meetings?
She’d been driven to succeed in her field, but never had she pushed herself like this.
‘I’ll see you back here shortly.’
‘I’m going for a walk first.’
His eyebrows shot up, as if she’d announced she was planning to hula down Bourke Street.
‘I don’t start ’til eight, remember? Unless you want me for something urgent?’
Instant heat flared to life in his eyes, before he blinked, damped it.
‘It can wait.’
His tone, brisk and businesslike, grated. Didn’t anything ever rattle him?
‘Fine. I’ll see you later.’
She whirled away, annoyed at him, angry at herself for still wanting him despite her week of telling herself it couldn’t happen. His hand snuck out and landed on her shoulder, halting her, gently spinning her around.
‘What’s wrong?’
Compressing her lips, she shook her head.
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Maybe I do.’
Her heart stilled as he leaned towards her, a tantalising waft of some expensive citrus aftershave washing over her, tempting her to merengue her way into his arms in two seconds flat.
The tense silence between them grew. Her skin was tingling with expectation, her breath choppy as her heart skipped to a mambo beat.
Anticipation. Nothing like it. She was addicted to it—loved the expectant buzz before she first stepped on stage, the rush of adrenalin as she took her first leap in a new dance routine.
Then, like now, she stood on the precipice of something great, something exciting, something to set her pulse pounding and send her body into sensation overload.
‘I don’t want anything affecting your work today. We’ve got loads to do.’ He dropped his hand, stepped away. ‘So whatever’s wrong, tell me.’
Work. Of course. As if he cared about anything else—as if he gave a hoot about her.
Mentally calling herself every name under the sun for believing he was half as attracted to her as she was to him, she folded her arms, refrained from pouting—just.
‘I miss my workouts, my dance practice. It’s making me edgy.’
His probing gaze lingered on her for several long moments before he pointed down the corridor.
‘The ballroom’s that way. Feel free to use it.’
‘Really?’
‘Whatever it takes to get you focussed on the job.’
‘Thanks.’
She should be ecstatic. She had a good job with a dependable income, a fabulous place to live, and now somewhere she could get back into shape before restarting her rounds of the local dance companies.
Things were looking up.
So why couldn’t she shake her foul mood as she raised her hand in a wave and headed to the cottage to change?
Starr huffed into the ballroom.
She should be grateful Callum had allowed her access to this incredible space. Instead, she flung her towel and water bottle into a corner and cranked up the music on her iPod, needing to vent some of her anger through dance.
It had worked as a kid when she’d danced off years of resentment at her parents, it had worked after Sergio, and it sure better work now or she’d explode.
Maybe it was hormones? Maybe it was pique that Callum could pretend nothing had ever happened between them? Maybe she just needed to stretch and leap and fling herself around after being cooped up for a week? But, whatever the reason, she needed to obliterate her thoughts with what she knew best: dance.
The soft, ethereal beat of her warm-up music filtered through her ears, softening her muscles, making her nerve endings tingle with the familiar urge to move.
She stretched her neglected muscles: lengthening hamstrings, quadriceps, calves, enjoying the slight tug of pain indicating she’d never gone this long without working out.
Flopping forward, she swung side to side, shook her arms out, and as she straightened took several deep breaths and reached heavenward. The last of her anger disappeared on her fifth exhale.
Oh, yeah, this was exactly what she needed.
The music filled her. Filled her body, her senses, infusing her
She’d been driven to succeed in her field, but never had she pushed herself like this.
‘I’ll see you back here shortly.’
‘I’m going for a walk first.’
His eyebrows shot up, as if she’d announced she was planning to hula down Bourke Street.
‘I don’t start ’til eight, remember? Unless you want me for something urgent?’
Instant heat flared to life in his eyes, before he blinked, damped it.
‘It can wait.’
His tone, brisk and businesslike, grated. Didn’t anything ever rattle him?
‘Fine. I’ll see you later.’
She whirled away, annoyed at him, angry at herself for still wanting him despite her week of telling herself it couldn’t happen. His hand snuck out and landed on her shoulder, halting her, gently spinning her around.
‘What’s wrong?’
Compressing her lips, she shook her head.
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Maybe I do.’
Her heart stilled as he leaned towards her, a tantalising waft of some expensive citrus aftershave washing over her, tempting her to merengue her way into his arms in two seconds flat.
The tense silence between them grew. Her skin was tingling with expectation, her breath choppy as her heart skipped to a mambo beat.
Anticipation. Nothing like it. She was addicted to it—loved the expectant buzz before she first stepped on stage, the rush of adrenalin as she took her first leap in a new dance routine.
Then, like now, she stood on the precipice of something great, something exciting, something to set her pulse pounding and send her body into sensation overload.
‘I don’t want anything affecting your work today. We’ve got loads to do.’ He dropped his hand, stepped away. ‘So whatever’s wrong, tell me.’
Work. Of course. As if he cared about anything else—as if he gave a hoot about her.
Mentally calling herself every name under the sun for believing he was half as attracted to her as she was to him, she folded her arms, refrained from pouting—just.
‘I miss my workouts, my dance practice. It’s making me edgy.’
His probing gaze lingered on her for several long moments before he pointed down the corridor.
‘The ballroom’s that way. Feel free to use it.’
‘Really?’
‘Whatever it takes to get you focussed on the job.’
‘Thanks.’
She should be ecstatic. She had a good job with a dependable income, a fabulous place to live, and now somewhere she could get back into shape before restarting her rounds of the local dance companies.
Things were looking up.
So why couldn’t she shake her foul mood as she raised her hand in a wave and headed to the cottage to change?
Starr huffed into the ballroom.
She should be grateful Callum had allowed her access to this incredible space. Instead, she flung her towel and water bottle into a corner and cranked up the music on her iPod, needing to vent some of her anger through dance.
It had worked as a kid when she’d danced off years of resentment at her parents, it had worked after Sergio, and it sure better work now or she’d explode.
Maybe it was hormones? Maybe it was pique that Callum could pretend nothing had ever happened between them? Maybe she just needed to stretch and leap and fling herself around after being cooped up for a week? But, whatever the reason, she needed to obliterate her thoughts with what she knew best: dance.
The soft, ethereal beat of her warm-up music filtered through her ears, softening her muscles, making her nerve endings tingle with the familiar urge to move.
She stretched her neglected muscles: lengthening hamstrings, quadriceps, calves, enjoying the slight tug of pain indicating she’d never gone this long without working out.
Flopping forward, she swung side to side, shook her arms out, and as she straightened took several deep breaths and reached heavenward. The last of her anger disappeared on her fifth exhale.
Oh, yeah, this was exactly what she needed.
The music filled her. Filled her body, her senses, infusing her
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