Page 50 of Lost & Found

“Not yet. But I promise I will the minute I’m ready.”

I nodded once. Fair. “Okay, then as your accountability partner here, I say we can come back to it. All I ask is that you don’t blindside me.”

A flicker of amusement returned. “No promises.”

She turned toward the door.

“Bella.”

She stopped again. I crossed the space this time. It was habit in this house. When someone left a room, you reached for them. A touch, a kiss on the head, something grounding. I rested my hand on the back of her neck and pressed a brief kiss to the crown of her head.

There was nothing sensual or charged in it. My chest tightened anyway. She leaned into it for half a second before stepping away.

“Don’t overthink it,” she murmured.

Too late. She slipped out, leaving the door ajar. I stood there longer than necessary, staring at the empty space she’d occupied.

A Week Later

I was stalling, and it made me feel guilty down to my core. I’d sent him a message earlier, saying a client went later than I expected, but I’d be over in twenty. It was all a lie, and I was on borrowed time.

The message was sent nineteen minutes ago, and my hands shook like those damned tiny dogs did. What were they called again? Chihuahuas? That’s it. Just call me Chihuahuabella and throw a blanket over me already.

Why did I put it on my list? What could I have possibly been thinking?

He was renowned, brilliant, and danced with hundreds of talented and equally magnificent women in his life. While it had never bothered me seeing him dance intimately with Kinsley, I was suddenly afraid he would compare us, and there was only one way for me to measure up.

Lacking.

Yup, that is what he’d think inside his head. I was lacking. The worst part was he’d never say it out loud. That somehow made it worse. I groaned as my phone beeped, letting me know the twenty minutes were up.

Sighing, I silenced the timer and grabbed my purse and keys. I set the alarm and locked the door behind me and walked six feet to the dance studio door. He was waiting by the front desk with no shirt on.

I gulped and wet my dry lips, trying to keep my eyes from roaming further down. He pushed away and made his way over to the door. Something in his walk brought up one of the many times I’d seen him dance with Kinsley.

It was an Argentine Tango, and every bit of it was magical. He’d danced it as he was, masculine and with a passionate fury, with hunger and the snarl of his top lip as he reached up to cup her face at one point could still stop me in my tracks.

He was a vibrant and vicious dancer. I’d felt it in my spine watching him—that dangerous pull of wanting to be the one he looked at like that.

He held the door open. “You coming in or chickening out?”

I fumed, “I had a late—”

“Liar. Your last client left an hour ago.”

Then he had the nerve to mock me. He knew exactly how to elicit a response from me. And he did all right. In fact, all it did was shove the previous flutter of nerves in my stomach to a fire.

I stomped inside and then, as if someone threw water on me, the fire doused. The sound of keys jangling and then the click of a lock being engaged echoed in the silence of the reception area. We were alone. Why was I so nervous?

The only way out is through.

I repeated the saying Marcel had ingrained in me and turned to face my fear. Which, in that exact moment, was a half-naked man with a lion on his chest. Our eyes met, and he raised one eyebrow in question and then let his eyes rake over my body. I felt exposed even though I was fully dressed. I was in my usual comfortable black jeans, T-shirt, and boots.

“Interesting choice for dance attire.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, biting my lip. I was suddenly very aware of the fact that denim doesn’t stretch and neither did my pride.

“I was in a rush this morning and forgot to pack a change of clothes,” I replied before adding, “Maybe we should schedule another time?”