Bad Reputation

by Stefanie London

  * * *

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so nervous before a date.” Darcy nursed an Old Fashioned, toying with the toothpick that had a cherry speared on one end. “You haven’t asked for reinforcements in a long time.”

  “I don’t need reinforcements. I just…” Remi sucked in a breath, wishing the butterflies that’d taken up residence in her stomach would bugger off somewhere else. “This guy is different. He’s dangerous.”

  Why the hell had she said yes in the first place? The second he’d walked into her studio, all bright-blue eyes and cocky swagger, she’d lost her head. And the way he spoke, so smooth and intense and goddamn sexy—how was a woman supposed to stand a chance?

  “And what exactly do you mean by dangerous?” Darcy’s fiancé, Reed, sat across from them at the high table in the middle of the bar where Remi was due to meet Wes in less than ten minutes.

  “I mean he’s…” She huffed. “The kind of guy who makes me lose my words.”

  “Never a good sign,” Darcy agreed.

  Reed rolled his eyes. “I don’t remember you having that problem,” he said to Darcy. “You were always quick with a smart-ass comeback.”

  Darcy laughed, her silver tongue ring catching the light. “Damn straight. Maybe you weren’t good enough to make me lose my words.”

  “Don’t taunt me,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Or I’ll make you pay for it later.”

  “Get a room, you two.” Remi pretended to stick her finger down her throat.

  “I wanted to, but someone begged us to come for a drink,” he drawled. The guy had a dry sense of humor, and the mischievous twinkle in his dark eyes told her that he was quite happy to be there.

  “So he gets you a bit tongue-tied. Big deal.” Darcy asked, ignoring her fiancé, “You sure, it’s nothing to do with the Bad Bachelors reviews?”

  “Ugh, is that thing still around.” Reed put his glass down, his nose wrinkling. “I thought—” He stopped abruptly and grunted. “I can’t believe someone hasn’t sued them yet.”

  “I don’t know what to think about the reviews,” she said. “I read a bunch this afternoon in the hopes they might give me a reason not to come tonight.”

  She had the sensation of hurtling down a river toward a waterfall, ready to fly over the edge into the abyss below. It was exhilarating, terrifying. Wes had dangled the biggest possible carrot in front of her—an audition. She hadn’t even known what for at the time he’d asked, but a little digging later had revealed that he had some unique, modern dance show in the works. Something out of the norm.

  They’d shared some crazy chemistry in the dance studio, but that wasn’t the only reason she’d put on a pair of heels and headed out of her apartment tonight. The lure of an open door into the world that had rejected her was tempting.

  You’re not here for an audition opportunity. You’re here for a date.

  But part of her knew that was bullshit.

  She hadn’t told her friends about the audition. About a year ago, she’d made a big declaration about how she didn’t need to chase the traditional prima-ballerina dream to be happy. Her stomach clenched, the assault of memories sending her off-kilter.

  But what about Mish and the barre studio?

  She shoved the guilt aside, because it was more than likely tonight wouldn’t go anywhere. Even if she did decide to audition—and that was a big if—there was no guarantee she’d get a callback anyway. So guilt was premature.

  Across the bar, Wes walked in off the street. Even if she hadn’t been waiting for him to arrive, she would have noticed him. And she would most definitely have let her gaze linger. He wasn’t the kind of guy who allowed a passing glance; he demanded attention—demanded a good ten seconds of open admiration. Minimum.

  His dark hair was wavy and windswept, and he wore a white henley that hugged every sculpted muscle. The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. No jacket. The heads of three women sipping cocktails snapped in his direction as he walked past, but Wes didn’t seem to notice.

  “That’s my cue,” Remi said, downing the rest of her pinot grigio in one long gulp. “Wish me luck.”

  “Charm that snake!” Darcy raised her glass and laughed when Reed rolled his eyes.

