Chapter Six

Talia spent every second she was home the next day hiding in Reed’s room.

No, not hiding, she told herself firmly. Hanging out. Resting her overworked muscles. Listening to the music from Giselle. Reviewing the choreography and corrections she had to cram into her brain.

And maybe also texting her friends.

They’d all gone out last night to the bar where her brother Shawn worked to try his newest beers, and naturally the conversation had turned to “Talia’s very special special agent,” as Amanda put it.

No matter how much she insisted that he wasn’t “special,” he wasn’t “hers,” and she was completely focused on Giselle, it was hard not to think about an impossible, unsmiling, square, gruff jaw. Lightning bolt eyes. The way Reed got so deliciously uncomfortable when she dared to call him out for being nice, or sweet, or caring.

Like no one was supposed to know he was more than the tough guy he claimed to be. Even though he didn’t hide it nearly as well as he thought.

She’d gone to sleep last night before Reed got home, which was good. But when she got up that morning, there he was, hanging out in sweatpants so low on his hips she could see the top of his boxers. It made her think about what else she might have seen had she gotten up early enough to catch him still sleeping, and she had to run to the bedroom, hoping he’d put on some goddamn clothes so she could stop staring.

There was no way she was going into the living room now to see what he was up to. She could stay all night, all weekend, in here. Food? Water? She’d forego all necessities if it meant not having to see Reed lounge around in those sweatpants, having a nap on the couch.

She knew what she ought to do was practice. Go into the living room and step through the routine instead of looking at her notes. It didn’t matter how much her muscles ached. She had to get the movements into her body until it was second nature, until she could turn and leap without a single thought.

But if Reed’s eyes had bugged out that wide when she was in downward dog, she wasn’t sure she wanted “gave healthy, robust man a heart attack in his living room from doing raised leg splits” on her conscience.

No, they were both safer if she stayed in here.

At least they were, until he knocked on the door.

“Come in,” she called, scrambling to sit up and put on a face that said I’m working.

But then she saw him, and her mouth went dry.

“Hi,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else, and because Holy. Fucking. Shitballs seemed mildly inappropriate.

“Hi,” he said, casual as could be. “Mind if I grab some things before I shower?”

“Not at all!” She said it way too fast. Climbed off his bed way too fast. His enormous, solid body took up the whole doorway, and she almost collided with him in her effort to get out.

She hadn’t heard him leave the apartment. Hadn’t known he’d finally changed out of those sweats. But it wasn’t like what he’d changed into was any better. Shorts. A T-shirt damp with sweat and clinging to his pecs.

He’d clearly gone to the gym, or for a run—whatever guys like him did to wind up looking like guys like him. Something she suddenly very much wanted to find out. His chest rose and fell, his face visibly flushed, his muscles outlined in the V of sweat down his shirt.

And his legs—oh, mercy. The cut of his calves. The cut of his thighs. She spent all her time around dancers’ bodies. She knew plenty about men and their thighs.

But she’d never seen him in shorts before, and his legs were something else altogether. Not the lean muscle of the men she danced with but thick and solid, graspable and strong. All she could think about were her hands wrapping around them while she was on her knees.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Whoa. Everything okay?” Reed asked as she catapulted herself out the door.

“Yep!” she practically squeaked. “I’ll wait out here, take your time.”

“You don’t have to go anywhere, I’m just getting a change of clothes.”

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

She sat on the couch, her back to the bathroom so she couldn’t be tempted to stare at him as he headed into the shower. It wasn’t until she heard the door close and the water come on that she finally let her spine relax.

But only a little. There was still the thought of him in there, totally naked now, soaping his body, water running over his head and down his shoulders and his back and his ass and those thighs…

She clutched her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She should text her friends, see if they were free again tonight. So what if it made her look desperate and relationship-less? She was desperate and relationship-less. Desperate not to imagine Reed’s sweaty shoulders every time she blinked.

What she needed was a distraction. A real one. Not from her choreography, but from him.

She opened Tinder.

It wasn’t conducive to a weekend of laserlike focus on the pas de deux. But she couldn’t believe even Stacey had been all Giselle, all the time when the lead role was hers. Hadn’t she been dancing all week? Didn’t she deserve a break?

