Natasha woke the next morning and stared at the ceiling for a long time. When she was a kid, there was a crack in the ceiling that, when looked at from the right angle, resembled a dragon. Since she’d had a loft bed at one end of the living room blocked off by a couple bookcases, she’d spent a lot of time with that ceiling and dragon.

Dimitri’s ceiling had that popcorn stuff on it, but with her glasses on, she picked out faces here and there. Her eyes jumped from one to the next. There, a crooked smiley face. To the right, a guy with a big nose and funny glasses. Above that, a sleepy face. Diagonal from there, an elf. And back to the beginning.

She’d traced this path other mornings when she’d woken in his bed. Warring senses of comfort and awkwardness kept her pinned to the sheets. Did she get up and make herself at home? Did she cuddle? Did she grab her stuff and run home?

Dimitri liked to cuddle, and he never made her feel like she had to get out of his hair, but . . . there was always that worry. No-strings attachments were nice in a lot of ways, but since there was no commitment, it was impossible to feel totally comfortable in the other person’s space. Even now, having spent the last few days in his bed and days before that living in his home, the dual urges of run and stay paralyzed her.

Especially after last night.

She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath through her nose at the memory of her breakdown. What a mess. She’d unloaded all her fears and mommy issues on him. Worse, she’d wanted to. All the worry, the pain, the toxic feelings she bottled up—like a dam breaking, the pressure had finally become too much, and it was easier to let it all spill out.

Maybe now he’d understand why she had to get out of here.

Not that she could go anywhere at the moment. Her crutches were still nowhere to be seen, and Dimitri had slung a heavy arm around her middle and buried his face in her shoulder. Rather than feeling trapped, his weight was a comfort. He was here. She wasn’t alone.

She’d shown him her shadows, and he hadn’t run screaming into the night. He hadn’t even gone back to bed. He’d stuck it out, holding her, soothing her, listening and murmuring endearments in Russian. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t known the exact words. The sentiment was there.

The still-raw feelings wouldn’t let her read too much into it. But it meant something, that he was here, and he wanted her here with him.

Love was still a stretch. She didn’t believe that was it. But maybe . . . maybe she didn’t have to hold back so much. Maybe she could let him in and put herself out there. After last night, it didn’t seem so scary.

Why wait to start? No time like the present.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she turned toward him and cuddled closer to his warmth. His eyes didn’t open, but his chest rose in a deep breath and he shifted his arm, pulling her closer.

With her face tucked into his chest, she breathed in the lingering scent of his cologne. She’d researched it once to tease out the scents she so closely associated with his masculinity. Most of them she didn’t understand—what the hell were aldehydes?—but the others she could pick up. Something woodsy, citrusy, with an overlying layer of what the color green would smell like, if colors had smells.

After a few moments, his arm moved, rubbing up and down her back, his hand a heavy, hot pressure through the thin fabric of her sleep tank. Then his chin rubbed against the top of her head, and he pressed a kiss to her hair. He was slowly waking up.

“Buenos días,” she whispered against his skin.

“Dobroye utro,” he replied. He leaned away so he could look at her face. “You slept okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I . . . thank you.”

Instead of the joke she expected in response, he wrapped his arms around her. “Anything you need.”

They fell into an easy rhythm after that. For the next few days, he was attentive to her needs without smothering, and she made an effort to be more pleasant. She did physical therapy exercises for her ankle, and when he was out at the restaurant, Lori and Kevin visited to keep her company and fill her in on gossip.

She didn’t call her mother or Gina.

Miracle of miracles, her injury had escaped the notice of paparazzi, and Kevin claimed no one at The Dance Off knew she was living with Dimitri.

“Staying,” she corrected him. “I’m staying here. Temporarily.”

Her bank account told a different story. As July ticked into August, all her bills were due, including rent on the apartment she couldn’t currently live in. But since her stuff was still there, she had to pay. She had just enough to cover everything, but after missing so much work, she was back in jeopardy. On top of that, she couldn’t find anyone to cover her children’s ballet class.

Over dinner the night before the class—provided by Dimitri’s restaurant—she mentioned it in passing.

“Will you be around in the morning? I’m not sure I can drive yet, and I need to get to Santa Monica to teach a dance class.”

His expression turned stormy and he dropped his fork onto his steak. “No. You haven’t healed enough.”

“Relax, Macho.” She sipped from her wine glass. The man really did have an excellent selection of wine. “It’s a ballet class for little kids. I won’t have to do much.”

He cut his meat with angry movements. “It’s a bad idea.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can’t cancel, and I can’t find anyone to cover for me. I have to go in.”

He chewed quickly. “I’ll go with you.”

Her eyebrows shot up and she held back a laugh, because he looked perfectly serious. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll go with you. You sit on the side with your foot elevated, instructing the class, and I’ll demonstrate.”

She shouldn’t say yes. It was ridiculous. He was big and bearded and gruff. Her students were tiny and high-spirited and giggly. It would be a disaster.

Or, it would be adorable.

“Okay,” she said.

He nodded and forked string beans into his mouth. It was settled.