  Remi smoothed her hands down her dress as she headed over to where Wes waited by the bar. She hadn’t been sure what look to go for—professional or sexy? The little black Isabel Marant number had cost a pretty penny at Barney’s, even with a hefty discount. But it walked the fine line between smart and sensual with ease. The short hem exposed her legs—a.k.a. her best feature—and the long sleeves and subtle ruffle at the base of her neck kept her covered up, even if the fabric was sheer enough to let a little skin peek through. She finished the look with a pair of nude patent leather pumps that faked an extra few inches of her best feature.

  So far this dress was three for three at successful dates.

  So which is it—sexy or professional? She definitely seemed to be leaning toward sexy.

  For the first time in ages, Remi wasn’t sure what she wanted. The two possible outcomes—taking Wes to bed or taking him up on his offer—were mutually exclusive. This was a fork in the road, saying yes to one absolutely meant saying no to the other.

  In the dance world, sex between coworkers should be approached with extreme caution, something she’d learned the hard way. And if she had the chance to reclaim the career she’d lost, then no way in hell was she going to make that mistake again.

  “Wow.” Wes’s smile broadened as she got closer, his gaze sweeping over her. “That’s a hell of a dress.”

  “Thanks.” She slid onto the stool next to him and crossed her legs, causing her hem to rise higher up her thighs.

  So, we’re not going for the professional look then?

  They each ordered a drink, and Wes put his card down to start a tab. “Chantel tells me you’re from Melbourne originally.”

  “That’s right.” She nodded.

  “You’re a long way from home.”

  “This is my home now.” Remi forced a smile, trying not to think of the day she’d left with tears in her eyes and stitches on her heart. “Melbourne is a beautiful place, but New York is like living in my childhood dream. I watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s on repeat when I was young, and I always wanted to come here.”

  Only she’d assumed it would be a place to grow her career, rather than to hide from her past.

  “Do you miss Australia?” he asked.

  “I miss some things about it, like soft licorice and meat pies and lamingtons. I miss the beaches too. Oh, and the summer in Melbourne is dry. Much easier than dealing with the sticky heat here.” She paused as the bartender passed over their drinks. The wine was cool and fresh on her lips, and her pink lipstick left behind a faint print on the glass. “But Manhattan is a fairy tale. It’s Beauty and the Beast all rolled into one.”

  “That’s very poetic.” His strong hands toyed with the glass containing his scotch, his thumb rubbing over the intricate designs cut into the crystal.

  A lot could be learned about a man when he drank—did he savor it or gulp it all down in haste? Did he go for quality or quantity? Did he drink for enjoyment or because he wanted to impress? She tended to go for guys who were into spirits. If they had a cocktail, it was simple and classic—usually a Negroni, a Manhattan, or an Old Fashioned. Occasionally a gin and tonic, although those guys sometimes verged too much into hipster territory.

  The amber liquid glowed in the intimate lighting of the bar, and it sloshed against the edges of the glass as he brought it up to his lips.

  He’s definitely a savoring, lingering kind of guy. Good with his mouth.

  “Was it a big change coming here?”

  “Yes and no. I mean, obviously we all speak English, but at the same time, it often feels like I’m speaking anoth
er language.” She toyed with the hem of her dress, and his eyes tracked her every movement.

  The muscles in his neck worked as he swallowed. Good boy.

  “One time, I was going through security at JFK on my way to Mexico, and I forgot my flip-flops. Only we don’t call them flip-flops in Australia. The poor security woman was mortified when I loudly proclaimed that I’d left my thongs at home and that I wasn’t going to be able to walk around the beach without them. She must have thought I was going to one of those kinky sex retreats.”

  Wes’s eye sparkled and the sound of his laugh was like a shot of pure arousal to her system. As much as she loved broad shoulders and a hard set of abs on a guy, there was nothing sexier than the sound of a genuine belly-deep laugh.

  “Needless to say, I shocked the large family behind me.” She cringed. “Not to mention the guy I got stuck next to on the plane, who’d also heard the whole thing and tried to hit on me.”

