Page 52 of Movers and Fakers

I’m not sure why, but the fact that he chooses those as his first words to me makes some of the tension leave my body.

“Yeah, at the dance school I grew up going to.”

“I’m trying to picture you as a teacher, but I’m failing,” he replies, amusement threaded through his raspy voice.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You remember how I had to tell you the truth earlier?” he asks in return.

My brows pinch together in confusion. “Yes?”

“That means you have to be honest when you answer my next question: have you ever made a student cry?”

I gasp and sit up, turning to smack him on the chest.

“You jerk!”

He chuckles, and the sound unwinds the anxiety in my chest further.

“That wasn’t a no.”

I glare at him. “One time, okay? I didn’t realize how sensitive seven-year-olds could be.”

Laughter fills my bedroom and I hit him again. He grabs my wrist and dons an incorrigible grin.

“Why don’t we save the sparring for our date?”

I go to hit him with my other hand, but that’s a mistake. Within seconds, I’m on my back underneath him, wrists pinned.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, my eyes darting to the door. “Someone could come back here any second.”

“I warned you,” he teases, and the warm tenor of his voice sends ripples of heat through my body.

“That was not a warning—it was a suggestion at best. Now let me go.” I struggle beneath him, but it’s no use. The man is made of pure muscle and fights people for fun.

His eyes meet mine, and the look in them makes me go still. There’s something gentle hidden within them. And he’s smiling, but it’s more soft than teasing. My lips part. No words come. His gaze dips. I’m suddenly aware of everywhere we’re touching. The weight of his body pressed against mine. His large hand holding both my wrists. My face heats.

“If we were somewhere else …” he whispers as his gaze travels, caressing my face without truly touching me.

My mind races to fill in the blanks of his sentence, but the logical part of me is putting up blockades, not letting me think too long or hard about it.

I watch Hayes’s throat bob as he swallows. He shakes his head a little, like he’s waking up from a dream, and falls back beside me. Slowly, I pull my hands down from above my head, barely resisting the urge to settle one over my pounding heart.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the recital?” he asks.

The emotional whiplash of the change in conversation stuns me silent for a moment.

Once my brain catches up, I whisper, “I didn’t think you’d care.”

“You came to my fight. I should come to your things too.” He pauses. “No one is going to believe this if we don’t show up for each other.”

“That’s sort of the problem,” I mumble. “My parents love you, Hayes. And apparently my brother idolizes you.”

“I don’t understand. Wouldn’t it be bad if they didn’t like me?”

I rub my eyes, feeling a headache blooming behind them.

“I-I don’t bring guys home, okay?” Embarrassment crawls over my skin like ants. “And because of that, my mom is probably seeing wedding dresses and table settings whenever she looks at you. They’re going to be heartbroken when this is over.”