Rusk University: All Lined Up Part 16

She trails off, wiping the scowl and every other hint of expression off her face.

If I were a nicer guy, I'd let her get away with it.

"When you used to help Abrams? You guys used to be together, right?"

She crosses her arms over her chest, and in that leather jacket she looks as intimidating and s.e.xy as I've ever seen her.

"Fantastic. What is he telling people now?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, I'm sure Levi just casually dropped into conversation that we dated over two years ago with no ulterior motive. Sounds just like him."

I let my arm slip off her knee, wrap it around her legs, and give her a squeeze. "I heard you'd dated. I didn't bother listening beyond that because, frankly, I didn't want to. He's a d.i.c.k, and I don't like him. I sure as h.e.l.l don't like thinking about you and him even in the same sentence."

"Welcome to the club," she mutters.

"Okay. Enough of that. Someone promised me I could ask personal questions."

"What? My love life wasn't personal enough for you?"

My jaw tenses when she says love life. Of all the words she could choose to describe her past with Abrams, that one is way, way down the list of what I prefer to hear.

And since I don't have any right to feel territorial, over Abrams or that hipster outside that party or anyone, I choose a very different subject.

"Why dance?"

"Why football?"

"Because it's the only thing in my life I haven't dreaded or hated or failed miserably at. It's what I'm good at, in comparison to everything else anyway."

Her head tilts to the side, and she sits up, leaning toward me. Her stomach grazes the arm I have wrapped around her legs, and that brief touch is all I can think about.

"Do you love it?" she asks.

"Cole, you're the one griping at me for working out too much. What do you think?"

She doesn't miss that I haven't answered the question, but she sits back against the armrest anyway, taking away any chance that she'll brush up against me again.

"Your turn," I say. "You love to dance?"

"Yes," she answers firmly. She arches her brow like a challenge and continues. "I have fun when I'm dancing, but I also, I don't know, feel more intensely there, too. When I dance, it's like I finally have everything figured out, like I've crossed over from the ordinary and am on the verge of discovering something wonderful. Inspiration, I guess. But it's bigger than that. I am bigger when I dance, like my heart fills my whole chest, and it's leaking out of me with every step and every breath."

Her green eyes are lit with such pa.s.sion, and the smile playing about her lips is the most gorgeous one I've seen yet. I think I feel more exuberance and life just radiating off of her than I've ever felt about something myself.

The way she talks about dance is a little like how I feel when I look at her. Overwhelmed and fulfilled and falling apart all at the same time.

I climb off the couch and pull her to her feet, suddenly desperate to see it.

"Show me."

She's still in a bit of a trance, caught up in her thoughts and emotions, and it takes her a few seconds to say, "What?"

"Show me. I want to see you dance."

Her eyes widen, and she chokes on a laugh.

"I can't just show you in your living room, Carson. I'm in jeans and boots and there's no room and no music and-"

I grip her arm and tug her away from the couch and out into the open s.p.a.ce where I occasionally work out at home.

"To quote your dad: don't give me excuses, Cole. Give me results."

Irritation blooms across her face. "Ugh. Why did you say that? I hate when he says that."

I laugh, and move my hand in gesture that tells her to get to it.

"I'm waiting, Daredevil." I stick out my arm, closing my hand in a fist. I throw her a playful smile and add, "You can use me as your bar thing, if you want."

"You are not seriously making me do this, are you?"

"Come on. What are you afraid of?"

"Making a fool of myself, twisting an ankle, splitting these ridiculously tight pants, giving you material to mock me for the next century . . . should I keep going?"

I shake my head, unable to contain my wide smile.

She sucks in a deep breath and starts in again. "Falling on my face, disgracing dancers everywhere, failing to impress you-"

I cut her off, getting right in her face.

"Hey." I take hold of her chin for extra emphasis. "You don't ever have to worry about impressing me."

"Just because you tell me not to worry about something doesn't mean I can stop. It's not a switch I can turn on and off."

"Then teach me something. I'll do it with you, and I promise I'll be the only one disgracing dancers everywhere."

She hesitates, and I can see her weighing her own dislike for the situation against the desire to watch me make a fool of myself.

Finally, she huffs, "Okay. I'll show you the basics. But I'm not dancing for real for you in your apartment. That's just weird."

She squares her shoulders and shakes her hair out of her face and begins. "So, there are basic positions for your feet and arms and then basic orientations, and everything else in ballet sort of works off of those."

"And that's what you do? Ballet?"

She sighs. "Yes and no. I do ballet. I love it. But I don't really have the training to be as good as I would need to be to do it professionally, and I'm not going to get it here. So mostly I do lyrical or contemporary, which is a little less rigid and more about the movement as a whole rather than body positioning and technique. But most people learn the basics of ballet first. And that's what I teach, too."

"You teach? You didn't tell me that."

"It's just something I do to help out my old dance teacher. I teach a couple cla.s.ses of little kids with five-minute attention spans. It's . . . interesting."

