York.
“Yes, but we only spoke Spanish at home. I learned English from TV and other kids, and it wasn’t until nursery school that I heard English from an adult. After that, my great-grandfather started speaking English to me at home.” She fiddled with her glasses. “And books. Somehow, the Spanish-English divide didn’t seem so strong when it was written down. I learned a lot about how English was supposed to sound from reading, but since I was a terrible writer, I still got bad grades in school. It drove me crazy. I loved books so much, but I couldn’t express my thoughts about them in a way the teachers could understand.”
He gave her leg another light squeeze. “I get it.”
“I bet.” She rested her head against the back of the seat and turned her face toward him. “Tell me about little Dima.”
“Mitya,” he corrected. “That’s what my family calls me.”
“Right, I’ve heard Nik say it. So why do Roman and Mila call you Dima?”
Roman Shvernik and Mila Ivanova were two Russian dancers on The Dance Off. “Dima is another nickname for Dimitri.”
“Ah.”
He chewed his lower lip as he sorted through the feelings raging through him. Gratitude and love threatened to overwhelm him. The easy conversation, her willingness to tell him about herself, and her interest in him—they had to be signs they were growing closer. Right?
But she wanted to know about his childhood, and it was something he didn’t talk about much.
“You don’t have to tell me.” She leaned back in the seat. “It’s okay.”
“No, I want to.” In his rush to answer, his voice came out loud and gruff. He tried again. “I want you to know. I just . . . I don’t think about it a lot. I try to forget it, you know?”
“Dimitri, you don’t have to—”
“I do.” He took a deep breath and thumped the wheel with both hands. “You know how adults talk about politics in front of kids, thinking they won’t understand? As the government was collapsing, my parents and aunts and uncles did their best to keep us from worrying, but I was older, and I knew something was up. And I can’t lie, it freaked me out.”
She nodded, and now she reached out and placed a hand on his knee, warm and comforting.
“When we moved here from Odessa, we had a slightly easier time of it, because my aunt and uncle and cousins were already here. They helped us get set up, but for a while we all lived in the same house.” He flicked her a glance. “That’s why my cousin Alex and I are so close. We grew up together, and we’re close in age. Nik was still a toddler when all this was going on. He doesn’t remember any of it.”
“Do you think it affects him?” she asked softly.
He shifted in his seat. “I guess it does. Our experiences with the move were different. He can’t stay in one place for long, and me, all I want is for everything to stay settled.”
Her fingers rubbed his leg, and despite the serious conversation, he wanted her bad. He gripped the wheel hard.
“You’re very close to your parents,” she said.
“They were my rock. Stable, even though everything else was in upheaval. I never doubted them.”
Her lips twisted. “Must be nice.”
He dropped one hand to capture hers, bringing it to his lips. The words welled up in him, the need to tell her he could be that for her, that he loved her and would stand by her. But his mother was right. Right now, Tasha didn’t think she deserved love. He had to show her she did.
Her slim fingers moved against his mouth, their soft tips smoothing over his lips. He slipped his tongue out and licked her, rewarded by her surprised giggle. Languid warmth spread through him, and his cock throbbed and grew heavy. He let go of her and stuck his hand in his lap to adjust himself.
Her giggle turned into a full on laugh. “I taste that good, huh?”
“You’re a tease,” he grumbled, secretly pleased they could flirt this way, with no sense of embarrassment. They’d done too much together to be embarrassed about each other’s bodies, and there was no denying the desire that flared between them.
“Just don’t crash.” She turned to look out the window, lips curved in a smile.
It had been days since they’d had sex. Dimitri hadn’t initiated anything, out of concern for her ankle. But she was almost better now, and they were closer than ever. Tonight, he was going to make his move. She was a goddess. A queen. She deserved to be treated as such, and he’d been remiss in his duties. Tonight, he was going to show her how much he loved her, and how much she deserved to be loved.
27
Natasha’s nerves jitterbugged under her skin when Dimitri pulled up in front of the gym.
“I’ll find a spot to park,” he said, and she shook her head quickly.
“No need.” She opened the door and climbed out, awkward because of the crutches. “Stay in the car. I’ll just run in and hand this over, and then I’ll be right back out, real quick.” She waved the folder she carried.
His eyebrows drew together like he knew something was up, but he didn’t say anything as she shut the car door and hobbled into the gym.
At least he hadn’t argued, or insisted on following her.
Natasha greeted the woman at the front desk, exchanged
small talk about her ankle and the minor repairs made to the gym’s locker room, then crutched her way toward the classroom where she usually taught.
Before leaving the reception area, she checked over her shoulder once more. Dimitri hadn’t come in. Good. No matter what, he could not meet Renee. Renee would lead to all sorts of questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.
The classroom door was ajar, so Natasha stuck her head in. “Hello?”
Renee sat in the corner on a folding chair, typing on the laptop balanced on her knees. When she looked up, her face brightened. “Tash!”
Natasha eased into the room as Renee set the laptop aside and strolled over to her, navigating around the series of poles set into the floor. Even barefoot, in boy shorts and a camisole, with no makeup on and her wine red hair pulled into a ponytail, Renee walked like she was on a catwalk and every eye was on her.
Renee had tried to teach Natasha that trick, and Tash managed it during performances, but when she wasn’t thinking about it, she still walked with her feet turned out, like the ballerina she was.
Andas como una patita, her mother used to say. You walk like a little duck.
Renee gave Natasha a one-armed hug and took the folder from her. “How’s the ankle?”
“Better. Being extra careful with it.”
“Smart move. Serious problems can crop up from sprains.” Renee gestured toward the chair. “Here, you should sit down.”
“How’s everything going at the Planet?” Natasha asked once she was seated, using the affectionate nickname for their old workplace.
Renee settled down on the floor with her legs folded under her. “Same old. They renovated the dressing room and the bathrooms.”
“Good. They needed to. How’s everything going there?”
As Renee gave a quick rundown of the workplace gossip, Natasha gazed around at the poles and her earlier nerves transformed into unease.
Once, this had been her life. She’d been desperate then, and she was desperate now. In both cases, she’d entered into situations that forced her to lie to her friends and family. Hell, she’d still be lying to everyone about living with Dimitri if she hadn’t sprained her ankle.