Page 41 of Lovers' Dance

“Really?” I smiled in delight. “Geoffrey’s lovely, isn’t he?”

Dante let out a dry laugh. “He has an unusual fixation with you. Freaks me out. Not to mention he’s what? Fifty, maybe sixty?”

I punched his shoulder lightly. “My dad was his friend. Geoffrey’s looking out for me. You weren’t complaining when he donated that cash last year for ourDown the Rabbit-Holeproduction. Oh, no, Dante Emmanuel Palmer, you were, ‘Gee, thanks, Mr Kincaid. We’resograteful.’ Honestly, I thought you would plant a big wet one on his lips.”

“Shut up, training bra. Yeah, I said it. Don’t screw your mouth up at me or I will put you over my knee—ow! Madi. Stop punching me. Sorry, sorry.”

I stopped hitting him. Training bra. It had been years since he called me that, almost twelve years.Douche.

Laughing together we got changed, backs turned to each other, then hit the dance floor. It was almost five in the afternoon when we took a proper break. I went to the office to get my cell. Matt had called. Why did I pump my fist into the air like a jock on steroids? He left a brisk message, telling me he managed to clear his schedule and we would be leaving early Saturday morning. Pack a week’s worth of clothes and a bikini. Then he said, “Miss you, poppet.”

If it wasn’t the twenty-first century, my actions could’ve been mistaken for a swoon. Then I got slightly annoyed at his commands. I had my own life. I couldn’t take a week off at the drop of a hat to jet off to Italy with him. That posh, bossy, sexy man. So why was I now standing next to Dante in the hall telling him I needed next week off? Why was my tummy doing somersaults at the prospect of spending time with Matt? Not the rushed hours we spent at my place where he was always arriving late and leaving early. A week with Matt sounded like heaven. Yes, it did, but it didn’t stop me from checking out Dante’s butt on the sly.

The afternoon classes had started, and I took time to pop into the intermediate level class. A pleased smile was on my face as I watched the ten students go through their paces. They were getting much better and Sarah, their instructor, had been over the moon with their progress the past few months. She was hoping we could put them in the latest production, knowing it would boost their confidence immensely being on stage in front of a crowd. I would discuss it with Dante. He was a bit anal when it came to any major production we did. Everything had to be perfect or there was hell to pay. Maybe we could have the class perform a small part in the opening acts. They would like that.

My eyes followed the girls’ movements. I felt slightly sad there were no boys in this class. Most people believed ballet was solely a girl’s thing; it wasn’t, but it was a hard perception to overcome. I mean, which teenage boy was going to risk his rep with his friends? When we were younger, I had witnessed first-hand how cruel boys could be. Needless to say, Dante had ended up in a lot of fights. That stopped when our instructor had warned him that one broken bone could potentially ruin his prospective career, and he needed to decide what was more important: maintaining street cred or doing what he loved.

“Okay, girls,” Sarah’s jovial voice called. “Let’s show Madi yourbarrework. Show her the strength in those ankles and toes, otherwise she’ll think you’re slacking with your pointe technique.”

I grimaced at Sarah as the girls glided over to thebarre. Most of the older students were shy around me, maybe intimidated. I was sure their instructors were feeding them a myth that I was a black, draconian soul eater who could crush you with a glance. I smiled brightly at the girls and waited for them to start. They were good, better than good, and my gaze became astute as I watched them. Alicia was the best, with Jade and Laura close behind. I was pleased and my face showed it.

“You girls are doing well.” My tone was full of confidence and their teenaged faces beamed with pride. “Keep up the good work.” With a quick wave to Sarah, I slipped out the room. I would speak to Dante about maybe putting them into the production.

“Hi, Madi.”

It was Melanie, a cute little brunette who was ten and whose class ended at five. I glanced at the clock in the hallway. Six fifteen.

“Hi, Mel, is your mom late again?”

She nodded, trying not to frown. I frowned for her. We weren’t a babysitting service, and it was a school night. Where the hell was her mom? We had one hour classes for the younger kids twice a week. Tuesdays and Thursdays from four to five. Why was her mom always late? The schedule hadn’t changed since we first started. How hard was it to ensure you picked your kid up at the appointed time?

“You want to come dance with me?” I asked.

She clapped her hands and grinned. “Yes, please.”

I took the hand she offered and we skipped down the hall to the main dance room. Dante and some of the others were getting ready for another run through of our amended final act.

“Your mom’s late again, Mellie?” Liam asked the girl. He shook his head in disgust as he stretched. Melanie’s mouth wobbled a bit and I bent down to retie her ribbons around her legs.

“Show me what you’ve learnt today, pumpkin. Then I’ll go call your mom.”

She eagerly ran to stand in front the mirrors and began to do an endearingly clumsypas de basque.

“Start from fifth position, Melanie, not fourth,” Dante corrected automatically. His tone was sharp and I narrowed my eyes at him. Sometimes he forgot these kids were young and his expectations of them were usually too high. I agreed with pushing the students to explore and attain their full potential but, jeez, his reprimand had my back stiffening. Poor Melanie looked like she was about to cry. I walked over to her with an encouraging smile and stood in fifth position. She took a deep breath and mimicked me.

“Start in fifth, thenplié. Slide that front leg out, pumpkin. That’s a tendu—”

“Can you teach me to spin, Madi?” She put her hands on her hips, staring at her legs in the mirrored wall.

“You mean apirouette, Mel, and your legs need to be much stronger. You must be able to maintainen pointefirst.” I patted her shoulder lightly, not wanting to sound discouraging.

“I can,” she said defiantly, mouth tight in concentration as she attempted to rise up. I applied pressure to her shoulder, ensuring she couldn’t.

“Listen, pumpkin. You’ve just turned ten. We don’t start teaching that until you’re around eleven. Remember what I told you? Your bones have to be strong enough, otherwise you can permanently damage your feet.”

“You let Janey do it, and she’s the same age as me.” She folded her arms and pouted. Bri chuckled to herself as she watched the ten-year-old stare me down. Mel continued to complain. “She said she started when she was nine. That’s not fair.”

I folded my arms, too, and tried to win the stare off. “Firstly, you’re not wearing the proper shoes for it even if I were going to let you do it, which I’m not. Secondly, Janey had a doctor’s note confirming the bones in her feet are hard enough, and she’s already achieved sufficient competency in fundamental ballet technique. You’ve only been attending classes for seven months—”

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