Dance With Me: A Dance Off Novel

by Alexis Daria

  Natasha shrugged and popped an olive in her mouth. “You’ve said worse.”

  He propped his elbows on the table and pressed his face into his hands. “I have, haven’t I?”

  “You might be right about one thing, though.”

  “Finally.” He lifted his head. “What’s that?”

  Her fingers toyed with the stem of the wine glass. “I should call Gina. And probably tell her about . . . what I did before she moved here.”

  “Only if you want to. It’s yours to tell. Nobody needs to know everything you’ve ever done.”

  Not even him.

  “I thought I could leave it behind. It was something I’d done. I wasn’t proud of it, but I wasn’t really ashamed, either. You saw the show. There’s some serious talent on that stage. Jeff is careful about that, and he treated us well.”

  “I’ll admit, I was surprised by how good it was. And Renee? That woman can move.”

  “I know, right? She’s like a snake. Everything I can do on a pole, I owe to her.”

  “I’m definitely getting one installed. And then I’m sending her a thank you present.”

  Her smile dimmed. “Dimitri, I can’t stay. They’ll fire me.”

  “Who said the pole was for you? It looked like a good workout.” She laughed, so he kept the conversation light, even though he worried she was right. “Those ladies had incredible core strength. I didn’t even know you could do all that on a pole.”

  “Renee’s great at putting together unique pole routines. She has quite a fan following.”

  “Seems like you did, too.” Just the thought of that guy touching her against her wishes made his blood boil.

  She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, I think that was because Jeff babied me a bit. He knew I didn’t want to be there—not that anyone really does—but I auditioned with ballet and salsa. He made sure I learned the pole and did that, but he didn’t make me do too much more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like . . . lap dances and stuff. Private dances. The men loved me. Maybe too much. So, Jeff kept me on the stage where they couldn’t get to me.”

  “Did anything . . .”

  “No. Never.”

  Thank god. “How do you feel?” At her look, he jumped to explain. “After being there again. After that asshole jumped on you. I am sorry for that. We should have just come here.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m glad we went. It’s . . . it’s something in my past, but it’s part of me, part of my journey as a dancer. I can’t forget about it or lock it away.”

  “It would be okay if you did. You’re entitled to your secrets.”

  “Says the guy who was practically drooling with curiosity after meeting Renee.” She snorted. “You’re a big ol’ gossip, Macho.”

  He shrugged. “You should meet the rest of my family.”

  Shit.

  He was saved from having to elaborate on that when the appetizers arrived. He knew what Natasha liked from the nights he’d brought food home from the restaurant. Beet salad, sweet cheese pierogies, and of course, fries.

  Natasha dug right into the fries. “I meant to tell you this before. The fries here are fucking fantastic, even when you bring them home and we have to reheat them.” She shoved a few in her mouth and moaned, eyes rolling back as she chewed. “And fresh? Heavenly.”

  “They’re my mom’s favorite, too,” he said. Damn it. Again. Why was he still talking about his family? “I had to make sure we had fries on the menu, just the way she likes them.”

  Natasha dipped one in ketchup and used it to point. “Your mom has good taste.”

  And she wants to meet you. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but Dimitri held them back. It was enough that the staff were meeting her tonight. He’d hold off on subjecting her to his pushy, loud, opinionated family.

  He reached across the table and took her hand—the one that wasn’t holding more fries. She smiled at him as she chewed and the moment was sweeter than any others he could remember.

  And ruined by Carlito, who chose that moment to zip over to them.

  “¿Está todo bien?” he asked.

  Even though the words were directed at Natasha, Dimitri answered, shooing away his nosy manager. “Everything’s fine. Go away.”

  Natasha shook her head, but her fingers tightened on his. “Are you always so mean to your staff?”

  “You should hear how they talk to me. No respect.”

  She took a sip of wine. “You know, I used to think you were scary.”

  “Wait, you don’t still think I’m scary? I need to try harder.”

  She snorted into her wine glass, then glared at him as she wiped her mouth with a napkin. “You know you have a reputation. And I was a fan. I loved Aliens Don’t Dance. When I met you, it was like a fantasy come to life.”

  Uneasiness filtered through him. Their first meeting had been an accident. He realized it later, but when she walked into the rehearsal room, he’d been going through choreography in his head, and suddenly there was someone to test it out with. He’d grabbed her, pulling her into the dance, and she’d gone willingly every step of the way. He just hadn’t expected it to be so perfect.

  Her responsiveness to his lead had floored him, as if they were telepathically linked and she could anticipate each move as he thought it.

  When it was over, he’d asked her name. After she gave it, he asked, “You know who I am?” When she admitted she did, he told her, “Come over tonight.”

  It was fast, even for him, and kicked off everything between them. But he hadn’t known she was a fan then. Had it contributed to her interest in him? A month ago, he wouldn’t have asked. Now, they were too close for him not to, even as he dreaded the answer.

