“See?” Frankie turned back to face the barre, her small feet immediately settling into a perfect first position. “Told you.”
Rubber squeaked against the floor as the man toed off his sneakers. The air around Remi was thick as she waited until he was barefoot.
“We’re going to start by warming up our ankles.” She positioned herself next to the teacher’s barre to demonstrate the exercise. “Slide your right foot along the floor in front of you, keeping toes pointed. Then flex and point, flex and point.”
The routine rolled off her tongue—she’d done it so many times now, she was quite sure she muttered “flex and point” in her sleep. To her surprise, the man had decent flexibility in his feet and ankles and didn’t sickle his foot like a lot of people did when they were new to ballet.
“Bring your foot into first position and then out to the side. Flex and point…”
While the rest of the class concentrated—the little ones in varying positions, legs and arms akimbo—the man watched her. He moved surely, confidently. Like a tiger. Remi was sure any other man in his position would have been at least mildly mortified at having to take part in a barre fitness class without preparation. But he was unfazed.
When she instructed them to start the next exercise, his eyes never left her. It was like he could see through her clothes, through her perky smile and plump ballerina bun. Through the layers of pink Lycra she wore like armor.
This wasn’t simple attraction. It was electric.
Stop it. You owe it to Mish to be professional.
Right, she had a job to do…but only for the next forty-five minutes.
Chapter 3
“On a scale of one to Jon Hamm, Wes Evans sits squarely at the ‘two hands required’ end of the spectrum.”
—PlainSlice
Wes immensely enjoyed the subtle game of cat and mouse he had going with the instructor of Frankie’s class. Her smug expression had been a red, flapping cape when she’d told him that he would have to join the class—almost as though she thought it would make him squirm. Little did she know…
It’d been a heck of a long time since Wes had done anything close to dancing. These days, he favored going for a run through Central Park or chasing Frankie around until they were both huffing and puffing. But muscle memory was a fascinating thing, and his body knew exactly what was required. He’d retained some of his fluidity, some of that strong posture and confident, graceful movement. All the things that allowed him to enter a room with a bang.
Most guys his age were monster trucks—big and powerful but clunky. Lumbering. Despite merciless bullying about his dancing when he was a kid, Wes knew it had been the very thing that made him who he was today. A sports car—smooth, stylish. A head turner.
Did that make him cocky? Hell yeah. But modesty didn’t get you anywhere. Not in this city, anyway.
Watching the instructor subtly raise a brow as he followed her steps had been enormously satisfying. She’d underestimated him.
“Great job, class. We’ve got a few final stretches and then we’re done.” Miss Perky Instructor grinned at the students, the bright expression turning smoky when her eyes landed on him. “Take a port de bras up over your heads and then hinge forward. Touch the floor if you can.”
The first movement of her demonstration grabbed his attention, the gentle whisk of her hands above her head into that perfect port de bras shape. But when she bent forward, folding herself in half and thrusting her pert ass into the air, Wes’s lungs almost gave out. The woman was wildfire.
The floor-to-ceiling mirrors behind her gave him a perfect view of her long, shapely legs and sweet, heart-shaped butt. But he wasn’t only captivated by her gorgeous body—there was something about her movement too. A quiet musicality and grace that hinted at formal training. Perhaps not much, since Wes knew everyone in the New York ballet scene. Though she did have an accent.
“Uncle Wes,” Frankie hissed. “You’re supposed to be standing up.”
He grunted when a small but sharp elbow landed hard against his rib cage. “Sorry, Frankie.”
He righted himself, catching up to the group and enjoying the instructor’s delightful smirk. Busted! She knew he’d been checking her out.
When the class finished, Frankie raced off to change into her sneakers, her distinctive voice rising above the more subdued murmur from the rest of the students.
“Thanks for being a good sport.” The instructor walked over, her feet ever-so-slightly turned out and her hands brushing delicately by her sides. Yep, she’d definitely trained at some point. Talented too, he’d bet. “Even if you were unprepared.”
“You certainly kept me on my toes.”
“Was that a ballet pun?” She narrowed her eyes, the corner of her mouth fighting a smile.
“Definitely not,” he said with a mock-serious expression.
“Because I really don’t see the pointe of those. It’s not that I have a bad attitude, but I need to set the barre higher than that.” A mischievous twinkle lit her dark eyes.
“That’s impressive.”
“Don’t even try to out-pun me. I’m like the Energizer Bunny of bad jokes.”
He chuckled. “What else you got?”
“What animals are poor dancers?” She paused. “Four-legged ones, because they have two left feet.”
“I’ll have to tell Frankie that one.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure she told me that joke.” Remi shook her head. “Your niece has a great sense of humor.”
“It’s a family gift.” He pretended to brush something off his shoulder and was rewarded with the tinkling sound of her laughter. Damn, that sound was straight out of heaven. “Good turnout and a passion for lame jokes.”
“That all?”
“Well, I have a few personal talents.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“I make a mean stir-fry. And my tendu was pretty damn spectacular, in case you didn’t notice.” He winked, barely able to keep a straight face.
