Little Lilac Dance Studio was located in Beverly Grove, not far from Dimitri’s house. Natasha briefed Dimitri on the class while he drove.

“I met Lilah, the owner, after I moved here. We were roommates for about three weeks, before Gina got here, but we kept in touch. After I started working on Everybody, she asked me to teach a children’s class during the off-season. It’s good promo for the school.”

“So, she’s using you?”

She shook her head. “I mean, she’s paying me. Not a lot, but . . . This isn’t a class for training the next ballet prodigies. It’s about having fun through movement. And I . . . I can’t explain it.”

His gaze cut over to hers for a split-second. “Try?”

Closing her eyes, she tapped into the feeling of being at Little Lilac. No, it didn’t pay much, certainly not as much as some of her other gigs, but she’d been doing it for years, and she enjoyed it.

“The kids are adorable and enthusiastic. I teach them the basics, but we also play games, sing songs, and do arts and crafts activities. With every other class I teach, the people are there with an agenda. These kids . . . they just want to have fun. And . . . they love me.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, without looking at her, “Of course they do.”

She ducked her head. Until his declaration in the living room a few days ago, she couldn’t remember the last time someone had said they loved her, except for these children. Abuela used to say it, but Mami? Never.

She’d be better off staying quiet for the rest of the ride, but he’d pulled the lid off her feelings, and there was still more she wanted to share. “With everything else I’ve done for work since moving to Los Angeles, Little Lilac is the one that feeds my soul.”

“That’s good. This business will chew you up and spit you out if you’re not careful. How young are the girls?”

“This is the three-four-five class. And they aren’t all girls. There are two boys in the class, too. We call them ‘friends,’ as opposed to gendered terms.”

He nodded and didn’t question it.

Nerves fluttered in her belly as they parked in the tiny lot next to the studio. Lilah had won money through a talent competition and used it to open the studio. It was her passion, in a way dancing professionally had never been.

Natasha envied her that a little, the same way Gina’s dreams and drive sometimes made her feel inadequate for not being as ambitious.

“Don’t you want more, Tash?” Gina used to ask. Natasha always gave a flippant shrug in reply, and said something along the lines of, “More than paying my bills and living large? What else is there?”

Inside, though, she envied their dreams, their direction, their sense of hope.

Hope. Thanks to Esmeralda, she’d locked that urge away a long time ago. What was the use in hoping for more? In wanting more?

But as Dimitri came around and helped her out of the passenger seat, handing her the crutches one at a time, her heart fluttered with something suspiciously like longing.

Natasha slammed it back down. No use longing for something she’d never have. Sure, he wanted to help her now. How long would that last? It wasn’t worth entertaining the idea.

And anyway, they had a ballet class to teach.

“Do you have any experience with this?” she asked, crutching her way over the gravel to the side entrance. At least Dimitri had stopped insisting on carrying her everywhere.

“You think I can’t teach a kids’ ballet class?”

“That’s not what I said.” She handed him the key to unlock the door. He held it open so she could hobble in. “I didn’t ask if you could, I asked if you have experience with this sort of class.”

“You wanna make a bet?”

She rolled her eyes and pointed to the locker where he could stash her purse. “What kind of bet?”

“If this isn’t an unmitigated success . . . you can go back to the guest room.”

Her breath halted. She’d still been sleeping in his bed. There’d been a lot of cuddling, but nothing more. As much as she’d complained about it at first, she’d gotten used to sleeping beside him. She didn’t want to go back to the other room. But did he want her to?

“And if it is a complete success,” he went on, “you have dinner with me tonight at the restaurant.”

The restaurant. His business venture that took so much of his time. She’d never been there.

It shouldn’t bother her that he’d never taken her. They didn’t go out together. They didn’t date. They worked together, occasionally went out with the cast as a group, and sometimes they screwed. But they weren’t a couple, and this wasn’t a relationship.

But if all that were true . . . his words echoed in her head. Would I be in love with you? If they were just fuck buddies, just roommates with benefits, why would he say that? And now, with this stupid bet, he was either going to kick her out of his bed, or take her on a date. None of it made sense.

“So, is it a bet?”

She blinked. They were about to enter the studio, and he was holding a hand out for her to shake.

“Um . . . whatever.” She shook his hand. “Open the door. And remember, no cursing.”

He shot her a wounded look. “Do I look like an idiot to you?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

He laughed and held the door open for her.

As she crossed the threshold, Natasha switched over into teacher mode. With a big smile on her face, she hobbled into the room on her crutches, noting the looks of surprise and worry on their small faces.

“Hi, friends!” she said brightly, hoping her tone would allay their fears.

Cara, a three-year-old with thick dark hair and a purple tie-dye leotard, hopped up from her spot on the floor and touched Natasha’s left hand where it gripped the crutch. “Miss Tasha, you have a boo-boo?”

“What happened, Miss Tasha?” Emiko, the oldest in the class at five-and-a-half, came closer, and the others crowded in around them, asking questions.

Natasha made her way to the chairs Lilah’s assistant had put out for her, next to the sound system. She took a seat and propped her foot on the second chair. “I was dancing and a took a bad step,” she told them. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine in a few days, but for now, I have to take good care of myself.”

“Does it hurt?” Ryan, an energetic five-year-old boy, stared at the wrapping around Natasha’s bare foot. His little hand crept closer.