"Okay then, teach. Show me what to do."

"This is first position."

She stands with her heels touching and her feet spread so wide they're practically in a straight line.

I try to copy her, but lose my balance when I try to push my toes that wide and my body protests. She catches one of my flailing arms and smirks at me as I get my feet into the widest V I can manage.

"Close, but now you need to straighten your legs."

I do as she says, and the muscles of my calves and my a.s.s pull uncomfortably tight. She's still holding on to my arm, and she releases it to place both hands on my midsection, one on my stomach and one on my back. I'm hunched over slightly, and she pushes against me. "Stand up straight."

I do, but I have to hold on to her to manage it, which leaves her tucked under my arm, still touching my waist.

"Maybe we should have done this by a wall," she says.

"I'm a slow learner. The hands-on approach works best."

"Could you be any more obvious?"

"Sure."

I let go of the crazy foot position and use the arm around her shoulders to wrench her toward me. Then, just to make sure she doesn't wiggle away, I drop my arm down until it circles her waist and draw her closer. Both her hands have migrated to my lower back, so I don't feel too guilty.

"Do you ever dance with a partner?"

She doesn't meet my eyes, staring straight ahead at my neck instead. Then slowly, she bends her head until her forehead rests on my chest just below my collarbone. Beneath my hands, I feel her body curve on an inhale. She turns her head, s.h.i.+fts a little closer, and lays her cheek against my shoulder as she answers.

"No."

Chapter 17.

Dallas One of Carson's hands slips up my spine and curls around my shoulder, holding me the way he did the night we met. But now his hand is only under my jacket, not my s.h.i.+rt. His hold now is softer, sweeter, and surprisingly s.e.xier.

"Someday I'm going to see you dance, Cole."

I close my eyes, humming my acceptance, and just let him hold me, his thumb smudging up and down the back of my neck in a way that's both comforting and incendiary.

We've pa.s.sed the point where this is acceptable for a hug, but I just don't feel like letting go. And I'm scared to push it any further because if I don't feel like letting go of a hug, how much harder will it be to stop something more?

"I hate to break it to you," I begin, and his head tips down to hear me better. His lips graze my forehead lightly, then rest there for good, pus.h.i.+ng my heartbeat into a breakneck pace. "But I don't think you have a future as a dancer."

He laughs. "No, probably not."

It makes me laugh too, and I take the opportunity to slide out of his grasp, to gain some distance. His hand trails down my back as I step away, and that slow glide makes me s.h.i.+ver.

"Can we just watch another movie or something?"

"Sure."

He picks up the blanket from the recliner and hands it to me before heading to the TV.

"Any special requests?"

"Something that doesn't suck."

The smile he sends me makes me collapse on the couch a little harder than necessary.

"Comedy? Action? Drama? I don't have much in the way of chick flicks."

"Whatever you like."

I don't think I'll be able to pay attention enough for it to matter anyway.

In the end, he picks a television show on Netflix instead of a movie . . . something British about time travel. He doesn't start it at the beginning, but instead starts me on an episode from one of the later seasons that he says can stand alone.

It's a little cheesy, with some kind of techno sci-fi introduction music, but he seems excited about it.

While the beginning of the episode starts, he walks past the couch and back toward his bedroom. I take the opportunity to slip off my jacket and shoes, leaving me in a short-sleeve s.h.i.+rt. He returns a few seconds later with a pillow in hand and flips off the light.

He drops the pillow against the armrest and then leans back against it.

"Come here, Cole." He opens his arms to me, his voice deep and soft.

I only hesitate for a second before I get up, shake out the blanket, and lie down in front of him, my back to his chest. He s.h.i.+fts the pillow diagonally so that both of our heads can lie on it, his a few inches above mine. I can feel his breath ruffling my hair, and I feel a little light-headed. He situates the blanket over both of us, his hand brus.h.i.+ng up against my legs a few times and making me jump. When we're both comfortable, he drapes an arm over my waist and pulls me in until our bodies are curved together from head to toe.

I shut my eyes tight, and an irresistible smile starts pulling at my lips. I could fool myself into thinking that this is something that friends do, that it doesn't mean anything, but I'm not so sure that I want to be fooled anymore.

I've spent my whole life following along with whatever Dad wanted me to do. And when he wasn't busy constricting my life, I was doing it for him.

And now . . . I think it might be time to loosen the reins and let myself breathe.

Cautiously, I lay my arm over the top of his that's draped over my waist. He doesn't bother with caution. Boldly, he laces our fingers together before tucking both our hands between my side and the cus.h.i.+on, his arm wrapped firmly around my middle.

The show is interesting . . . with angel statues that come alive, basically ensuring that I'll never be able to turn my back to any statue again. Ever. But I'm more concerned with the person at my back now.

Halfway through the episode I say, "Carson?"

"Hmm?" He lifts his head off the pillow, leaning down and resting his chin against my shoulder.

I don't breathe before I ask, "Could you walk away?"