Dimitri had driven over to Natasha’s with the intention of calming her down and trying to be of help. And yeah, also because he wanted to see her. He’d never heard her sound as out of sorts as she’d been on the phone, and it worried him. Tasha was always cool as a cucumber, and even harder to read. Seeing her with red-rimmed eyes, and her tawny brown cheeks pale with fatigue, had him on the verge of panic. When she’d gone down worst-case-scenario-road to moving back to New York, he’d blurted out his offer. It had surprised him—and her, too, if her wide eyes were any indication—but now that it was out, it seemed like a good idea. A great idea. The best idea, even.

Anyway, it made sense. Nikolai had moved out a few months ago, his room sitting vacant, yet still fully furnished. The house echoed with the quiet left by his younger brother’s absence. After growing up surrounded by relatives, living alone bugged the hell out of him.

More, he liked having Natasha in his space. She never stayed long—even when she spent the night, as she had last night—and she never left a trace, but each time, she left him wanting more.

Sometimes the depth of his want for her scared him, and he ran in the other direction. Weeks or months would pass before he called her again.

And he always called her. She never reached out to him.

Other times, that desire for her made him want to chase her down. He’d invite her over for a weekend, or claim to be in her neighborhood, or go to a club where he knew she’d be.

When he asked, she always said yes. But he always had to do the asking. She never sought him out, never pursued him. Yet she was always there when he wanted her.

They both slept with other people, too. It was part of this casual, no-commitment thing they had going on. It sucked, but it was the cycle they were locked in, and he hadn’t been able to see a way out.

And he didn’t like to be alone.

Now, he solved two problems. The chance to develop a new dynamic with Natasha, and someone to fill the empty space in his home.

The perfect solution.

Except . . .

She’d said no sex.

If he put himself in her shoes, he understood where the stipulation came from. He was a judge. It might not look good if the showrunners knew they were living together. But it was the off-season. No big deal. No one would know.

Despite his easy agreement, they were kidding themselves. They couldn’t stay away from each other. It was only a matter of time.

He turned the Porsche down his street, quiet and lined with tall palm trees, then pulled into the curving driveway. Damn, he still had to fix the gate. It was something he could have had his assistant do, if he hadn’t fired the guy.

At the end of the drive, Dimitri clicked the remote for the garage, pausing while the door raised. The exterior of the sprawling one-story was more Spanish style than he preferred, having grown up in Brooklyn, but the red clay roof tiles and white stucco were growing on him. Behind him, Natasha parked in the driveway, like she usually did. But when he got out, he grabbed one of the other remotes and opened the middle spot, which had been Nik’s, indicating she should park there. His BMW X3 SUV occupied the third spot.

He opened her door when she shut the car off, and offered her a hand to step out. She took the assistance, but behind her glasses, her dark, heavy-lidded eyes held wariness, like she didn’t trust his help. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt, but he didn’t comment on it. It was time he came to terms with the fact that he hadn’t done enough to earn her trust. Moving her into his home afforded him the perfect opportunity to gauge her feelings, to test if she wanted more.

“New car?” he asked, eying the Prius.

She sighed, giving the vehicle a sideways glance. “Yeah. New car.”

“That’s exciting.”

“More like unexpected and expensive.”

She opened the trunk and together they collected her meager belongings to carry into the house. She’d had to leave a lot behind, sealed airtight, and some of it had been dropped off at the dry cleaners on the way to his house.

At the threshold between the garage and the house, she paused and cleared her throat. “You said you had a spare bedroom?”

He wanted her in his bed, like always, but he was willing to play this out. “Yeah, this way.”

At Nik’s door, she pulled back, brow creased. “Isn’t this your brother’s room?”

“It was.” He pushed the door open and carried her bags inside, where he set them in a line under the window. “He got a spot on the national tour of that Seize the Night musical and moved out a few months ago. Says he’ll get his own place when it’s over.” It made sense, but Dimitri couldn’t help but feel like Nikolai was leaving him behind, a betrayal of sorts. He gestured around the room. “Some of Nik’s stuff is still in the closet, but there should be space for you to hang things up, and I think the drawers are empty.”

“Thanks.” She lingered in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” Her hesitation jabbed at his nerves, made his voice sharp. “Are you a vampire? Waiting for an invitation? Come in.”

Her lips flattened into a line and she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. With a deliberate step, she entered the room and dumped her belongings on top of the now-bare dresser. “Better?” she snapped.

It wasn’t, but he liked the bite in her voice. It was better than the cool, reserved demeanor she usually showed him, or the frantic worry when he’d called her earlier. And while he didn’t like settling her in here, it didn’t matter where her stuff was. Sooner or later, she’d be back in his bed. And maybe this time, she’d stay.

“Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

“A tour?” She turned away from where she had started to line up a series of bottles on the dresser, eyes wide and tone incredulous.

