In the grand scheme of things, waking up hungover in Dimitri’s bed wasn’t the biggest tragedy. After all, she’d done it plenty of times before.

Despite the pressure in her temples and general queasiness, Natasha couldn’t bring herself to regret the sex. Sex with Dimitri was always amazing. His rough and demanding demeanor masked attentiveness and a single-minded devotion to her pleasure. He always made sure she came first, usually multiple times. So, no, she never regretted having sex with him.

Still, they probably shouldn’t have done it a second time. But she’d gotten cold in the middle of the night and snuggled closer to him. And then he’d rolled over to pull her close, which was nice. She was all set to go back to sleep, warm and cozy, when his lips found her nipple. And then somehow her pussy found his dick, and they were at it again.

When her alarm went off in the kitchen, she leaped from the bed and muttered a prayer of thanks that the phone’s volume had been turned on. Dimitri murmured and tried to pull her back into bed, but she found the strength to evade him.

That was about as far as her good sense went, because she was halfway through her shower before she realized she was in Dimitri’s bathroom instead of her own down the hall, using Dimitri’s shampoo instead of her own.

Fucking great. She was going to smell like him all day. She might as well dig out one of his many half-full bottles of the no-longer-manufactured Archangel by Rogelio cologne and roll around in it. But then he’d spend the rest of the day obsessively searching for more online, and she didn’t want to do that to him.

It was a nice smell, though, she had to admit. Both on his skin and when it rubbed off on hers.

When she dashed through his bedroom in a towel, he rolled over in the bed. “Where are you going?” he mumbled sleepily.

“Work.” The hangover made it impossible to keep the bite out of her tone. She clutched the towel to her breasts in a tight grip. “I have work, Dimitri. Every day.”

He blinked at her from the bed, his expression soft and sleepy. “I don’t understand why you work so hard. Just come back to bed.”

Her body went numb, stunned by his carelessness. It took a few tries to get the words out. “Are you serious?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “You’ve got a good gig on the show—”

“Dimitri, you of all people should understand. Our lives and careers didn’t start off that differently. Or did you forget what it was like in the beginning?”

He sat up and opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. “Forget it. I’m running late. See you later.”

She ran from the room and down the hall to her own.

Carajo. No, not her room. The guest room.

She didn’t see him again as she left the house, speeding through traffic on the 10 to get to her first job, an early morning pole-dancing workout class.

From there, she had a packed day. Spin class, three back-to-back yoga classes, and an after-school ballet program guest-teaching gig with twenty teenage girls.

By the time she got to her five thirty “Soulsa” class—a workout that combined salsa dance and cardio—her head pounded, her feet dragged, and she was thoroughly sick of LA traffic.

California had a lot of advantages over New York City. Driving wasn’t one of them. Days like this, she missed the subway, even though she’d seen more than her fair share of crazy shit there.

But the ladies who showed up to this class looked to her to perk them up after a full day of working in various offices around the city, and they paid well to work with a celebrity instructor at a fancy gym. Better than some of her other gigs, anyway.

Natasha chowed down on yet another protein bar—her fourth that day—as the women filed in from the locker room. She waved and smiled, even though all she wanted to do was curl up on the floor and sleep.

She checked her phone one last time before plugging it into the sound system.

Nothing. No texts from Dimitri. Not a single one the entire day. It shouldn’t have bothered her, or surprised her, but each time she’d checked, her stomach sank a little further. It was currently somewhere near her ankles.

Sure, she would be back at his house tonight, and he wasn’t great about texting, but she’d thought after last night . . .

She swapped out her sneakers for dance shoes, then strode to the center of the room. Seriously, would it have fucking killed him to send a text? He’d fucked her brains out twice last night, and he knew she had a busy day. Was “Hey, how’s your day going?” really that fucking difficult?

Facing the mirror, she was met with her own grimace. Ay dios, she really had to get it together. She couldn’t let them know she was exhausted and hungover. Fixing a brilliant smile on her face, she clapped her hands, signaling that the class was about to begin.

“Buenas tardes, ladies,” she said, as she always did. “I hope you all had a good day at work.”

She was met with the usual grumbles.

“I know, I know. Don’t worry, we’ll turn this day around, starting now. Ready for warm-up music?”

A chorus of affirmatives. She sidled over to the speakers, turned on the playlist she’d queued up, and went back to the center of the room. A bumping rhythm poured out of the speakers. The mood in the room instantly lifted, and smiles beamed her way in the mirror’s reflection.

She smiled back. “Ready? Let’s begin.”

She stepped to the right—and kept going as her ankle rolled under her weight and she started to fall.

She was a dancer. Her body was finely attuned to its own movements, honed through years of practice and hard work. It knew when shit was going wrong. And now it was screaming at her.

Danger!

Adrenaline flooded her system, and she stumbled to right herself, slower than she would have if she were firing on all cylinders.

But she wasn’t. She was barely operating on half power.

Gasps echoed through the room as she pitched forward and caught herself against the mirror, her palms making a smacking sound as she hit.

Natasha blinked at her own reflection. What the hell had just happened?

Someone turned off the music. Two ladies ran forward to support her arms.

“Are you okay?” one of them asked.

“That looked really bad,” said the other.

“I’m fine.” Natasha pushed off from the mirror, her own voice sounding soft and far away, drowned out by the pounding of her heart in her ears. She put her right foot down to test her weight on it. “Just a stumble. I’m—Coño!”

Pain spiraled up her leg, blocking out her vision. She gritted her teeth and shifted all her weight to her left leg.

Motherfucker. Her ankle. Her fucking ankle.

She couldn’t stand on it. If she couldn’t stand, she couldn’t teach the class, if she couldn’t teach the class, she wouldn’t get paid . . .

Her thoughts swirled, jumping from couldn’t to couldn’t, all to avoid the one most important fact . . .

She. Couldn’t. Dance.

Concerned murmurs filled the room. The women sat her down. An ice pack was draped over her ankle, and she grimaced at the pain. Someone packed her things for her. Someone else called an ambulance.

“It’s fine,” she tried to say, waving them all away. “I’m fine.”

One of the women got in her face. “You are not fine. I’m a doctor, and you need to get this checked out.”

“I’ll drive—”

“You will not drive. Is there anyone we can call for you? Someone to meet you at the hospital?”

Too dazed to argue, Natasha unlocked her phone and handed it over. “Dimitri Kovalenko.” Before she could think too much about why she’d named Dimitri and not Kevin or Lori, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. God, she missed Gina. “No media. Please.”

Someone patted her shoulder. “Cone of silence.”