Red never missed a scheduled rehearsal, and nothing, not even a fundraiser for the Traverson arts program, could change that. Auden admired her dedication. The driver tasked with getting him and Red to the fundraiser, however, did not. He approached Auden no fewer than three times while Red was in her dressing room, reminding him that they were running late. The first two times, he took Auden's easy-going assurance with a sour frown and silence; the third time, he sent Auden to fetch her, and demanded that he not return without her.
Grumbling to himself at being ordered around by a chauffeur, Auden approached Red’s dressing room and knocked on the door. A breezy, “come in,” answered him, and he let himself in. Inside, Red scurried from clothes rack to vanity, collecting small items along the way. She was dressed for the evening in a bright purple jumpsuit, cinched at the waist by a slim black belt, and, Auden realized when she turned toward the vanity mirror, open at the back, from her neck to her waist. Delicate strands of tiny golden triangles swung from her ears as she leaned toward her reflection and applied lipstick in bold, practiced strokes. She pressed her lips together and dabbed at the corners of her mouth; then, without warning, she flicked her eyes up and caught his gaze. She flashed her dazzling smile. He blinked and looked away.
“The driver,” he said, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck, “sent me to get you. He’s worried we’re running late.”
“We are,” Red said, uncapping a bottle of perfume and spritzing it on her wrists, her neck, her hair. Its musky, floral scent filled the room and went straight to Auden’s brain, quickening his pulse. “Only by about ten minutes, though. Things will barely be getting started when we arrive. And maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll miss the dean’s long-winded welcome speech.”
“He’s that boring?”
“Self-congratulatory. Yes, he spearheaded the arts program at Traverson. But without students, there wouldn’t be a program. He likes to take credit for the alumni’s accomplishments, without realizing school was just a first step for most of us.”
Auden grinned. “Do I detect a note of bitterness, there?”
“Maybe a little. In this place, an arts degree doesn’t get you much—not like one in science or engineering or civic planning. For arts students, the hard work, and whatever success we find, starts after graduation.” Red gathered a few more items and dropped them into a small purse. “But there’s no denying the benefits of camaraderie the students find there, and that’s why I continue to support the program.” She closed the purse with a decisive click, then walked up to him with a smile and linked her arm in his. “Shall we go, then? Before the driver abandons us?”
Her arm was soft and slender, and the heat of her hand seeped through the sleeves of his jacket and shirt. It wasn’t the first time Auden had been so close to her—he escorted her to and from the stage, and to various events—but each time was its own special thrill, and his blood seemed to hum with the vivacity she so effortlessly exuded.
Would it be so bad to be abandoned here? he thought with a mischievous grin, then caught himself and cleared his mind, before being hit with one last whiff of perfume as they walked through the door.
* * *
When they arrived at the fundraiser, a balding man was finishing his speech at the podium on a stage at one end of the ballroom, and from the looks on the other guests’ faces, it was clear that Red and Auden hadn’t missed much.
Auden leaned down toward Red. “The dean?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” she replied. “Still loves to hear himself talk.” She began scanning the room for familiar faces, and Auden slipped his arm free of hers. It was like this at every event, quiet and discreet. He would retreat to the periphery of the action to keep watch, knowing full well that none of these people posed any real threat to Red. Some salacious gossip, maybe, or nosy questions—nothing she couldn’t handle herself, and with far more grace than any other woman in the room, to boot.
She seemed to glide through the crowd, greeting old friends and new acquaintances alike, slipping effortlessly into conversations around her. As she spoke, subtle changes played across her features, corresponding to each question, each response, as if they were the only words worth listening to. That was the thing about Red: even in a crowd, she had the uncanny ability to make you feel like you were the only other person in the room, the only other person in the world.
Several times, during lulls in the conversation, she glanced over at him and smiled. It was as near to an invitation to join her in the crowd as either of them dared give or receive at this point, and he smiled back to show that he understood. He wasn’t forgotten; that was enough. She held his gaze for several moments longer, until somebody’s question pulled her attention away, and Auden went back to standing guard.
