Page 59 of Dance with Me
When it came time to put the moves in order, Dimitri took over, leading the class. She manned the music, stopping and starting as necessary, and tried to close her heart to the scene before her.
It was impossible, of course. Dimitri was a natural, damn him. His deep, booming voice, so intimidating for some of the top dancers in the industry, managed to convey comforting, encouraging tones when he talked to the children. He did silly moves to make them laugh, and gave direction with kindness. He was attentive to each child, looking them in the eye as he listened, and speaking to them as equals.
There was something wrong with her. She’d never been the kind of woman to get all sappy about a guy interacting with kids. But she knew these kids. She cared about them, cared about the work done at this school, fostering an appreciation of dance that had nothing to do with how well the children completed moves and everything to do with how much they loved what they were doing.
Dance had done that for her. It had saved her, given her a focus for her life, and a community of people who understood her. Dance gave her value when her mother hadn’t.
Her first dance teacher, Mr. Richie, had seen promise in her. He’d nurtured her talent and interest. At the time, she’d hoped her mother would see her skill and be proud of her.
It had never happened.
So, she did her part here, instilling a love of dance in the younger generations. She listened and cared for the kids in her class, because she knew firsthand how much it meant to have an adult who wasn’t a parent be invested in your well-being.
For her, it had been priceless. And she’d been blessed to have other dance teachers who had also cared.
Who would she be now if not for them?
Who are you if not a dancer?
No, not the time to think of that. She was a dancer. She had to be.
It was all she had.
She glanced at her ankle. It was almost fully healed. She’d be back in fighting shape in a day or two, would probably be running around already if not for Nursemaid Dimitri.
He was singing a song with the kids while they waved their arms and acted out the lyrics. He was a terrible singer—not that she was one to talk—but his deep, rich voice made up for being off-key. Normally, his voice gave her delicious chills, goosebumps, and a sweet tingle she craved. When he growled her name, or called herKroshka—hell, even when she overheard him backstage atThe Dance Off—she came close to throwing herself at his feet.
But she didn’t. That would give the game away. That would reveal how much she wanted him.
Today, though, his voice had a different effect. Rather than setting her on edge in a sensuous way, keeping her in a state of suspended tension where she never knew what he’d do next, today his voice comforted her. All these days of living with him, hearing him call her from a different room, or muttering into the phone in Russian, she’d grown accustomed to the sound. He’d twined his way into her consciousness like he belonged there. Like he fit. Like it was right.
Longing. Yeah, who was she kidding? She longed for him. He had two kids hanging from each bicep, their delighted squeals ringing through the air, but it was his booming laugh that wound its way into her heart.
“Time for the last song,” she called out. “Will you all show Mr. Dima what we’ve been practicing?”
They ran to take their places. Dimitri stepped to the side to watch. Natasha turned on their recital song, calling out the moves while the children went through them with uncharacteristic seriousness.
When they were done, she and Dimitri broke into applause. Dimitri stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled.
The kids beamed and rushed them both, full of smiles and questions.
“Miss Tasha?” Talia, a tiny four-year-old with big eyes, squeezed in next to her. Talia loved that they had similar names, and often announced that fact proudly to anyone who would listen.
“Yes, Miss Talia?”
Talia giggled, then shot a shy look at Dimitri. “Is Mr. Dima your husband?”
Natasha’s breath seized in her chest. She forced a smile. “No, he’s not. We’re just friends.”
“Oh.” Talia’s brow creased and she frowned. Then she leaned in and whispered in Natasha’s ear. “I think he should be your husband. Even though he has a beard and moo-stache.”
Stifling a laugh, Natasha nodded like she would take this suggestion seriously. She met Dimitri’s eyes over the children’s heads, and he shot her a smile so full of . . .
She didn’t even know what. It scared her too much to put a name to it.
But at that look, her heart rolled over in her chest and woke the hell up.
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