Page 52 of Dance with Me
She sniffled hard. “She makes me feel like I am. Every step I took, every achievement, it was never good enough. I’m not like Gina. Gina wants to be the best, to be a huge success and a household name. I don’t need that. I just want to make a living off being a dancer. To be able to pay my bills and my rent and buy nice things. If I can do that, I’ll show her I’m a success. And I was so close, until all this shit started happening.”
“What about later, when you can’t dance?”
“I don’t know. I’ll deal with that when I get to it. Maybe . . . maybe choreography. I don’t know.”
It was a short-sighted mentality, especially for a career that was so hard on the body. But it was interesting that she’d mentioned choreography again.
“So, this is why you’re so dead-set on doing everything yourself?”
She nodded. “It doesn’t count if people help me. I’ll still be a failure. And when they’re gone, I’ll be nothing. You can’t rely on people for help, or you’re just asking for trouble.”
That sounded like something she’d been told, rather than what she truly believed, but she was crying again so he let it pass.
He held her through the fresh round of tears, murmuring sweet nothings to her in Russian, pressing kisses to her wet cheeks and bringing tissues to blow her nose. When she was finally quiet, he whispered, “I’m putting you to bed.”
She nodded, and didn’t struggle this time when he picked her up. She didn’t pull away when he tucked her into the bed and climbed in beside her, cuddling her close. She let him hold her, let him soothe her, and drifted off to sleep.
Dimitri didn’t rest so easily. He was overwhelmed by all she’d shared, both grateful that she’d trusted him to share it, and determined to do his part to help her. She still had secrets, but he could wait.
Her mother had done a number on her. But if there was one thing he was good at—other than dancing—it was caring about people. At one point in his life, he’d had nothing but his family. Now, even though they were separated by an entire country, everything he did was for them.
If she let him, he’d show her he was serious. He’d show her how much he loved her.
If he’d loved her before, it was nothing compared to the way he felt now. He admired the hell out of her—her quiet strength, her compassion, her work ethic. How could someone so amazing think she was unworthy of love? It was ridiculous to him, but they all had their own demons.
It was on him to show her the truth. By the time he was done, there’d be no doubt in her mind that she was lovable beyond belief.
23
Natasha woke the next morning and stared at the ceiling for a long time. When she was a kid, there was a crack in the ceiling that, when looked at from the right angle, resembled a dragon. Since she’d had a loft bed at one end of the living room blocked off by a couple bookcases, she’d spent a lot of time with that ceiling and dragon.
Dimitri’s ceiling had that popcorn stuff on it, but with her glasses on, she picked out faces here and there. Her eyes jumped from one to the next. There, a crooked smiley face. To the right, a guy with a big nose and funny glasses. Above that, a sleepy face. Diagonal from there, an elf. And back to the beginning.
She’d traced this path other mornings when she’d woken in his bed. Warring senses of comfort and awkwardness kept her pinned to the sheets. Did she get up and make herself at home? Did she cuddle? Did she grab her stuff and run home?
Dimitri liked to cuddle, and he never made her feel like she had to get out of his hair, but . . . there was always that worry. No-strings attachments were nice in a lot of ways, but since there was no commitment, it was impossible to feel totally comfortable in the other person’s space. Even now, having spent the last few days in his bed and days before that living in his home, the dual urges ofrunandstayparalyzed her.
Especially after last night.
She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath through her nose at the memory of her breakdown. What a mess. She’d unloaded all her fears and mommy issues on him. Worse, she’dwantedto. All the worry, the pain, the toxic feelings she bottled up—like a dam breaking, the pressure had finally become too much, and it was easier to let it all spill out.
Maybe now he’d understand why she had to get out of here.
Not that she could go anywhere at the moment. Her crutches were still nowhere to be seen, and Dimitri had slung a heavy arm around her middle and buried his face in her shoulder. Rather than feeling trapped, his weight was a comfort. He washere.She wasn’t alone.
She’d shown him her shadows, and he hadn’t run screaming into the night. He hadn’t even gone back to bed. He’d stuck it out, holding her, soothing her, listening and murmuring endearments in Russian. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t known the exact words. The sentiment was there.
The still-raw feelings wouldn’t let her read too much into it. But it meant something, that he was here, and he wanted her here with him.
Love was still a stretch. She didn’t believe that was it. But maybe . . . maybe she didn’t have to hold back so much. Maybe she could let him in and put herself out there. After last night, it didn’t seem so scary.
Why wait to start? No time like the present.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she turned toward him and cuddled closer to his warmth. His eyes didn’t open, but his chest rose in a deep breath and he shifted his arm, pulling her closer.
With her face tucked into his chest, she breathed in the lingering scent of his cologne. She’d researched it once to tease out the scents she so closely associated with his masculinity. Most of them she didn’t understand—what the hell were aldehydes?—but the others she could pick up. Something woodsy, citrusy, with an overlying layer of what the color green would smell like, if colors had smells.
After a few moments, his arm moved, rubbing up and down her back, his hand a heavy, hot pressure through the thin fabric of her sleep tank. Then his chin rubbed against the top of her head, and he pressed a kiss to her hair. He was slowly waking up.
