Though, apparently, now not so incredible, given that Channing’s lead partner and love interest, Jenna, has fallen and broken her leg.
As the makeup artist finishes plastering powder over your pores, you open your eyes to see Channing storming through the crowd of people, his eyebrows knitted together in frustration. “This is just the worst! Three hours until this whole theater gets filled with the most important people in showbiz and now my big finale is ruined!”
Your heart stops dead in your chest. For a second you’re paralyzed, hoping this might be the time Channing finally walks right over to acknowledge you. You feel the heat rising to your face as he gets closer—but at the last minute he turns off in the opposite direction. You hold your breath as you watch him yank open the door to his private dressing room and slam it loudly behind him.
Poor Channing, you think with a heavy heart, this was supposed to be his special night—a dance to remember. You wish you could run after him to offer some comfort, throw your arms around his shoulders and reassure him that things will turn out fine.
But you can’t do that. He probably doesn’t even know your name.
“Channing Tatum?” The makeup artist sucks his teeth. “More like Channing Tantrum.”
You scowl at him. “That’s not funny.”
The man lets out a short laugh. “Sweetie, tell that to someone who cares.” Flashing you a pitying smile, he moves swiftly on to the next backing dancer, catching the brown-haired girl by the head and pushing her down into a black swivel chair.
You open your mouth to say more, but before you get the chance to speak, a hand falls on your shoulder. Spinning around, you come face-to-face with Lianne, the slender-limbed dance instructor with perfect blond hair who has led every one of your classes over the past six weeks.
“It’s good that you’re sitting down,” she tells you, “because I’m about to give you some big news.”
You stare at her with a blank expression.
“Jenna won’t be able to dance tonight—”
“Of course not.”
“—so we need you to step up and fill the part.”
Your stomach rolls. Blood drains from your face. You can’t quite believe what you’re hearing. “Me?”
Lianne gives a sharp nod. “Yes, you. You’re the most dedicated dancer here, and I know that with your perfect memory for choreography you’ll be able to fill in without much problem. We need you to save the show.”
Your mouth has dried up. Suddenly you’ve forgotten how to speak.
“So, quit catching flies and come with me,” she orders, reaching for your hand and dragging you off the seat. “We need to hurry up if you’re going to be ready in time for the big dance.” As you rush through the crowd of people toward Jenna’s private dressing room next door to Channing’s, Lianne turns to face you and gives a wink. “This time tomorrow, honey, you’ll be a star.”
BEFORE YOU’D ARRIVED at the dance academy, you’d assumed Channing Tatum would be teaching every class, mingling with his students and becoming the best of friends with all of you. But as soon as you’d got here, you’d realized that wasn’t the case.
To call Channing a perfectionist would be an understatement. He was so much more. Channing had a reputation for success. He was careful to ensure his dancers worked to the best of their abilities, 100 percent of the time. But he didn’t want to play the enemy; he had far more respect for his students than that. So, rather than teaching classes, he lurked in doorways observing them instead. A slight wince from him and the dance instructor would know to work overtime next session to eliminate whatever problem he’d noticed. If he walked out on the class, it was bad news. As much as Channing wished he could find something among his dancers to draw a smile to his lips, nothing ever seemed enough to impress him.
Except for you.
He watched over every class you took. He’d not missed a single one in the entire six weeks of training. Leaning against the doorframe, his face set in that smoldering, stony stare, he’d examine each pirouette and plié, his pupils darting to take in every curve your body made. You’d always stare back at him, your eyes glued to his as though you were giving him a private performance—which, in your mind, you were.
And then one day, after you performed an exceptional jeté, Channing’s stony stare had softened, and he’d brought his hands in front of him to clap. It had lasted for just seconds, but it had meant the world to you.
“He was only being polite,” one of the other dancers had insisted rather bitterly. “Don’t go thinking he’s in love with you, now. Everyone knows his heart belongs to Jenna.”
It was true. Everywhere Channing went, Jenna followed at his side. They were inseparable. And she was perfect, with her fantastic figure and pretty face. She was the only dancer in the entire school who could match your talent—even though Lianne had always insisted you were the better dancer.