“Oh, I noticed.” The words were fired back and forth lightning fast. Like fireflies zipping around them. “I’m Remi, by the way.” She stuck her hand out.
“Wes.” Her palm slid into his, and he closed his fingers around her hand. Judging by the quick flare of her nostrils, she felt the snap of electricity too. “I know all the ballerinas in New York, but I’ve never seen you before.”
“How lucky for all the ballerinas in New York.” Her voice was husky as she pulled her hand back, severing the crackling connection between them. “You got some kind of tutu fetish?”
“Yeah, I love that scratchy feeling.” He shoved his hands into his back pockets. “And nice job dodging the question, by the way. That’s some politician-level interview skills you got there.”
“I wasn’t aware I was being interviewed,” she replied with a smirk. “And if you watch the replay I think you’ll find you didn’t actually ask me a question.”
The exchange made him even more curious. “How come I haven’t met you already?”
“I’m not from around here, if you couldn’t tell.”
“I want to say you’re from New Zealand or Australia.” He cocked his head. “But I won’t claim to know the difference well enough to pick a side.”
“Chicken,” she teased.
He chuckled. “Don’t you mean smart?”
She toyed with the neckline of her leotard, which had long sleeves and a funky cutout at the top, exposing just a hint of skin at her chest. Freckles peeked out between the gaps in the material, and he had an overwhelming desire to trace them with his fingertip.
“I’m an Aussie, born and bred.” She narrowed her eyes as though trying to figure something out. “But I’m not a ballerina, which would explain why you don’t know me.”
Wes would bet his last dollar bill Re
mi was classically trained. He’d seen a lot of dancers come in and out of his parents’ school over the years, and if there was one thing he could spot with ease, it was the way a ballerina moved.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“Just wondering why you’re lying to me.”
Remi blinked. “I’m not lying.”
“You said you weren’t a ballerina.”
“I said I’m not a ballerina,” she corrected, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It almost immediately curled back against her face, rebellious and soft. “Present tense.”
Ah, that explained it. He was tempted to argue that one never stopped being a ballerina, even if they weren’t training or performing anymore. But instinct told him it was a touchy subject. “Right.”
“You’ve got a good eye, though.”
He wasn’t sure if she was wary or impressed. “Decided it wasn’t for you?”
“Other way around.” Darkness flickered across her face, casting a shadow over her rich brown eyes. “Ballet decided I wasn’t right for it.”
Cryptic. Color him intrigued.
“How do you know so much about ballerinas?” she asked as they turned and headed out of the studio.
“My mother was a principal dancer at the New York City Ballet. Now she and my father own a dance school.”
“Wes Evans.” Her mouth popped open. “I thought I recognized you!”
He tried not to cringe. This was the part he would never get used to—the way someone changed when they found out who he was. The way expectations and demands and motives shifted. In this industry, so much was who you knew. A foot in the door could be the difference between a career taking off or crumbling to dust. Which was exactly why he was having a hard time finding the lead for Out of Bounds.
Too many people knew how Adele Evans felt about it and so they were staying the hell away.
“I’m a huge Dance Idol fan, obviously. I thought you made a great judge.” They reached the exit of the studio and she hovered by the door. “There’s a real art to delivering a critique that will help someone grow without tearing apart their self-esteem. I think all the contestants will be better off in their careers having worked with you.”
Wes blinked. Okay, so he hadn’t been expecting that.
Usually the next thing that came after “I’m a huge fan of insert thing here” was a request of some kind—information, insight, or, for those who had brass balls, a favor.
“Have dinner with me,” he blurted out.
Smooth, Evans. Like fucking sandpaper.
Remi laughed and looked at him for a moment as though she was seriously considering it. “No, I’m afraid I can’t.”
Without any further explanation, she touched his arm and sent electricity bolting through him. After a brief smile floated across her lips, she headed into the studio’s reception area. He didn’t even get a backward glance. Just a flat-out no.
You’re losing your touch.
Or maybe there was something deeper at play. Regardless, all Remi had done was crank his curiosity up to maximum levels.
“Looks like you’ve got another barre fitness class to attend,” he said under his breath as Frankie came running up to him.
* * *
Son of Broadway royalty and his new show are overshadowed by giant bulge…
By Peta McKinnis (Spill the Tea society and culture reporter)
Bigger is better, right? That certainly seems to be the case for a former Dance Idol judge who also happens to be the son of famed ballerina Adele Evans and her Broadway-legend husband, Rich Evans. The young bachelor celebrated his thirtieth birthday last year with a Victoria’s Secret supermodel on his arm in Bora Bora, where shots were taken of the two frolicking on the beach and playing around on Jet Skis.
For once, eyes weren’t on international supermodel Nadja Vasiliev, but rather on what was going on in Wes’s pants.
Rumor has it that Wes is trying to get a new show off the ground, separate from his well-connected parents. At this stage, there hasn’t been a lot of official talk about the show, but sources say it’s a dance production slated for an Off-Off-Broadway run.