She had a few conversations going that she’d let cool since her life turned upside down. She picked the most promising one—a guy named Eric who worked at a consulting firm.

Or maybe that was Eliot. It was hard to keep track. Also, she was never quite sure what consulting meant.

It didn’t matter. Eric may not be ripped enough to tear her panties off with one twist, or hot enough to melt them with his steely, sweaty gaze, but he was reasonably cute. And she wasn’t already living in his apartment, intimately familiar with the spring of his mattress, the scent of his sheets.

Of all the ways Eric wasn’t like Reed, number one turned out to be that he was capable of carrying on a conversation—which he seemed more than happy to pick up as soon as she messaged him. In fact, after she apologized for dropping the ball, he was the one saying how bad he’d felt that he’d gotten slammed at work and let their conversation slide. Was she free tonight for a drink?

Bingo.

While Reed was in the shower, she grabbed everything she’d need from his room. Thank God she’d packed that little red dress.

She wasn’t going to sleep with Eric. It’d be just one drink to loosen her up. She’d still go to bed early and be ready to dance.

But she wanted to look good. She wanted to flirt with Eric and sip a cocktail and remind herself that life existed outside of her suitcases and this one-bedroom apartment and her friends who all had plans. She lifted onto demi-point in her bare feet and did a quick bourrée across the floor with the dress in her arms.

All the pain in her toes, the other dancers circling around, waiting for her to mess up so they could take over her role. The hours she’d been criticized in rehearsal about “not being Giselle, not feeling her anguish, not letting the movements flow.” It was worth it for the feeling that blossomed when she rose on her toes. A sense of buoyancy, of air. Like anything was possible.

When Reed was out of the shower and safely hidden in his bedroom, where there was no chance of her catching sight of him in a towel and spontaneously combusting on the spot, it was her turn. She locked herself in the bathroom and got to work showering, shaving, moisturizing, and washing her hair, humming the music from Giselle as she lathered and rinsed. She’d finished toweling off and was dividing her long hair into sections when Reed knocked on the door.

“Just a sec,” she said. Didn’t he know she was in there? It wasn’t like he couldn’t hear her humming.

“Did you drown?” he asked through the door.

“Go away,” she told him.

He knocked again when she was finishing her hair, then again when she was twisting into a pretzel to try to zip her dress in the back without a roommate to help. And then again when she had only half her makeup on.

“Are you kidding me?” His fists pounded on the door.

“Pee in the kitchen sink,” she called, leaning into the mirror to finish her eyeliner. She’d be damned if Reed and his walnut-size bladder was going to get in the way of her night.

He banged again, even harder. “This is why I don’t live with women,” he yelled.

“Are you sure it isn’t because women won’t live with you?” she shot back. Red lipstick to match the dress, right?

Loose, beachy waves, a killer dress, makeup on point, her feet hidden away in her best fancy shoes… Eric wasn’t going to know what hit him.

Neither, apparently, was Reed. He was in the middle of banging the door down with his fists when she swung it open, catching him with his arm up, standing so close to the door that she nearly ran into his chest.

“It’s all yours,” she said, stepping aside in a grand gesture to let him get to his throne.

But he just stood there.

“The bathroom,” she said again. “It’s free.”

That was when she realized that—shit. Her thong was on the floor, along with her yoga pants and her towel. She went to sweep them up.

But even after that lovely embarrassment was safely tucked away, Reed still didn’t move. Was he pissed about the Band-Aids and gauze in his trash? Her bobby pins scattered around the sink?

“Are you—” he started, then faltered.

She arched an eyebrow. “Use your words,” she prompted.

“Are you going out tonight?”

“Again, you with the special agent skills.” She pressed down a smile. No, not pissed. That wasn’t the look on his face.

“You look—” His eyes went to her, then away, then back to her again. “You look nice.”

“Thanks.” The smile made its way out anyway.

“I mean…really nice.”

“Don’t look so surprised,” she told him, not sure whether to be flattered or offended. She did a pas de bourrée to get around him, then threw her things in the room and grabbed her heels.

When she came back out, she couldn’t believe he still hadn’t moved. Looked like he hadn’t needed the bathroom that badly. Which only confirmed her suspicion that he was simply a pain.