  “Is that why you went home with me that first night?”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head and waved a hand like that was silly. “I mean, it helped that I already knew who you were. It didn’t feel like you were a stranger, so I wasn’t worried you were going to murder me and bury my body in your backyard. But you were all intense and sexy and commanding, and dancing with you was like foreplay. I wanted to go.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t even know how to respond to all that.” He paused. “Wait, bury you in my backyard?”

  She shrugged. “A girl can’t be too careful.”

  The entrees arrived, and Natasha beamed at Mariska as she set the salmon plate in front of her.

  “That’s your favorite, right?” Dimitri tucked into his pork chop. “You’ve asked for it a couple times.”

  Her expression softened. “Yeah, it is.”

  “Good. Well, enjoy.”

  As he chewed, he wanted to say more. He wanted to tell her he loved her again, but having her here, in the restaurant, was already too much, and there was no telling how she’d respond. In any case, he was supposed to be showing her, not telling her. Instead, he turned the conversation to her.

  “There’s one thing I’m curious about,” he said.

  She sent him a wary look. “Shoot.”

  “Why did you work there?”

  Her brow creased. “You know why. I was out of money.”

  Like now. He narrowed his eyes, wondering at the parallels. “That’s not what I meant. You said that woman—Damaris?—got you the interview. How did you meet her?”

  “I was interviewing for a waitressing job, but they basically told me my tits were too small.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you can guess which restaurant. Damaris was working there, too, and after we chatted a bit, she told me about the Planet. I went in, met Jeff and Renee, and the rest is history.”

  He finished chewing and set down his fork. “It doesn’t change anything,” he said in a low voice. “For me, I mean. It doesn’t change what I think about you.”

  She sighed. “I appreciate that. But I have the same question for you.” She gestured with her fork. “Why do you work here? You’re a movie star.”

  He took another bit
e and thought about her question. “There’s the easy answer.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s smart to diversify your interests and have multiple streams of income.”

  “Especially for dancers.” She poked at the beet salad left on the table. “Our careers won’t last forever.”

  “Right. But that’s still the easy answer.”

  She turned her full attention on him, her dark eyes serious. “So, what’s the real reason?”

  He could tell her that it was a low-risk venture. That Alex had done most of the legwork. That it turned out he liked owning a restaurant. But he went with the deepest reason. “My uncle owned a bakery in Brooklyn. I spent a lot of time there, and the employees and customers were like family. I wanted to recreate that out here on the West Coast, since all my real family—my grandmothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents—are all back on the East Coast.”

  “But on a more extravagant scale,” she said, glancing over her shoulders at the other diners.

  “Of course.” He grinned. “You know I don’t do things by halves. We have a lot of regular customers, and the employees stick around.”

  “I don’t know what that’s like.” She picked at her napkin. “The family part, I mean. I barely know my extended family. Every so often I think about hopping a plane to Puerto Rico to try to form a connection with my grandparents, maybe even try to find my father, but what’s the point? They’d be strangers. I’m not even close with the relatives I have in New York.”

  “Have you ever been to Puerto Rico?”

  She shook her head. “Can you believe that? Sometimes I can’t. I was almost born there, and I’ve never even visited.”

  “I haven’t been back. To Ukraine.” He shrugged. “Everyone left and never looked back. There’s nothing there for me.”

  She squeezed his hand. “That’s how I feel, too. I don’t even go to New York, except for work. My great-grandmother died, and Gina moved to LA with me. My mother is the only one left there, and we . . . well, we don’t get along.”

  And now Gina was gone, leaving Natasha alone. He cupped her hand in both of his and rubbed. They’d both lost the two people closest to them in this city when Gina and Nik’s careers took them away from Los Angeles.

  But they’d found each other. And finally, after all this time, they were getting out their own way and coming together.

  He’d make it work. He didn’t know how yet, but he was determined. For now, he just had to show her she deserved love. Once she accepted that he loved her, they could take the next step, whatever that might be.

  33

  By the time they finished eating, the restaurant had cleared out significantly. It was late, and the staff were prepping to close.

  “Do you want a tour?” Dimitri asked. His eyes followed the movements of her tongue as she licked molten chocolate off a spoon.

  Yeah, she was still wired up after the burlesque show, and she was teasing him. Sitting on his lap with his hardness pressing against her through their clothes had been the sweetest torture. Every time she’d shifted her weight, grinding her ass against him, had been intentional, and there was a good chance he knew it.

  “I’d love a tour. Unlike your house, I’ve never actually been here before.”

  He pressed a hand to his chest and whistled. “Ouch. Direct hit.”

  “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “You’re not.” He got to his feet and held out a hand for her. Before spraining her ankle, it was something that would have driven her crazy. But the fact that he offered assistance now, every single time she got up from a chair or exited the car . . . well, his attentiveness didn’t annoy her, that was for sure. “Considerate” wasn’t a word she would have previously associated with Dimitri, but here he was, anticipating her every whim and need.

  If she wasn’t careful, she’d get used to it. She took his hand and let him lead her through the door marked “Employees Only.”

  “This better not be a ploy to bend me over your desk and play out some kind of boss-and-employee fantasy.”

  He bit back a laugh. “Don’t give me any ideas.”