Spill the Tea reached out to a former staffer who happened to have a personal connection to Evans. Our anonymous source said: “I’ve never dated Wes, but I went to school with him and caught him changing backstage at our senior production. The man was genetically blessed beyond what should be legal for one person. He’s physical perfection. It’s intimidating.”
The question remains though: Will Wes be able to get people talking about his work instead of his…well, you know?
Probably not, if the Bad Bachelors app has anything to do with it. The app—which allows New York women to rate their dates (or use it for possible post-breakup revenge, as Spill the Tea has previously speculated)—has been the cause of misery for some men and a source of notoriety for others. What will it be for Wes?
The app is the apparent source of his new nickname—“The Anaconda”—and features reviews from a handful of women who’ve been lucky enough to confirm the rumors.
“Wes Evans sits squarely at the ‘two hands required’ end of the spectrum.” —PlainSlice
A representative from Spill the Tea reached out to Bad Bachelors to see what they think about the potential negative impact of the site’s reviews, and received the following response:
“Bad Bachelors is committed to providing the women of New York a platform on which to empower themselves while dating. We encourage all members of the site to review in accordance with the Bad Bachelors terms and conditions.”
There you have it. As your number-one source of gossip, Spill the Tea eagerly awaits the next installment of this David and his Goliath story.
“I am seriously concerned.” Darcy pressed the back of her hand to Remi’s forehead, her button nose wrinkled.
“Because I said no to a date?” Remi shoved her friend’s hand aside and rolled her eyes. Remi, Annie, and Darcy usually made it a point to hang out at the end of every week. This week they were at a bowling alley, and Remi had filled her friends in on her encounter with Wes. “Do you think I’m a floozy who would say yes to anyone?”
“I wouldn’t put it like that exactly.” Darcy chuckled as she ducked away from Remi’s swatting hand. “Just that you’re more confident when it comes to dating.”
“That’s because you never dated. You went straight from being engaged to being a sexual hermit back to being engaged again.”
Darcy looked at the giant rock glinting on her left hand, an uncharacteristically dreamy expression crossing her face. For as long as Remi had known her former roommate, Darcy was the opposite of dreamy. The girl was prickly, tattooed, and dressed like she’d never fully left her teenage goth phase behind. Which were precisely the things Remi loved about her—opposites attract, and all that.
Darcy was now engaged to Reed, a guy who used to be Manhattan’s most notorious bachelor. They too were an unlikely pair.
Reed had also been a victim of Bad Bachelors. Being labeled their number-one worst bachelor had caused him serious problems, especially when he and Darcy had started working together. Eventually, the site had stopped posting articles about him, but not before creating a media shit storm that had resulted in his sick father being harassed by journalists and causing Reed to step away from his lucrative career as a PR consultant.
“Pshh!” Darcy waved her assessment away. “In any case, of all the people I thought would jump at the chance to go out with a guy called the Anaconda—”
“Don’t you mean jump on the chance.” Their other friend, Annie, chuckled to herself.
“—it would be you,” Darcy finished.
Remi sighed. Okay, so they had a point. She liked to date—not seriously or with any end goal in mind—but she enjoyed being wined and dined, and,
on occasion, she enjoyed taking a guy to bed. Sometimes the guys stuck around for a while if she liked them enough, but mostly they didn’t. Keeping things light was the name of the game. And right up until the moment that she’d realized exactly who Wes Evans was, she would have happily accepted his offer.
Remi picked up her bowling ball and walked to the start of the lane. She swung her arm back and sent the ball sailing straight into the gutter.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered.
“Don’t bowl angry,” Annie advised from where she sat, her legs dangling over the side of a chair as she brought a bottle of Coke to her lips.
“Super helpful, thanks.” Remi waited for her ball to come rolling back into the return unit.
Her head had been all messed up ever since yesterday’s class. It was like Wes had burrowed into her subconscious and kept popping into her thoughts like a jack-in-the-box. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake him. Declining his invite went against everything she stood for, against all the rules that she’d put in place the second she’d boarded the plane on a one-way ticket to New York City:
Don’t be scared.
Say yes to every opportunity.
Fun comes first.
But she was scared. Scared that a guy like Wes might unpick the careful stitches around her wounds, that he might summon all the doubts and regrets she’d tried so hard to bury and that were everything she’d run away from before.
“Uh, Remi?” Darcy’s voice cut into her thoughts.
Remi’s pink bowling ball sat in front of her, forced by the conveyer belt to spin on the spot. Like her brain.
“Got it.” She picked the ball up and slid her fingers into the three slots. This time she wouldn’t miss.
Letting a guy like Wes Evans into her head was dangerous. She knew enough about chemistry from years of trying to find it with her dancing partners to identify when something was stronger than the average attraction. Normally a good-looking guy would give her a zing, a pleasant little tingle that she might feel all the way down to her toes if he was particularly charming or witty.
Bad Reputation Page 3
