Three days. Dimitri hadn’t seen her in three days.

He’d fucked up, and he knew it. When he’d woken up and gone to the kitchen for a glass of water, he’d seen her bedroom door open. Despite his earlier decision to give her space, he hadn’t been able to resist looking for her. Coming across her in the TV room in the dark, watching his movie, had mixed up all his emotions.

Still, after all this time, he thought of it as his movie. He’d done others since then, and it wasn’t like he’d produced or even choreographed Aliens Don’t Dance, but it was his first big role, and he still thought of it as his.

When he was younger, he thought he’d come to regret being so well-known for something he’d filmed when he was—what, twenty-two? But it had opened doors for him, gotten him out of the competition circuit and the struggle to find gigs, and thrust him into the spotlight.

He’d thought he was set. But the spotlight wasn’t enough. His star power wasn’t enough.

He’d done more shows, more movies, more cameos. But none of the roles were as big as Reygar, the character he played in Aliens Don’t Dance, and none of the movies had soared as high as that one had. And when he’d made a move for Broadway, they’d had to close the show three weeks in.

His own show. His own work, created from his heart. And it was a failure.

It had taken him years to try again, but that attempt failed, too. By that point, his star power had diminished. He had to get back into the public eye.

Joining The Dance Off had propelled him back into the spotlight. It was easy work and it paid well, but he could admit he’d become complacent there. Still, it had brought him to Natasha. Now, stuck in LA traffic in an effort to get home early enough to catch her, he had a lot of time to think about her.

Better than thinking about the past, or his future. Alex had been texting him daily, asking about his plans. Dimitri didn’t reply, because he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have any concrete plans, aside from getting through Natasha’s defenses and learning more about the woman underneath.

But first, he had to see her.

When he’d offered to let her live in his home, he’d thought having her there would bring him a greater sense of security. Ha. The woman was as elusive as a nearly forgotten memory. She was gone when he woke up, asleep when he got home. He hadn’t even had the opportunity to apologize to her for his thoughtless words, and he didn’t want to do it via text or sticky note on her bathroom mirror.

If anything, he felt even more insecure than he had before.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, he was starving. Despite being at the restaurant all day, he hadn’t eaten much. He parked in the garage, his scowl clearing when he spotted Natasha’s Prius in Nik’s spot.

She was home. And it was way too early for her to be asleep.

He crept into the house quietly, smothering the smile that threatened to take over his features. A melody of aromas greeted him, along with Spanish music playing loudly in the kitchen. As he got closer, he could hear Natasha singing along, off-key.

He lost the battle against his grin. She was fucking adorable. And the music provided the perfect opportunity.

Every time they danced, their connection deepened, strengthened. Neither of them could deny it, just as she could never pass up the chance to dance with him. Whenever he offered his hand, she went willingly, holding nothing back.

It was the only time she didn’t hold back. Even during sex, as open and giving as she was, she avoided his gaze. She expressed herself through cries and moans, yet hoarded her words.

It was hard not to take it personally. But he kept trying.

He lurked in the doorway, watching her cook. She stirred something in a large pan, humming along with the lyrics. Her hips swayed, and her bare feet shuffled in a salsa step.

The chorus started. Dimitri advanced. With one hand, he cupped her hip. With the other, he wrapped his fingers around the wooden spoon before she dropped it.

She opened her mouth, maybe to protest, but he nudged her into a close salsa step, New York style. As they shifted back and forth on the tiny rug in front of the oven, he caught her gaze, let her see how much he wanted her.

Her expression softened; her dark, sexy eyes going liquid behind her glasses, her full, wide lips parting.

Keeping his eyes on hers, he directed the spoon—still clasped in her hand—to his mouth and licked it.

She blinked, desire sparking in her eyes. “Sancocho,” she whispered.

Whatever that was, it was delicious. Flavorful and full of spice. His stomach reminded him of its hunger, but he had a stronger need at this point. He tossed the spoon into the sink and swept her up in the dance.