  He took her through the kitchen, introducing her to the sous-chef and the cooks. A number of them spoke Spanish, and she chatted with them about the menu, praising the dishes she’d tried. Even though she was full, she tried the dishes they pressed on her, because it would have been rude not to, and also stupid. Only an idiot would turn down a behind-the-scenes tasting at one of LA’s hottest restaurants.

  The waitresses asked her dozens of questions about working on The Dance Off. Apparently, Dimitri refused to talk about the show with them, and they were hungry for gossip.

  Carlito joined the tour, his pride for the restaurant clear in the way he spoke about it, and his admiration for Dimitri’s restaurateur skills hidden in underlying tones.

  As they were finally leaving, Carlito reiterated his earlier message once again: Dimitri had never brought another woman to Krasavitsa.

  “Eres una dama especial,” he added with a knowing smile. Natasha mulled over his words as baby-faced Raul brought them the car, and came to one conclusion.

  Maybe this was real.

  Dimitri had brought her to the restaurant. And if Carlito was to be believed, he’d never brought another woman there.

  He’d gone with her to Babe Planet, seen what it was like, and didn’t judge her for her choices when so many people would. Even more, he’d stood up for her, then stepped back to let her deal with the problem herself. Then he’d apologized for bringing her there, like it was his fault. Like she hadn’t gone there of her own volition, five days a week for three months.

  And then the restaurant. The smiles from the staff. The way they teased Dimitri and couldn’t stop watching them.

  As far as first dates went, it was pretty perfect. But it wasn’t a date. They couldn’t date, because if they did . . .

  She didn’t want to picture Donna’s reaction. The cold smile, the flat eyes. Donna would start with an apology, but she’d be eating it up, thriving on the drama. Or, worse, she’d hold it over Natasha’s head, using it as leverage to twist Natasha’s storylines, like she did to Gina a few months earlier.

  Or—shit—what if they didn’t fire her, but knocked her down to backup dancer? She’d bypassed it before, because she’d proven her skills on Everybody Dance Now. The backup dancers were fresh-faced hopefuls, happy to be on TV but aching for the chance to be pro partners. They danced during group numbers and commercial breaks, but got paid less and didn’t receive much press or attention. It would also look terrible to future job prospects. So terrible, she’d probably have to quit to save face.

  God, this was a nightmare.

  She should leave now. Pack her things, go crash on Lori’s couch. Find a hotel. Or just give up and put the last of her money into a one-way plane ticket to New York.

  But as she looked over at Dimitri, she couldn’t do it. Even if what was growing between them was impossible, she couldn’t deny that something was there. At the very least, she deserved to indulge it tonight, if only to quiet the stupid hope clamoring inside.

  What was one more mistake? She’d already made so many.

  “What are you thinking about so hard over there, Kroshka?”

  Taking a deep breath, she decided to tell him the truth.

  34

  Dimitri glanced over at her. The freeway lights skittered over Natasha’s face, casting her in bands of light and shadow. She looked as mysterious as ever, but there was a tiny crease between her brows.

  At his question, she cut her eyes over to him and gave him a slow, sexy smile. “How lucky you’re going to get when we’re home.”

  Leather creaked as his fingers tightened on the wheel. The speedometer ticked past eighty.

  Home.

  It meant everything that she’d think of his house as home. If she felt comfortable enough, maybe she’d stay.

  It had been bad enough after Nik left. The quiet, the emptines
s, the loneliness. If he were being honest with himself, it had been part of what prompted him to invite Natasha to stay in the first place. He’d jumped at the chance to have another person sharing his space. The house was too big for just him.

  But if Natasha left? There would be no replacing her. Her sweet, sassy presence filled his home to every corner, making it feel lived in, used, and loved. She brought new scents to his kitchen, new music, and the sound of conversation and laughter. She gave him a reason to dance in his own house, something he’d always meant to do, but never done.

  He didn’t want her to leave. He—and his home—needed her to feel whole.

  But she was still looking up apartments, still set on moving out before the next season started filming in a few weeks.

  “How turned on were you tonight?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts. “At the show.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever been more turned on in my life.” He shot her a heated look. “Can you dance like that?”

  “Burlesque?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Macho, are you asking if I’ll do a striptease for you?” She flashed him a wicked grin.

  “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t—”

  “I will.” Her lips curled, and she got a calculating look on her face. “For you, I will.”

  That was better than the “maybe” she’d given him about the pole.

  When he pulled into the garage, he rounded the hood to open the door for her and help her out. She stepped close to him and put her hands on his cheeks. Her eyes were dark and hot, her smile tempting beyond belief. When she pulled him down to kiss her, he would have given her the world.

  His hands settled on her waist, and she kept it light and soft. Just the warm press of lips and the tease of tongue. When they broke apart, she whispered against his mouth, “Take me inside and make love to me.”

  He stroked her cheek, and because he was a dick, asked, “What about your rule?”

  She kissed him again, harder this time. “Fuck the rules. Carry me to bed, Macho.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he said, even though she just had. He hooked his hands under her thighs, boosting her up so she could lock her legs around his hips and her arms around his shoulders.