He sometimes amused himself during these soirees by trying to read the other guests’ body language. As a boxer, he was trained to study movement, particularly of the hands, and what he noticed tonight, not for the first time, but for the first time that registered, was how empty so many of the attendees’ gestures were. Among these people, Cloudbank’s elite, touch seemed as common as breathing, and just as uninvested. Fingers casually brushing against arms; prim, barely-there hugs; laconic air kisses. None of it seemed to matter, not as a threat, not as affection. It was just something they did, something that was expected. A reflex, nothing more.
He turned away and rubbed his arm, the spot where Red had held him still warm from her touch. Did it mean nothing to her, as well? If so, why did his skin still burn, why did his blood thrum whenever she was near? He found her in the crowd again and focused on her hands. Her gestures weren’t empty. They emphasized her words, underscored her reactions, drew others into the fold. They weren’t practiced and rote, like those he saw being performed throughout the ballroom; they were colorful and big, out of place among more “proper” company, and at that moment, he felt a surge of tenderness toward her, a certain solidarity in being just a little out of step with everyone else.
And before he could help himself, he began to wonder what those beautiful hands would feel like in his own, how they would feel on his shoulder, his face, his back, and he knew he’d let his mind wander too far. When she looked at him again, he could only manage a quick grin before looking away, focusing instead on an array of champagne flutes on a tray, glittering in the light. His throat felt dry, his chest tight. Thoughts like that weren’t supposed to surface during working hours, they weren’t designed to survive in the light and buzz of busy events. They were the products of those small dark hours when sleep abandoned him, when the silence in his room was cold and sharp. They were the threads of dreams he never even dared begin to weave, knowing damn well they had no grounding in reality.
Yet, there was no denying they’d sprung to mind, and he ducked his head, his cheeks burning with shame as painfully as if he’d spoken his thoughts aloud.
The fundraiser continued, oblivious to his discomfort, for what felt like half an eternity. Mingling gave way to speeches by alumni—sentimental and overwrought and laced with the kind of jokes meant to identify those who really belonged there, and those who had wandered in as plus-ones or hired help—which then gave way to an auction of student works. Finally, when the Traverson String Orchestra took the stage, the attendees moved en masse to the dance floor, the unpaired seeking out partners along the way.
Auden caught sight of Red in the crowd, his throat tightening at the prospect of watching her dance with another man, one more like her, one more deserving of her time. But she declined each offer with a smile and a shake of her head, and bid farewell to other guests as she made her way toward the edge of the crowd.
As she made her way toward him.
“Another successful fundraiser,” she said, smoothing her hair. “We raised more than enough to fund the program for another year. Maybe this time, we can concentrate on adding new courses.” She glanced up at him and grinned. “Though I can imagine that none of this is particularly interesting to a spectator. Are you ready to go? We can grab something to eat on the way back.”
He returned the smile and nodded to the dance floor. “Don’t you wanna get out there? I can wait.”
“Not at all. I learned my lesson at the Traverson graduation ball. Never again.”
“You don’t like to dance?”
Red opened her mouth, but stopped short of saying anything. Her lips twisted into a grimace and she drew her shoulders up around her neck. “I…might? I mean, I would very much like to dance, but…” She trailed off with a halfhearted wave of her hand.
“You can’t dance.” Though it came out as a statement rather than a question, Auden immediately regretted the harsh incredulity of his tone. In his defense, it was difficult to believe. Red was a musician; rhythm and melody were the tools of her trade. How could she not know how to move with them, too?
“I’m afraid not. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. I’m a singer and a songwriter, my whole life revolves around music, so I should naturally know how to dance.”
“Well, it is a little…strange, for a musician to not know how to dance.”
Red crossed her arms and stuck out her lower lip. “It’s harder than it looks. Do you know how to dance?”