  “Okay, so thongs are flip-flops. Good to know.” He nodded. “Any other Aussie-isms I should know?”

  “An entrée for us is the starter, not the main course. We call Sprite lemonade. Grog is alcohol. Pissed means you’re drunk. And we call Speedos budgie smugglers…well, we say it for a laugh anyway.”

  “Budgie smugglers?” Wes raised a brow.

  “Yeah, because it looks like you’ve stuffed a budgie down there.” She bit down on her lower lip and stifled a laugh. “Or, in some cases, I guess they should be called parrot smugglers.”

  Wes chuckled. “Why on earth did you want to leave a place like that?”

  “It was time for a change.”

  “And you left ballet behind?” He cocked his head. “Weren’t you part of a company?”

  “Yeah.” She bobbed her head. “I was with the Melbourne Ballet Company…but it didn’t work out the way I wanted it to. And I love Australia, but it feels so far from the rest of the world.” She traced the rim of her wineglass with the tip of her finger. “And there’s a lot of world to see.”

  “So you’re an adventurer?”

  “An adventurer in the making.” She tilted her head. “My parents wanted me to experience more than the little slice where I grew up. They’re big travelers.”

  “And you came here all by yourself?”

  “Yep, me and a suitcase.” The truth hovered on her tongue. Something about Wes’s easygoing smile made her want to talk. It wasn’t often she went on a date where she wasn’t bombarded by someone talking at her instead of to her. And he seemed genuinely interested. “I’m independent like that.”

  Independence wasn’t a choice for Remi. Her parents, while loving, never wanted to coddle or nurture her quite like the parents of the other kids in school. And then, when her ex had abandoned her and she’d suffered one of life’s greatest losses, she’d gone out on her own. Forged a new life. New connections. A fresh start.

  But the lesson she’d learned from it remained: She was responsible for her own happiness, and that meant protecting every boundary she put in place.

  Never get tied down.

  Never expect anything.

  And most of all, never let people make you vulnerable.

  Chapter 6

  “If you asked me to recall what we talked about, I would have no idea. Talking is not required with Wes.”

  —LooneyToonie

  Wes watched the gorgeous woman in front of him, her face lit up like Times Square as she talked about her life in Australia. Growing up in his parents’ circle meant he mostly socialized with people who were too Botoxed to show such joy. Whenever his parents held an event, all the people they invited were like boring cardboard cutouts, stiff and emotionally stifled.

  It was no wonder his sister and Sadie had never fit into that scene. And for years, Wes had put up with the constant matchmaking attempts, always struggling to come up with a fresh excuse as to why he didn’t want to date some mini-Adele his mother had picked out for him.

  She would hate Remi. Would hate that, with her endless legs and mussed “just woke up” blond hair, she looked like pure sex. Adele would also hate that she joked about budgie smugglers and thongs, and that she laughed loud enough for everyone around them to hear.

  But Wes was smitten. The accent certainly helped—there was something about the lazy lilt of the Aussie accent, the way she pronounced “er” as “ah,” and that she apologized for “yabbering on,” which he could only assume meant that she talked a lot.

  He would have been perfectly happy to listen to her talk all day.

  “Tell me about your show,” she said all of a sudden.

  They were a few drinks deep and her cheeks were flushed pink from the wine. Her hair had started to escape the contraption holding it up, letting soft strands of gold float down to frame her face. The bar was packed now, the pouring rain driving people to seek shelter and a drink to warm their insides, which meant Remi had scooted closer to him and their knees brushed each other’s as they shifted on their stools.

  “It’s called Out of Bounds, and it’s a show with no separation between audience and stage.” He sipped his Oban single malt and relished the warmth in the back of his throat. “It’s modern dance, a mix of ballet and contemporary. But I’ve also cast a dancer who’s immensely talented even though she’s never received any formal training. She does lyrical hip-hop and animation, which you don’t see a lot of on Broadway.”

