Imagine what he can do all night long.
And it definitely helps that the attraction is mutual. I could probably stare at Nate until my eyes grow dry, admiring every inch of his perfect body and arrogant smile. I could probably drown in his smell, in his taste, and never once think to flag down a lifeguard.
I’d be happy to let him pull me under.
But I’m my own woman. I’ve got my career, my reputation, and A-Ma to think about. When I had sex with him in the exam room, I put everything on the line. If anyone from the Haven Ballet Academy finds out what I did with Nate, I risk losing my job and bringing on a whole lot of shame. We were lucky that we weren’t caught.
But luck can always run out.
I don’t like being at his beck and call either. I have a life. It doesn’t revolve around Nate and his stupidly intoxicating lips, his hard abs, or his long, hard—
“Miss Eve?”
I jolt back to reality. My kids are all looking at me expectantly. I force a smile and walk back to the CD player to press play. I turn the volume dial up in the hope the music will help me concentrate.
It’s up to you, Eve.
“Listen to the rhythm, everybody. Nice and graceful. Watch your footwork, Georgia.”
I crumple the piece of paper and grasp it in my palm, chewing on my free hand’s nails. It’d be easy to ignore Nate’s request. Once class is over, I can head straight home. A-Ma’s expecting me, and I’m sure she’s already getting dinner ready.
I hope I’m not disappointed.
Nate’s words ring in my ear. He’s left the ball in my court.
It’s just a shame I’m a ballerina and have no idea how to dribble.
Chapter Nine
Nate
I suddenly understand why it’s so hard to quit cigarettes.
I’ve had a sample of Eve, and now I’m going crazy waiting for another hit.
The stove’s digital clock reads 8:03 p.m. I try not to let the fact that she’s running late bother me.
Maybe traffic’s bad.
Traffic in Haven.
A small town.
This late at night.
“Yep,” I mumble to myself. “It’s the traffic.”
I decide instead to focus on preparing dinner.
I really only have two hobbies: rebuilding motorcycles and cooking. I gained my fascination of old cars and engine repair from Jacob.
He used to tell me how badly he wanted to get his hands on a 1953 Corvette that he could drive across the country in. I didn’t understand his fascination at the time, but I do now. There’s something about classic vehicles—the process of buying them, repairing them, finally getting to drive them—that’s incredibly satisfying. My garage back in New York is full of several classics, though I rarely have time for a joyride thanks to my job.
Cooking is something I picked up by myself. Mother doesn’t know this, but I used to hang out in the kitchen to watch the cooks she hired as they worked.
Most boys my age had Legos. I had fresh ingredients.
I’m no Gordon Ramsay, but I’m pretty confident the Michelin-star chef himself wouldn’t turn his nose up to the steaks I have butter searing before me. Sprigs of thyme and garlic sizzle in the browning butter as I baste the steaks. They’re medium rare because what idiot eats it any other way?
I’ve got honey-glazed carrots roasting in the oven, and I’ve already purchased a bottle of red wine that will perfectly complement the meat. As for dessert? There’s a basket of sweet strawberries and a can of whipped cream chilling in the fridge. I’m not entirely familiar with the diet of a dancer, so if we have to skip dessert and use the whip cream for other, naughtier applications, I’m not going to complain.
8:08 p.m.
I look away from the time as I dish everything up. This apartment that Pops is lending me comes fully furnished, including fine dishes and crystal wine glasses. His last tenants apparently couldn’t afford the rent any longer and moved out a year ago. Pops has been struggling to rent it out ever since, and I can totally see why.
The apartment has been recently renovated. Stainless steel appliances, gray marble countertops in the kitchen and bathroom, floor-to-ceiling windows along the east wall to let the sunlight in every morning. This place is fancy, though not as spacious as my apartment back home. Still, Pops says he’s unwilling to lower the rent, and Haven isn’t exactly home to the type of tenants he’s looking for.
Works for me, though. I’d rather be here than my cramped childhood bedroom.
Across the hall from Jacob’s room.
Don’t think about it.
I set the table. It’s big enough to seat a party of eight.
I take pride in presentation, so I make sure the cutlery’s polished and everything’s where it should be. I glance at my Rolex and take a seat.