“I’ve got a decent set of moves.” He gave her a sidelong look. “There aren’t a lot of entertainment options where I’m from. Dancing’s a good way to let off some steam. Better than fighting.”
“I never would’ve figured you for a dancer.”
“Heh. You’re not the only one. But what is boxing but its own kind of dance, too? Gotta stay light on your feet.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Red’s eyebrows lifted slightly and she gestured toward the dance floor. “Would you like to?”
“Not if you’re uncomfortable. I said I could dance, not that I particularly enjoy it.” He scanned the dancers and rubbed his neck. “Besides, I don’t think this is really my kind of crowd.”
“Mine either, to be honest. Shall we go?”
“Sounds good to me.” He offered his arm and she slipped hers through it, and together, they left the sparkling ballroom and descended the stairs into a balmy Cloudbank night.
* * *
Red pushed her cleared plate away from her and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. She had instructed her driver to drop her and Auden off at the Canals, where they enjoyed a casual meal at a table by the water, far enough from the lights to afford Red a bit of privacy.
“Is it just me,” she said, “or does everything taste better like this? In the open air, by the water, with someone I like being around.”
Auden’s drink lodged in his throat. He swallowed hard and coughed. “You don’t mind having me around?”
“Of course not! You’re a good guy. Sweet, funny, incredibly charming, and…just comfortable. I can be myself around you, and you wouldn’t believe how rare that is.”
“I can imagine.” He set his glass aside and folded his arms on the table, willing his hands to remain steady, his expression relaxed. She said she enjoyed being around him, but that didn’t mean anything more. Did it? A strange, quivering sensation began low in his chest, and he couldn’t suppress an awkward chuckle.
“Yeah, you’ve seen your fair share of it already, haven’t you? After shows, walking around the city, and that’s only half of it. The other half is interviews and business meetings and events like tonight’s. There’s always a certain expectation, a certain image I feel I have to uphold. But with you,” she laughed, “you’ve eaten greasy flatbread with me after midnight and seen me run out to rehearsal without combing my hair. You let me laugh at stupid jokes without telling me they’re ‘beneath me,’ and you let me ramble on about my dreams and frustrations, and you never seem annoyed.”
“I’m not.”
She leaned forward, chin propped on her palm. “Not even a little?”
“Not at all.” It was the truth. He could listen to her talk forever. The sound of her voice, the expressiveness of her eyes and her gestures, the implication that she trusted him enough to open up. If he could never be anything else to her, he enjoyed being her confidant.
“Sometimes I feel I monopolize our conversations, though. I really should give you more of a chance to talk.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Auden straightened and rolled his shoulders, and watched other diners pay their bills and walk away. The restaurant was clearing out; it must be near closing time. “It’s getting pretty late. We should get you home. You have a rehearsal tomorrow.”
“Not until the afternoon,” Red said, but fished a card from her purse anyway. She flagged down their waiter, and as Auden was about to request separate bills, she held up her hand and plunked the card on the waiter’s small silver tray. “For putting up with all the pretensions at the gala tonight,” she explained when the waiter retreated to run the charges, “and still sticking around for a late dinner.”
“I don’t mind. It’s all part of the job.”
“Is it?” Challenge sparked in her eyes.
He looked away, over the distorted reflections of lights on the water. “Yeah. Gotta make sure you get home safe, no matter how many detours you take.”
“I hope I’m not putting you out.”
“Oh no, no! I don’t have anywhere else to be.” He turned back to her and found that she’d averted her eyes, too, and was chewing on her lower lip. She looked uncertain. It was such a foreign expression on her, it lanced his heart with guilt. Maybe it wouldn’t be so wrong to admit a fraction of what he felt about her, just as reassurance. “And I like being around you, too,” he added.
Her head snapped up.
“I like your confidence,” he went on, “your energy, the way you can still find the good in people. You make me feel…” He caught his breath, knowing he would need to tread very carefully. “You make me feel calm, and hopeful, like maybe this place isn’t always so bad.”
