My mom makes a few sounds of disbelief, and then…hangs up. Yep, she ends the call without another word because Vivian Donelson doesn’t know how to react when someone puts her in her place. I’m sure I’ll get a call from my dad in about an hour demanding I apologize to my mom and telling me how she hasn’t come out of her room since we spoke because she was so hurt. She birthed me after all! Did everything she could to make my dreams come true! How dare I not let her micromanage my entire life! It’s why I usually avoid conflict with them. It’s just easier to go along with her and let her stampede over me than get into something with them that will eat up all my energy. But where Bree is concerned, it’s a fight I’ll take on every day.
I turn back toward the studio and find the teen baring all of his teeth in my direction. The pen is shaking in his hand. I train my face into a pleasant smile even though pleasant is the least thing I feel. This mask I have to wear is just part of the job. Can’t let the fans down. Can’t let the team down. Can’t let anyone down.
“Hey man,” I say, walking closer. “Sorry about that. Do you want an autograph?”
He shakes like a leaf the entire time as I sign the napkin, thanks me profusely, tucks it back inside his canvas apron, and darts back into the pizza kitchen. I hurry up the steep stairs of the studio before the kid can tell anyone else inside that I’m out here.
The moment I open the studio door, I hear Bree’s voice counting out beats in the main room. It’s hot up here due to the heat the pizza stoves give off, and it smells like yeast and dancer’s sweat. Not a great combo. Immediately my mind starts racing to all the ways I could improve this space for her, but even in my imagination, Bree won’t let me get away with anything. I feel a phantom pinch on my side and picture her leveling me with a glare. Don’t you even think about it, Donelson!
The studio is laid out like one long horizontal box. After stepping through the front door, I’m standing in the four-foot-wide hallway that runs the length of the entire studio. If I keep walking straight, the next door goes right into the actual studio. To my left is eight feet of hallway that ends in a single-room bathroom, and to my right is eight more feet of hallway that ends with Bree’s office.
I follow the music and sounds of dancers’ feet thumping the floor until my head is peeking into the studio. I find twelve teenage dancers doing some sort of hop-jump-foot-crisscross thing with Bree standing in front of them, back to me. She’s wearing my favorite strappy leotard today, the one that shows miles and miles of her toned back. Just as my eyes are dropping to my favorite curvy backside on the planet, the dancers begin to notice me one by one. Like a row of dominoes tumbling, the girls stumble into each other and hit the floor.
Bree yelps at the sight and turns the music off with a remote. “Imani! Hannah! Are you girls, al—”
She’s cut off when one of the girls points aggressively in my direction. “It’s HIM!”
I swear the sound of Bree’s head turning in my direction makes a wind-tunnel noise. Her eyes land on me and BAM, her attention kicks me in the heart. Her look of shock slowly slides off and a smile unfurls. I want to wrap my arms around her waist. I want to drop my mouth to her neck and kiss my way up and down it. She looks dangerously sexy in her leotard and dance shorts. I love when she wears that tidy ballet bun, because there’s something so satisfying about knowing what her hair looks like when it’s not wrapped up tight like that. There’s always a moment at the end of the day when she takes the pins out and all those wild curls fall down around her shoulders—kills me every time.
Yesterday on set, I felt something between us. It wasn’t one-sided. Bree was reacting to me, and every time I touched her, she blushed or leaned in a little closer. Although it was in the name of fake dating, there was some serious mutual flirting that didn’t feel fake. It was perfect.
Until she bolted.
The SUV was barely parked before she jumped out and told me not to follow her because she didn’t feel good. “What’s wrong?” I asked her. “It’s…MY PERIOD!” she said and then ran out like that was an actual answer. Except, apparently she forgot she’s a notorious over-sharer and had already told me a week and a half ago she was on her period.