Emmy
Latin dancing [lat-n / dans-ing] n—NOT ballet
Trumpets pierce the air in flowing harmony with the singer’s voice. The time signature of this song is free and unrestricted, nothing like the straight lines that comprise classical music. Its red-hot, curved lines blur together. It pumps my blood and moves my feet. I can’t understand a word of it, but it’s beautiful and awakens something deep inside me. Something I didn’t know existed.
Rhys is an amazing dancer. It’s obvious he’s not trained, but the way he moves tells me he believes what he said in the RB: that dancing should be fun. Every line of his body, every flex of his muscles says he believes it. The way our bodies move together causes my heart to stutter. He must notice because his lips inch up into a knowing smile. Those lips. This music. These moves. They’re in his blood, like classical music and ballet are in mine.
I’ve never felt this way dancing with a man before. Pas de deux is beautiful, but it’s choreographed—a staged act, rehearsed and perfected over weeks of training. But this . . . this is something completely different. I don’t have to think about the moves or what comes next or if I’m on count or where to put my hands. It makes me feel free. This is real. This is dancing.
Rhys spins me around so my back is flush against his chest, and his arms circle around me. I explore the lines of his muscles with my fingers and the rich color of his skin with my eyes. Our feet never miss a beat.
His cheek touches mine, and when I meet his gaze, it’s like looking into his soul, like seeing a piece of Rhys he keeps hidden. There’s more to him than he lets on, and I want to know more. With a key change in the music, he turns me to face him.
He looks deep into my eyes. There’s something about him, about the way I feel when he holds me in his arms. The safety, the passion. This moment feels significant, like he’s asking a question and I’m answering.
And that’s when I realize I want this to be something. I want him to feel what I’m feeling. But does he? Or is this dance to him as much an act as Swan Lake is to me? I look down, trip over my feet, bounce off his chest, and lose time with the music.
His hand leaves my waist even though the song is still in full swing, and he lifts my chin until I’m looking into his eyes again. “Stay with me, Emmy.” He pulls me closer, forcing my body to follow his.
The music winds down, signaling its end. The singer’s voice repeats a phrase over and over. It has so much emotion. So much feeling. I like how the words sound, even if I don’t understand what they mean.
“What does bésame mean?” I ask.
Rhys’s movements continue, but they become muted, like he’s less aware of the steps and more aware of me. He doesn’t release his hold around my waist; if anything, his grip tightens. “Kiss me.” His voice is difficult to hear over the music, but the words are unmistakable. His forwardness takes me by surprise, but I want to. I want to so badly I lean against his chest and tilt my chin up to him. My heart pounds so hard against my ribs I’m sure he can feel it.
Rhys looks down as if he’s just now become aware of my hands on his chest. His eyes widen. “No, Emmy.” He shakes his head. “Bésame means ‘Kiss me.’”
* * *
“Tell me you didn’t kiss him.” Evie winces.
“No. But I leaned in.” I close my laptop screen and swivel in my chair to face her.
She rests her head against my bedroom wall and presses her eyes shut like it pains her to hear about my near first kiss with Rhys last night. “What are you going to do?” she asks.
“There’s nothing I can do except drop BOM and hope I never, ever, ever run into him again.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Actually, I can.” I stand up from my desk chair and plop onto my bed. “The withdraw date isn’t until the end of next week. I checked as soon as I got home last night.”
“I thought you liked him?”
“I do like him. But he didn’t exactly kiss me when I leaned in . . .” My eyes close, and I relive the horrific drive home. “He read the scriptures for next week’s assignment the entire way home, Eves. The entire way.”
“Oh, Em. How do you get yourself into these messes?”
I grab my pillow and smother my face. “Why?” I groan. “Why did you have to tell him to come to the RB last night?”
“I thought—”
My glare holds her words hostage, and she lifts her hands in surrender. “I need to die in peace. Can you shut the door on your way out?”
She frowns like there’s more she wants to say but then backs away from the door and shuts it quietly behind her.