“It’s not perfect,” Red conceded, taking her card from the waiter. “But I think we can all find our own happiness, regardless of what the Admins or the OVC tell us we should want.” She pushed her chair back and rose. “Well, I suppose we’ve detoured enough for one evening. Walk me home?”
“You don’t even have to ask.”
* * *
They didn’t link arms on the walk to Red’s apartment; there was no need, since Auden wasn’t technically escorting her anywhere, and it would have been too conspicuous among the general public. They didn’t talk much, either, outside of a stray observation here and there. At first, Auden worried that he had offended her somehow, maybe with that comment about detours, but every time he glanced at her, she was looking away, her eyes focused on something only she could see, with a dreamy smile on her lips.
Probably coming up with a new song, he thought, and he let her be. He listened to the rhythm of his own footsteps, then the whirring of the Highrise lift, noticing how the bustle and buzz of the city died away the higher it rose. He never really thought much of Highrise, other than as the place rich people lived to avoid mingling with others, but he did appreciate the quiet.
When they reached her apartment, Red unlocked the door, but didn’t open it right away. Instead, she took a deep breath and turned her head to the side, watching him from the corner of her eye.
“Would you like to come in?”
He blinked. Had he heard right? “Pardon?”
She turned to face him, eyes bright and sincere. “Would you like to come in? Maybe for a little nightcap and just to talk for a while? I’ll admit, after being around so many people tonight, it’s strange to suddenly be alone, so…would you like to?” The shadow of a grin crossed her lips. “I promise I’m not dangerous.”
Maybe not intentionally, he thought, then gave what he hoped looked like a nonchalant shrug. “I wouldn’t mind,” he said, “but I’m not sure it’s—”
“Proper?” Her grin grew brighter. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve always found ‘propriety’ to be a little limiting.” She opened the door and stood aside. “So, please, come in and relax. Besides, I have a favor to ask you.”
“Oh?” He slowly raised one eyebrow, the only action he trusted to not betray his pounding heart. But when Red only laughed and breezed through the door, he had no choice but to follow, both to satisfy his curiosity and to find something that might steady him, the sensation of his pulse hammering in the soles of his feet making him feel tipsy already.
Red’s apartment was smaller than he imagined—not that he had done much imagining about it; he simply assumed that a celebrity of her stature would have a sprawling home, perhaps with gilded furniture and crystal chandeliers—and he was suddenly very aware of his size and the space he occupied. He moved through the entryway, careful not to disturb the decorative mirrors on the wall with his shoulders, and reached a living room furnished with a small white couch and two matching armchairs arranged around a glass-top coffee table. A sleek torch lamp stood in one corner, and a large bookshelf lined the far wall, the colorful and varied book spines sharing space with potted plants and knick-knacks of equal color and variety.
“Have a seat,” Red said, continuing to the doorway of what Auden assumed was the kitchen, “and I’ll get us some drinks. I think I only have wine at the moment; is that okay with you?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Auden spent the next few minutes trying to find a comfortable sitting position, one that would allow his legs room without bumping into the coffee table. It was obvious she didn’t have many men over, he thought with a wry smile, at least none much bigger than she was. His smile faded and he shook his head to clear the thought. Why should he care who Red invited over? Why should he wonder specifically about which men she spent time with? His train of thought had started down a dangerous track earlier that evening, when he found his gaze following her through the crowd as she mingled and laughed with the other attendees of the gala. He told himself then that it was nothing more than his professional duty to watch her, but now, sitting on a small couch in Red’s home, his knees at an uncomfortable angle, he could see he was careening toward the end of the line. He tried desperately to change tracks, to think of something other than the way she made him feel, the way her touch still burned on his arm, but it seemed he had left the last switch far behind.
“Here you go.” He jumped at the sound of Red’s voice, and looked up to find her extending a glass of wine toward him. She laughed. “Don’t tell me you were drifting off on me already! You must be really tired.”