She perched on the edge of the couch to put on the shoes. “What’s wrong with you?” she finally asked.

That seemed to snap him out of it at last. “Nothing,” he said. “You look nice.”

“You said that already. Twice. Can you zip me up?”

She stood in the heels. She felt him come up behind her. Heard him, obviously. But felt him, too. The nearness. The touch of his breath.

His fingertips brushed her waist. Gentle, which she wasn’t expecting. She hadn’t thought a guy like him would be gentle. She braced herself for large, fumbling hands and a too-hard tug on her back. But he gathered her hair and softly pulled it over her shoulder, making sure it didn’t catch.

Her heart sped up, then stumbled. It was just a dress. Just a goddamn zipper. Just her neck and back exposed. Eric. Eric. Eric. Think of my date with Eric.

The movement happened so slowly. She hardly dared to breathe. He must have been holding his breath, too, because she didn’t hear it, didn’t feel it on her back anymore.

And then it was done, over in seconds, and he was stepping away. She let her hair fall back into place. He walked straight to the bathroom and closed the door, and she finally, finally, exhaled.

Thank God she had a plan besides sitting around the apartment all night trying not to ogle this freshly-showered man who smelled lickably clean. Thank God she was reminding herself other men existed.

Not that she was going to date them. But she could get a drink with them, and it could be fun.

She picked up her phone and opened Tinder to tell Eric she was leaving soon when she saw she had a message from him. Probably saying he was on his way, too.

She opened the chat. Stared. Then threw the phone on the couch. Which was more cost-effective than hurling it at the floor, but not quite as satisfying.

“What did that poor phone ever do to you?”

She hadn’t heard Reed come back into the living room.

“Nothing,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Didn’t look like nothing. I know,” he added before she could say it. “You can’t believe I’m not a lieutenant yet, what with these astonishing powers of deduction.”

She sat on the edge of the couch, perching carefully so as not to wrinkle her dress.

Then she said, “Fuck it,” and slouched all the way back.

Such a little thing, a Tinder date canceling at the last minute. It happened all the time. She shouldn’t even care.

But she did care, and she couldn’t pretend otherwise. It wasn’t like she’d had all her life’s hopes and dreams pinned on “Eric B., half mile away.”

But it still stung. Anyone who assumed a ballerina would have her pick of dream dates had no idea. It wasn’t just her feet or the ice and heating pads and ibuprofen—too much reality behind the curtain.

It was also the hours. The dedication.

And maybe it was just her.

The fact that when the makeup and costumes came off, she was just like any other woman. Sometimes happy, sometimes not. Sometimes sleepy, sometimes not. As messy and complicated as everybody else.

Reed flopped down next to her. “Did your date cancel?” he asked.

“The special agent strikes again.” She didn’t say it sarcastically, or with any bite, like she might have if she were still in that good mood and wanted to tease him. She just said it sadly, because sad was how she felt. Why should she try to deny it?

“Come on,” he said gently. “You look too great to feel bad.”

She laughed a little. If only it were that easy.

“Let me take you out,” he said.

She waved her hand dismissively. He had to be kidding.

But he said it again. “Let me take you out tonight instead.”

She shook her head. “Thanks. But it’s not worth it. Besides—” She made a face. “The truth is I hate these shoes.” She reached down to undo the straps, then tossed them across the room like she’d wanted to do to her phone.

“We can stay in,” he offered, like she hadn’t just shot him down. “I’ll cook for you.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“Don’t look so worried,” he said. “It’s not a date.”

She raised an eyebrow. It was Saturday night, she was in a dress with beach waves and eyeliner on, and he was telling her it wasn’t a date?

If it wasn’t, that was only because he was wearing jeans with holes frayed into the pockets. Which made her feel even more ridiculous for being so dressed up. For having tried, and failed. She hoped this wasn’t a sign of how Giselle was going to go for her, too.

“As long as you’re sure it’s not a date,” she said. Because what else was she going to do tonight?

“As long as you don’t say I’m being that word again,” he countered.

She mimed zipping her mouth shut. But then she whispered it anyway, resting her tongue behind her teeth and letting it slowly drop. Knowing he was looking at her red lips as she did it. Unable to stop herself from pressing those red lips together into a sly little smile when she was done.

Nice.