  “So it is a Broadway show?”

  “Well, it’s Off-Off-Broadway,” he clarified. “We’re hoping to take the show wider, but at the moment, it’s being produced independently. We’re relying on funding from a few key investors. The plan is to generate enough interest to move it to an Off-Broadway theater for a second run, and then hopefully, we’ll build buzz to take it further.”

  “Why start in New York?” Remi asked. “I’ve heard from a lot of people that Broadway is the hardest to crack because it costs so much to produce a show here. Why not start overseas?”

  It was a good question. Even London’s West End was cheaper than the astronomical costs of Broadway. It might have been smarter to start in another country and work back to New York.

  But that wouldn’t give Wes the same satisfaction. Fact was, he had something to prove. To himself, to his parents. To the people here who thought he would fail. To those who thought he’d let his surname carry him.

  “This is my home,” he said. “It’s where I grew up watching my dad perform and watching my parents build their ballet school. This is where I want to succeed.”

  “Lofty ambitions.” She nodded. “I can certainly appreciate that.”

  “What’s the point of aiming for something if you don’t pick the biggest challenge? I don’t want a show to thrive where it’s easy. I want to know I’ve cracked the hardest market in the world.” The familiar tingle of excitement and anticipation burned in his veins. This was his passion in life—creating, striving. He needed to be knee-deep in a challenge to feel alive. Setting the bar low would only leave him feeling like he hadn’t tried hard enough. And that was unacceptable.

  “Isn’t that a very New York attitude to have, thinking that we’re better than everyone else?” He laughed. “There’s something about Broadway. It’s like a drug. Once you get a taste of the bright lights, nothing else compares.”

  Remi placed her empty wineglass on the bar and adjusted the hem on her dress. It kept creeping up her thighs, taunting him with a few inches of bare skin but not high enough for him to get a glimpse at what she wore underneath. “Some things are still exciting.”

  Hell yes they were.

  “Why did you ask me to meet you here tonight?” She leaned on the bar, her hand dangling over the edge a hairbreadth from his leg. A delicate gold chain hung around her wrist, the links catching the light and winking at him as if they could see the dirty thoughts running through his head. “Is this a date, or were you
going to ask me to audition for you again?”

  “You make it sound like those two things can’t be one and the same.”

  Her eyes turned from smoky to wary. “Do you normally date people who audition for you?”

  “No. Never, actually.”

  He usually avoided mixing business and pleasure because it had become hard to tell whether the “pleasure” was real or if it was the other person using him as a stepping-stone. And since starting work on Out of Bounds, he hadn’t even thought about sex until the moment he’d stepped into Remi’s studio. With the intoxication of chasing his dreams keeping him high on life, dating and sex had taken a back seat. But apparently the unintentional celibacy had left him with a dormant appetite, one that she’d easily resurrected.

  “So why am I different?” she asked.

  That was a damned good question.

  “I’m a gut-feeling kind of guy,” he replied with a shrug. “I know when something feels right.”

  “And you’re seriously telling me that someone as connected as you is looking for dancers in barre studios?” She shook her head. “Isn’t that scraping the bottom of the barrel? Surely you would have people clamoring to audition.”

  “If you were simply a barre teacher, then I wouldn’t have asked you,” he said. “But I know what talent looks like. I know how it moves and how to spot it even when the person who owns it tries her damnedest to write it off. I’ve been around dancers my whole life, and you’re it.”

  “‘It’?”

  “That rare person who was truly born to do what they love.”

  Remi’s eyes searched his face, as if looking for some minuscule hint that he might be trying to deceive her.

  “You know all the right things to say, Wes,” she whispered. “But I’ve heard all those lines before.”

  “They’re not lines.”

  “I’ve heard that one too.”

  “What do I have to gain by lying to you?” He sipped his drink.

  “There are unscrupulous men in the world who use the lure of stardom to get girls into bed.”