“No,” he said, accepting the glass and rubbing his eyes with his free hand. “Just thinking.” He took a gulp of wine to ease his dry throat.
"You live inside your head a lot, don’t you?” Red sank into an armchair, leaning back and crossing her legs at the knee and looking for all the world like a queen on her throne. “Do you ever open up?”
“Not much to say.”
“I’m sure you have plenty to say. You just haven’t found the right listener yet.”
“The right listener. That’s a thing?”
“It sure is; you’re mine. Like I said at the restaurant, you listen to me: to my songs, to my ideas, to my hopes and dreams and ridiculous attempts at small talk.” She sipped her wine. “Then again, you might only be listening because you’re paid to—”
“No.” He spoke too quickly, too loudly. He exhaled sharply and took another drink. “I listen because you have interesting things to say. Someone like me—trust me, I don’t.”
“Maybe they’re not interesting to you, but…” She trailed off with a sigh. “Well, if you ever do feel like talking, I’m here. Remember that, okay?”
Her smile was so gentle, so patient, that it genuinely hurt to not open his heart and spill his entire sorry story in that moment. “Okay,” he replied, instead. “Thanks.”
An awkward silence descended on the apartment. From the bookcase, a little analog clock ticked the seconds away. Auden watched Red swirl the wine in her glass and wondered what thoughts she was currently lost in, and if they were the same ones she’d entertained on the walk to the apartment. Then, finishing his wine in one last gulp, he cleared his throat and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“So,” he said, “you had a favor to ask me?”
Red looked up quickly and blinked away whatever she was thinking. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry, I probably should have gotten to that right away.” She set her wine glass on the coffee table, then rose and walked to the bookcase. She punched a few buttons on a device there, then turned around with a resolute expression as music filled the room. “Teach me how to dance.”
“What? Here? Now?”
“What better time and place? Come on, help me move the furniture; it will give us some decent room.”
“I’m not an instructor,” Auden said, rising and moving the couch back, nonetheless. “Wouldn’t you rather learn from a professional?”
“If I was going to enter competitions, or twirl about at every event. No, I just want to learn the basics. How to move with the rhythm.” She dragged an armchair across the floor. “Like you said, a musician who can’t dance is kind of silly.”
“Hey, I never said ‘silly.’”
“Oh, that’s right. Strange. That’s what you said.”
“I didn’t mean—”
She laughed. “I know. But you have a point. And I want to learn.” She surveyed the cleared space, then spread her arms wide. “So, teach me.”
What could he say to that? It was hardly in his power to deny her. He walked to her, but stopped short of taking her hand. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“With this song.” She placed her hand in his and moved his other hand to her waist. His breath hitched and his muscles tensed at the relatively intimate touch. He had held her arm so many times, but he never dared, outside of his dreams, to touch her anywhere else. And now here he was, holding her against him, her hand resting on his shoulder, her eyes on his, clear and expectant.
“Okay,” he said, relieved to find his voice steady, “it’s all about feeling the music, and letting it lead. I know you can feel the rhythm; now, let it pull your body along, like this.” He took a few steps and she followed, hesitantly, stiffly. “Just relax. Let it flow through you.”
“Aren’t there specific steps I have to follow?”
“We’ll get to those. For now, just…move.” He danced a few more steps, and felt her loosen up in his arms. Her own steps became surer, and she began to throw her shoulders into the movement. Her hips, however, remained awkward and jerky—she wouldn’t learn anything like that. He slid his hand down her waist and let it hover over her hip. “May I?”
She nodded, and he pretended not to hear her shaky inhale as he pressed lightly on her hip. It was just dancing, he reminded himself. It was naturally intimate, it didn’t mean anything more. With gentle pressure, he guided her hips to the rhythm, and soon, her whole body was swaying in time with the music.
“See?” he said, unable to hide the note of triumph in his voice. “It’s easy, right?”
“Yeah.” She chuckled. “I guess I’ve never been able to let myself go like this.”
“Not even while singing?”