Magic. As always, it was magic. She anticipated his every move as if they had a telepathic connection. No hesitation, no lag time. No thinking. Just feeling, just bodies, just movement. She was living fire in his arms. The music soared around them, flowed through them. The bubbling pot on the stove surrounded them in aromas that made his mouth water, but underlying the scent of sancocho was Natasha’s own fig and ginger combo. He pulled her in close, breathing in the scent of her hair—pulled up in a curly bun—and she writhed against him.

The song ended. He’d backed her up against the counter, their faces close.

She ducked her head, but he caught the smile curving her lips. “Um, I have to stir,” she said, but she didn’t pull away.

Swallowing hard, he released her, then spotted the open bottle of red wine on the counter with one glass next to it.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, nodding at the bottle. “I had kind of a rough day.”

“I don’t. But you didn’t pour me a glass.” He took one down from the cabinet.

She cut him a look. “I didn’t think you’d be home.”

Tension thickened, pressing against his skin. She turned back to the stove, but he didn’t want to let it drop. She thought of his house as home? Good. Something to exploit.

He poured himself a glass and topped off hers. “I’ve had some late nights at the restaurant.”

“Putting out fires?”

He sighed. “Literal and figurative.”

She took the glass he gave her and clinked it against his. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Today wasn’t bad. I was meeting with my lawyer most of the day. Not as much drama with him, if you can believe it.” He sipped, savoring the fruity, herbal flavor, knowing that if he kissed her right now he’d taste it on her tongue, too. “Tell me about your day.”

She rolled her eyes and knocked back a long swallow of wine. “I got a call from Kevin about my producer, Donna. Apparently she’s asking about us, thanks to your little show the other day.”

Uh-oh, work stuff. He could already feel Natasha closing off. “Is that why you’re making comfort food?”

She gave him a surprised smile. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “I also turn to food from home when I’m stressed. There are a few items on the restaurant’s menu that are specifically for when I need Ukrainian comfort food. Reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen.”

She smiled as she sliced green plantains. “My great-grandmother taught me to cook Puerto Rican food. My mom was always too busy.”

“Your great-grandmother?” He settled against the counter and drank his wine. “What happened to your grandmother?”

She shrugged. “Never met her.”

There was more to that story. He waited to see if she’d elaborate. After checking the rice, she did.

“My mother got pregnant when she was sixteen. Swore she was going to marry the guy—who was older, and a loser, by all accounts—so her mother sent her from Puerto Rico to New York. I was born there, and grew up with my great-grandparents and my mother, all in a two-bedroom apartment.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“A section of the living room.”

“When I moved here—to America—I shared a room with Nik, who was still a baby, and my two cousins.”

She shrugged. “Whatever it takes, right? But look where you are now.”

“You, too.”

She snorted. “We both know I’m here out of desperation. I can’t even get my shit together enough to manage my own living situation. Without Gina, I’m a fucking mess.”

She was retreating again. Her shoulders hunched, her eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. He wanted to help her, to take away the stress in her posture and her voice. He was good with money. He could help her, teach her.

But first, he wanted her to relax. With him.

The second she put the lid on the pot, he swept her into a dance again. They danced between sips of wine and taking turns at the stove. When the food was ready, they opened a second bottle of red, made their plates, and ate standing up, dancing between bites.

“What are we eating?” he asked, spinning her close.

“Sancocho—it’s like stew. Arroz con gandules—rice with green pigeon peas. And plátanos maduros—sweet fried plantains. Like you said, it’s comfort food.”

He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Well, I feel comforted.”

She laughed and leaned against him. “Damn it, Macho.”

“What?” He tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

Her voice trembled. “Why can’t I ever say no to you?”

It was what he’d been waiting for. Natasha, soft and pliant in his arms. Her thoughts only on him, not on her money troubles, or her past, or her job. She’d opened up to him tonight, told him more about her life than she ever had before. It left him with more questions, and an even deeper desire to know her. But now wasn’t the time to follow those threads.

Now was the time for seduction.

Her face was already lifted toward his. Her lips parted, her eyes on his. Her tongue darted out, swiped against that full lower lip.

With a groan, he closed the distance and kissed her.