“Excellent.” He brightened. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
-16-
Tara
Elena’s studio was a converted warehouse, and she’d kept the industrial feel but softened it up with cornflower blue paint and warm white pine floors. I loved the space. It was enormous, but the windows let in tons of natural light, which bounced off the mirrored wall. The dark colored ceiling was lit by strands of hanging globe lights, and their reflections glowed on the gloss of the highly-polished floor.
She’d scheduled me for an hour at three p.m., fitting us in before an after-school hip hop class. I’d have the entire dance floor to myself—other than the chair I’d set up over to one side for Grant.
Elena had retreated to her office, and the studio was silent.
I went to the ballet barre on the far wall and stepped through another warmup routine to keep my muscles loose, ignoring the clock over the mirrors. It was already ten after three, and wasted time was rushing by. I needed to prepare myself for idea that Grant, my “friend,” had flaked on me.
The only time a guy told me he just wanted to be friends was after we’d fucked. He’d gotten what he wanted, and the friend status was delivered so he could make a quick exit.
But I hadn’t slept with Grant.
Not yet, but I was pretty sure he’d hop into bed with me if I offered. It was all very confusing. Dinner with him had gone better than I’d expected, but also worse. I had no idea where we stood.
I glanced up at the clock. 3:12. Well, that told me enough, didn’t it? I sighed and walked across the dance floor to retrieve my bag. I could hook my phone up to the speaker system via Bluetooth and start choreography with—
The front door whooshed open, and there was a loud bang as the side of Grant’s cello case cracked against the doorframe. “Sorry,” he said, although there was no one at the front desk.
Had he just apologized to the door?
His dark hair was tousled, either from the wind or his nervous hand running through it, and his shoulders lifted on his rapid breath. Had he run here? Carrying his big-ass cello case?
Looking at him made me as out of breath as he was. Goddamn, he was fine. He had on jeans, a dark gray hooded sweatshirt, and a look of anxiety as he peered around the front room, searching for something. Probably me.
“Hey, there,” I yelled. “Did you get lost?”
“My Uber driver was bloody awful and dropped me off on the wrong block. Sorry I’m late.” He strode down the open hallway and onto the dance floor, lugging the cello like it weighed nothing. For being such a big guy, he could move fast. It probably came in handy when he played rugby.
“It’s okay.” I gestured to the folding chair I’d set out for him. “Do you need to warm up?”
He marched over to his spot, set down the case, and popped open the latches. “I only need a minute.”
“Okay, cool.” I could stretch some more while waiting. “Also, hi.”
He stopped for a moment to give me his full attention and a genuine smile. “Yes. Hi.”
I stared at him, gawking like a lovestruck teenager. Wasn’t I supposed to be doing something? Oh, right—stretching. I went back to the barre and rested my hand lightly on it, while lifting my working leg.
I snuck glances at him while he fiddled with the cello and made adjustments. Which looked great—I couldn’t tell it had been broken or repaired. The wood was smooth and a deep honey b
rown.
I continued my stretch, extending my leg up, pushing energy out all the way through my pointed toe. He played a few notes, and I sighed deeply at the haunting sound.
“All right,” he said. “I’m read—”
I turned my head toward him, curious what had made him stop mid-sentence, and a thrill coursed down my body when I realized it was me. I stood straight, one leg planted on the floor and the other lifted to the sky, creating a perfect vertical line. Was he admiring my flexibility? His eyes were lidded, heavy with desire.
Friends, my ass. Friends didn’t give each other looks that said they wanted to bend them over the ballet barre and fuck them senseless.
Grant cleared his throat and adjusted. “Uh, I’m ready.”
I moved to the center of the floor. “I only need the first two minutes of the song.”