“Especially not while singing. My songs come from somewhere else, somewhere deeper. I’m letting something else go—my heart? My very being?—and I tend to forget about the rest of me.”
“That sounds like an experience.”
“That’s exactly why I love it.” She sighed. “There’s another reason, though. Ever since the ‘incident,’ I don’t…well, I feel safe enough on stage, safe enough to sing, but I still feel like I have to stay aware of my surroundings. Even with you there. I know you’d get me out of trouble in a heartbeat, but I don’t want to be caught off-guard, not again.” She was quiet for a moment. “I suppose…I feel safe, but not secure. Not like I do now.”
Auden gave a low, non-committal hum. What could he say? He wasn’t even sure what she was getting at. He was her bodyguard, and she was at home; it made sense she’d feel secure now. Something in the way she said it, though, in the softened edges of her usually confident voice, made his heart ache. It felt as if she was hinting at something more, offering him a glimpse of her life off the stage, of the person beneath the celebrity. But if he’d learned anything in life, it was that trouble tended to dwell in that space between feeling and knowing.
He contemplated saying something—anything—in the silence left behind by the fading strains of the song. They had stopped dancing, and he was about to release her hand when a lively waltz began to play. She clamped her fingers around his and began moving with the rhythm.
“Oh! I can feel this one!” she said. “Three-quarter time has a certain bounce to it.”
He grinned. “Yep, I don’t know anyone who can resist a good waltz.”
The music dispelled the awkward atmosphere, and Red threw herself into her “lesson” with abandon. They spent the next few songs finding the rhythm, sometimes colliding and sometimes stepping on one another’s toes, but laughing all the while. The last song ended and they stopped, breathless and smiling. Red’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining.
“One more,” she said. “Please?”
Before Auden could answer, a swell of strings and horns filled the apartment. Slow, sensual. Dangerous. He released her and stepped back.
“I think we covered plenty tonight,” he said. “You seem to have got the basics down.”
“Maybe. So, how about we test them?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“No. Are you?”
“Not really.”
“Then, one more?” She closed the distance between them and put her hands on his shoulders. They were warm and light, and the heat radiating from her body set fire to his blood. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of slow dances.”
“I’m not.” His hands, as if by their own volition, came to rest on her waist. She hummed contentedly and pressed closer still, her arms draped around his neck now, and they began to sway together. He swallowed hard and tried to focus on the music, tried to remind himself that this was only a dance lesson, just a favor for the woman he admired. Outside of this apartment, he wouldn’t be the man she danced with; she’d take what he taught her here and charm somebody else, someone worthy of her, someone he couldn’t help but envy.
All of his rationalization went out the window, however, the moment she laid her head against his chest.
He closed his eyes against the sensation swelling inside him, hot and suffocating, and let one hand wander up her back, over the skin exposed by her jumpsuit. She shivered at his touch and arched into him, her body flush with his. His heart hammered away in his chest and he was certain she could feel it; a few more minutes like this, and he feared she’d feel another indicator of the effect she had on him.
And yet, the song kept playing, oblivious to the desire choking him, to the sweet torture Red was unknowingly putting him through.
He dipped his head, his nose brushing against her hair, and that bewitching perfume she'd spritzed on early in the evening went straight to his brain once more. It pulled his dreams into the light, blurred the border between them and the waking world. Holding her like this was more than he'd ever dared hope for, yet it wasn't nearly enough. His train of thought sailed along the rickety tracks, ignoring all the signs telling him he’d soon run out.
He buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply. "Oh, Red," he murmured.
"Hmm?"
His eyes flicked open. She had heard? "You're, uh, you're doing great."
"Thanks." She nuzzled against him. When would this song end?
When, at last, it did, they stopped dancing but did not release each other right away. Instead, Red leaned back, arms still around his neck, and gazed up at him with an expression he’d never seen on her before. Lips parted, eyes half-closed, a wayward lock of hair hanging over her forehead. He moved the lock aside, his fingers grazing the side of her face, and her eyelids fluttered at the touch. Did she really not know what she did to him? How could she not know? He stared at her a moment longer; then, against all rhyme and reason and nagging insecurity, he kissed her.