“Not anymore, but it hurt a lot when it happened,” she told him. “I still have bruises, so please be careful.”

Ryan snatched his hand away, then shifted through the crowd of kids so she could give him a one-armed hug. He’d been in the class since he was three, and of all the kids, he was the most attached to her. He had already cried twice about not being in her class next year.

As she assured them she was okay, their curious gazes drifted over to Dimitri, who stood off to one side.

“Who’s that?” Sofia, at four, finally voiced the question that must have been on all their young minds. She pointed a finger straight at Dimitri and did not look impressed.

“That’s Mr. Dima,” Natasha told them. “My friend. Since I can’t stand up for very long, he’s here to help me teach the class.”

Ryan looked skeptical. “Can he dance?”

Natasha stifled a chuckle. “Um, yes. He’s a very good dancer.” She clapped her hands. “All right, friends. Time to take your places.”

The children scrambled to their spots on the brightly colored plastic circles spaced around the floor, already set out by Lilah’s assistant, who sat in the front waiting area, watching the parents.

Dimitri sidled closer as the kids took their places. “Mr. Dima?”

“Dimitri has too many syllables,” she said from the side of her mouth. “You don’t want to hear them mangle it.”

“Actually, I kind of did.”

They shared a smile, and then she directed him to take her usual spot in the front of the room. She turned on the music and called out instructions from her chair. Dimitri demonstrated, and the kids followed his moves, sneaking looks at her periodically. Natasha kept a smile fixed to her face and counted the beat out loud.

When it came time to put the moves in order, Dimitri took over, leading the class. She manned the music, stopping and starting as necessary, and tried to close her heart to the scene before her.

It was impossible, of course. Dimitri was a natural, damn him. His deep, booming voice, so intimidating for some of the top dancers in the industry, managed to convey comforting, encouraging tones when he talked to the children. He did silly moves to make them laugh, and gave direction with kindness. He was attentive to each child, looking them in the eye as he listened, and speaking to them as equals.

There was something wrong with her. She’d never been the kind of woman to get all sappy about a guy interacting with kids. But she knew these kids. She cared about them, cared about the work done at this school, fostering an appreciation of dance that had nothing to do with how well the children completed moves and everything to do with how much they loved what they were doing.

Dance had done that for her. It had saved her, given her a focus for her life, and a community of people who understood her. Dance gave her value when her mother hadn’t.

Her first dance teacher, Mr. Richie, had seen promise in her. He’d nurtured her talent and interest. At the time, she’d hoped her mother would see her skill and be proud of her.

It had never happened.

So, she did her part here, instilling a love of dance in the younger generations. She listened and cared for the kids in her class, because she knew firsthand how much it meant to have an adult who wasn’t a parent be invested in your well-being.

For her, it had been priceless. And she’d been blessed to have other dance teachers who had also cared.

Who would she be now if not for them?

Who are you if not a dancer?

No, not the time to think of that. She was a dancer. She had to be.

It was all she had.

She glanced at her ankle. It was almost fully healed. She’d be back in fighting shape in a day or two, would probably be running around already if not for Nursemaid Dimitri.

He was singing a song with the kids while they waved their arms and acted out the lyrics. He was a terrible singer—not that she was one to talk—but his deep, rich voice made up for being off-key. Normally, his voice gave her delicious chills, goosebumps, and a sweet tingle she craved. When he growled her name, or called her Kroshka—hell, even when she overheard him backstage at The Dance Off—she came close to throwing herself at his feet.

But she didn’t. That would give the game away. That would reveal how much she wanted him.

Today, though, his voice had a different effect. Rather than setting her on edge in a sensuous way, keeping her in a state of suspended tension where she never knew what he’d do next, today his voice comforted her. All these days of living with him, hearing him call her from a different room, or muttering into the phone in Russian, she’d grown accustomed to the sound. He’d twined his way into her consciousness like he belonged there. Like he fit. Like it was right.

Longing. Yeah, who was she kidding? She longed for him. He had two kids hanging from each bicep, their delighted squeals ringing through the air, but it was his booming laugh that wound its way into her heart.

“Time for the last song,” she called out. “Will you all show Mr. Dima what we’ve been practicing?”

They ran to take their places. Dimitri stepped to the side to watch. Natasha turned on their recital song, calling out the moves while the children went through them with uncharacteristic seriousness.

When they were done, she and Dimitri broke into applause. Dimitri stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

The kids beamed and rushed them both, full of smiles and questions.

“Miss Tasha?” Talia, a tiny four-year-old with big eyes, squeezed in next to her. Talia loved that they had similar names, and often announced that fact proudly to anyone who would listen.

“Yes, Miss Talia?”

Talia giggled, then shot a shy look at Dimitri. “Is Mr. Dima your husband?”

Natasha’s breath seized in her chest. She forced a smile. “No, he’s not. We’re just friends.”

“Oh.” Talia’s brow creased and she frowned. Then she leaned in and whispered in Natasha’s ear. “I think he should be your husband. Even though he has a beard and moo-stache.”

Stifling a laugh, Natasha nodded like she would take this suggestion seriously. She met Dimitri’s eyes over the children’s heads, and he shot her a smile so full of . . .

She didn’t even know what. It scared her too much to put a name to it.

But at that look, her heart rolled over in her chest and woke the hell up.