This certainly seems true now, as you stand before the mirror in your dressing room staring at the beautiful costume of Jenna’s, adjusted in a hurry by the designer to fit your body perfectly. As you’re trying to calm yourself down, to convince yourself there’s nothing to worry about, the dressing-room door swings open and the sound of music fills your ears. Onstage, the dance show is under way. The atmosphere is hot with the breath of one hundred skillful dancers and the thousand-strong audience of celebrities, talent scouts, and reporters.
Suddenly your knees feel weak with the pressure of it all.
“We need you onstage in five,” Lianne tells you from the doorway, clipboard in hand. She ushers you out of the dressing room into the darkness backstage. You can feel jealous eyes watching you from every angle as you walk up to the black curtains and prepare yourself for the big moment. Lianne squeezes your shoulder before abandoning you. “Good luck.”
You stand there alone, tugging at your sparkly leotard, hoping beyond hope that nothing goes wrong.
Out of the corner of your eye you see a tall figure appear. You feel the touch of a hand against yours. Someone reaches down to place his mouth beside your ear while you stand there, stunned, next to him.
“Break a leg,” the husky voice whispers. Your body melts when you realize who it is. Channing laughs and squeezes your fingers. “Just kidding. Please don’t.”
The song that was playing ends, and soon the dance show’s host, Jonah Hill, can be heard announcing the final act: “Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Channing Tatum and . . . er . . .”
You realize he doesn’t know your name. Fortunately for him, the audience has already gone wild with the knowledge that Channing is about to arrive onstage, so Jonah ducks back into the shadows without introducing you at all.
Nice.
You move into the starting position, which involves you placing your head on Channing’s shoulder while he catches you around the waist. The curtains draw back, revealing you two in your embrace. Your heart is thudding so fast behind your rib cage you’re almost certain he can hear it above the roar of the crowd.
Okay, that’s a lot of people. . . .
The music begins again and the two of you leap into action—literally, because the first dance move is the Leapfrog, so for thirty seconds you experience the overwhelming joy of having Channing’s sizable package passing over your head repeatedly. You don’t really want to ruin the dance, but a part of you wishes he’d slip and knock against your body just once, if only so that you can judge the weight inside those tight Lycra pants.
Stop it. Think of something else. Don’t embarrass yourself. You’re a professional now!
As you move into the next phase, a slow dance of sorts, you take a glance at the audience. Jennifer Lawrence sits in the front row, and as you make eye contact with her, she leans to her right and whispers something into Bradley Cooper’s ear.
“Ignore them,” Channing whispers to you, and you turn your attention to his gorgeous green eyes—so close, now that you’re mere inches apart. “Ever since filming Silver Linings Playbook they think they’re experts.”
You nod discreetly and pull back into the next move. Channing spins you on the spot before the two of you float around the stage in sync, landing together in the middle and then spinning off in opposite directions. You reach the far ends of the stage and turn back to face each other.
Another glance into the audience. A journalist furiously documents the dance, scribbling words into a notebook, while Shia LaBeouf remains rigid in his black suit and bow tie beside her. His eyes don’t move from Channing’s body. Behind that beard, he seems satisfied with what he’s witnessing.
The music starts to speed up. You draw breath and lock eyes with Channing. Then, both at once, you begin running artfully toward each other. Your heart is pounding now—you know exactly what’s coming next. You’ve watched the rehearsal dance, green with envy, a thousand times over, wishing for the chance to step into Jenna’s place just once, never believing it would actually happen.
Yet, now it is. And Channing is approaching you fast.
When you finally meet in the middle of the stage, he places his thick hands on either side of your jaw and reaches down to mold your lips to his. It’s so much better than you could have imagined. The spicy smell of Channing’s aftershave mingles with the sweet taste of his full lips, and for a second, closing your eyes, you’re lost in a fantasy—one of the many fantasies you’ve fallen asleep dreaming about over the past few years.
You’re actually kissing Channing Tatum!
The experience is so divine you’re reluctant to pull away, but you need to continue the dance to prove your talent to the world. However, as you begin to pull back, Channing follows, determined not to break the kiss. Aware that you’ll ruin the dance if the kiss doesn’t end soon, you awkwardly open one eyelid. He’s still got both of his eyes shut, clearly enjoying the moment. Behind him, you can see the backing dancers entering the stage in preparation for the next movement.