Page 56 of Practice Makes Perfect
He hands me the donuts, then his eyes narrow as he catches me watching Em. “You know her?” he asks, suddenly suspicious.
“Yeah, I’m just—” Just what? Just creepily watching a girl dance when she thinks no one’s looking? “—just waiting for my girlfriend to finish up.”
He shrugs, and it seems I’ve passed his test. “OK, good, good. She good girl. Great tipper. Good night.”
As he shuffles back toward his restaurant, I glance toward the studio again and freeze. Em is standing at the window, looking directly at me. For a second, I consider starting the car and peeling out of there like I’m fleeing a crime scene. But she waves, then holds up a finger in the universal “wait one minute” gesture.
Shit.
Busted.
Now I have to stay.
I watch as she moves around the studio with purpose, turning off lights one by one until only a small lamp remains lit in what looks like an office at the back. She grabs a duffel bag, locks the door behind her, and jogs toward my car through the chilly night air.
My pulse kicks up as she pulls open the passenger door and slides in, bringing with her the scent of vanilla and sweat that sets my mind racing. Up close, those black leggings hug every curve, and the crop top exposes a stretch of collarbone that makes me want to press my lips against it even as she shivers slightly.
“You cold?” I ask, already reaching into the backseat where I tossed my team sweatshirt earlier.
“A little,” she admits. “Forgot how much the temperature drops in Trenton once the sun goes down.”
I pull the heavy cotton sweatshirt over the seat. “Here.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. “Oh, Linc, you don’t have to?—”
“Just take it, Em.” I hold it out. It’s a little faded, with ‘PBU HOCKEY’ emblazoned across the chest. “It’s no big deal.”
A small smile touches her lips as she takes it, her fingers brushing mine. The contact, however brief, sends a spark up my arm. She pulls it on, and it swamps her small frame, the sleeves hanging well past her hands, the hem falling to her mid-thigh. She looks impossibly small and adorable in it.
“Thanks, it’s warm,” she murmurs, her voice muffled as she adjusts the hood. “So what brings you all the way to Trenton?”
“I, uh—” The memory of Mike’s words rises again, but I push it down. “Needed to clear my head. Just drove around for a while and ended up here.”
She buckles her seatbelt—which seems oddly formal given that I haven’t even put the car in drive, but perfect given how I know her mind works—and turns to face me. Her face is flushed from dancing, a few wisps of hair escaping her bun to frame her face.
“Something’s wrong,” she says, her voice soft but matter-of-fact. “Want to talk about it?”
I’m about to brush it off with some generic response when I look at her properly. There’s no expectation in her expression, no demand, just open curiosity and something that might be concern. And suddenly, I find myself wanting to tell her everything.
But I don’t.
Because the one thing I don’t want to pollute with the rest of the shit going on in my life is… whatever this is… with Em.
“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I say, still watching her face. “It’s just hockey team drama.”
“Ah, so you got angry and went for a drive?” Em nods, understanding in her eyes. “When I get angry, I dance. Or stressed. Or sad. Or happy. Basically, any emotion that’s too big to contain. It’s like I have to be moving for my brain to be able to process things, you know?”
“Makes sense,” I say, watching her profile in the dim light. “I skate or run, usually, but I didn’t have time to get changed…”
“You were at home cooking, right?” she says. “You smelldelicious, and, uh, I just realized how weird that sounds, but I mean it in acompletelynon-sexual way… although I like how you smell in that way, too… or at least I did in our first lesson, because I don’t just go around sniffing?—”
“Em.” I reach over and gently catch one of her gesturing hands. “Take a breath, OK?”
She inhales sharply, as if she’d forgotten breathing was necessary. Her hand is small in mine, delicate but strong, andit feels right. “Sorry,” she says. “I get excited about dance. And when I’m excited, I talk fast. And when I talk fast, I forget to breathe. And when I forget to breathe?—”
“Em.” This time I squeeze her hand, and she lets out a small laugh. “Breathing, remember?”
“Right. Breathing.” She demonstrates with an exaggerated inhale and exhale that makes me grin. “Better?”