This was it, the end of the line.
There went his job, his paycheck, the only financial stability he’d ever known. There went his days with Red, the rehearsals that always ran a little too long, the late-night dinners at restaurants he’d never imagined she’d enjoy. There went his chance to see her at all, except on the few posters that made it into the Baysign district. But he didn’t care. He gladly gave all that up—and, given a chance to do it over, he’d give it up again and again—for this one brilliant moment with her.
It took him a second to realize that she wasn’t pulling away; in fact, she was kissing him back, wrapping her arms tighter around him, melding her body into his. For the first time that evening, genuine hope flickered to life inside him. He didn’t want to test it, though, to find out she was only being polite. He wanted this kiss to last forever, to put off the uncertainty of the next few minutes for the rest of his life.
But nothing lasts forever, and as they parted, he prepared himself for whatever came next, for the consequences of having so boldly crossed that line.
He looked into her eyes, still soft and dreamy, and muttered, “Sorry.”
“For what?” she asked, cupping his cheek with her hand. “That was glorious, everything I dreamed it would be.”
“Dreamed?”
“Yes. Haven’t you noticed? This is what I wanted…what I’ve wanted for so long.”
He was certain he looked like an idiot, with his mouth hanging open and his eyebrows drawn together, reliving every little interaction with her over the past few months, every touch and glance and smile, every excuse to lean close to him, every rehearsal that lasted longer than it should have, every late-night walk back to this apartment. They’d fueled his dreams, sure, but he never dared let himself believe they meant anything more.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked.
“I didn’t want to pressure you. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to do this to keep your job. That wouldn’t be right, and that’s not the way I wanted this to happen.” She hiked an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
He gave a short, sharp laugh. “And lose my job? I know my place, and it’s—”
“Right here.” She pulled him by the lapels into another kiss, fiercer and more passionate than the one before. Her hands wandered to his chest, slipping beneath his jacket, and she slid it over his shoulders. He managed to not break the kiss as he shrugged it off and flung it aside, and by then, she was busy with the buttons on his shirt. Her fingers left a trail of sparks on his chest, his shoulders, his throat, and he wondered why he had ever doubted the sincerity of her touch.
He wrapped his arm tighter around her waist and let his other hand slide up her back, her neck, into her hair. So many dreams and daydreams alike, so many small, incidental touches—nothing could ever capture the feeling of holding her against him, so vibrant and alive; of feeling her hands roam his body and her own body respond to his touch; of knowing she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
He had no idea how long they stood there in each other’s arms, or how, exactly, they ended up tangled up in one another in an armchair, and he didn’t care. Time didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered were the lips currently scattering light kisses across his face, and the woman they belonged to. He caressed her sides and wondered at the path this night had taken. If he hadn’t accepted her invitation, if she hadn’t asked for dance lessons, how long would they have gone on silently wanting each other? Would either of them have ever confessed at all?
Or perhaps—the thought struck him suddenly and he couldn’t help but smile—she’d engineered this. Maybe she got tired of waiting. Maybe she could dance all along.
“Hey,” he said, and she pulled back to look at him. A deep blush crossed her cheeks and her lipstick was smeared, but her eyes were sparkling. “Tell me one thing. Do you really not know how to dance?”
She laughed. “Really! You saw how I was at the beginning. Nobody could fake being that bad.” When he raised a skeptical eyebrow, she leaned close. “It’s true. That it happened to turn into something more—” she dragged a fingertip down the length of his nose “—is pure serendipity.”
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and began a trail up the side of her neck, her breathy giggle the sweetest music he’d ever heard. He wasn’t certain he believed her, but that didn’t matter, either. Call it serendipity or just dumb luck; either way, the floodgates had finally opened, and both of them had a lot of catching up to do.