“Yeah. I’ll show you the rest of the house.” He took her hand and pulled her from the room. She didn’t resist, but the stunned look didn’t leave her face.

“Macho.”

He stopped at the sound of his nickname on her lips. He loved that she had one for him, something she didn’t call anyone else.

She stared at him like he was crazy. “I’ve been here before. I was here yesterday, in fact. I don’t need a tour.”

“That was different,” he said. “That’s when you were just—”

Her eyebrows shot up and she crossed her arms. “When I was just what?”

He was digging a hole for himself, but he couldn’t stop his mouth. “You were just going to my bedroom.” And the sofa. And the dining table. And the pool—“There are some rooms you haven’t seen. I want you to feel at home here.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she went with him.

He pointed out the hall bathroom, which would be hers to use. Then the kitchen, gym, TV lounge, and his office, which also held a small pullout sofa.

When he opened the office door, he spotted a short stack of papers on his desk and paused.

Shit. His contract for The Dance Off. He hadn’t signed it yet, hadn’t decided if he was going to or not. Now that he’d seen it, the pressure to sign weighed on him, like the contract was staring at him. Sign me, it said. Give up on your dreams. You know they aren’t going anywhere. Might as well sign me.

He couldn’t take it another second. Before ducking back out of the office, he said, “Gimme a sec,” and stalked into the room to flip the papers over. When he came back and shut the door behind him, Natasha gave him a quizzical look that bordered on hurt.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to go into your office,” she said in a quiet voice.

“That’s not—” Crap, he’d made her think he had something he didn’t want her to see. “I know. But you can. It’s okay.” He was making a mess of this. He had to get her to the next room before he made it worse. “Anyway, there’s something else I want you to see. You’re going to like this.”

“You better not turn around with your dick hanging out,” she muttered as she followed him down the hall.

He barked out a surprised laugh, and leered at her over his shoulder. “Don’t give me any ideas.”

Her snicker eased the tightness in his shoulders.

“Here we are.” He opened the door with a flourish, stepping back so she could get a good look inside.

The expression on her face made up for all the awkwardness of their tour. Dark eyes rounded, those pretty lips parted in awe, she entered the room on her own and turned in a circle to take it all in.

“You have a private dance studio?” The wonder in her voice warmed him, and he followed her in.

“Of course.” He grinned, checking out their reflections in the wall of mirrors. “Doesn’t everybody?”

She shot him a smirk, and he moved closer. “You can use this anytime you want.”

“Thank you.” She ran her hand along the barre on the opposite wall. “I will.”

Without a word, he took her hand from the polished wood and pulled her into a spin. She followed his lead, as she always did. When they danced, nothing stood between them. He led, she followed, and he lost track of everything but the movement of her body and keeping them in flow. He’d danced with countless women over the course of his career, but never anyone like her. She was the best, and she got him like no one else did. Ever since that first time, when she’d walked into his rehearsal room by accident and he’d pulled her in to try out the number he was choreographing, he’d known.

He wanted to dance with her forever.

Before he could approach her about that, he had to get her past this “no sex” rule. It was ridiculous. They’d been together on and off for three years. They needed to move forward, not backward.

When he tugged her back into his arms, she landed against him with her hand on his chest. With one hand on her back and her body pressed to his, he caught the undulation of her spine as she finished the move. It was part of the dance, sure, but he knew her movements and her body well enough to catch the telltale extras. The slight arch of her back, the short thrust of her hips, the sharp intake of breath bordering on a moan.

She was turned on.

His body pulsed and hardened. He slid his hand up between her shoulder blades and tilted his head down.

With a gasp, Natasha shoved against his chest. When he released her, she backed away from him, toward the door.

“Let’s get something straight,” she said in a low voice, at odds with the heat in her gaze and the slow way she licked her lips. “We’re not roommates with benefits, okay? I thought I made that clear.”

“Yeah, sure.” For now. “You’re my guest. I want you to feel comfortable here.”

She narrowed her eyes like she didn’t believe him. “Thanks for the tour. I’m going to go unpack.” She hurried from the room, leaving him standing on the dance floor with his reflection.

Dimitri scrubbed a hand over his face and trudged back to his office. Well, that had been a fucking disaster. He wanted Natasha more than he’d ever wanted anybody or anything, and he’d managed to insult her and put her on guard. Not just today, with his careless words, but by neglecting to give her a tour in the past. How had he never noticed that she’d only seen the spaces where they’d fucked? Why hadn’t he shown her the rest of his home?

He sat in his desk chair and leaned back as far as it would allow, staring at the ceiling like it would give him some answers.

In the back of his mind lived a tiny, flickering hope that someday they’d figure out how to talk to each other, be open with each other, and test how deep their connection ran.

But what if sex was all they had? Or great dance chemistry? He didn’t have anything else to base his hunch on, that she was the woman for him.

The contract on his desk caught his eye, mocking him. Those papers, stamped with The Dance Off’s logo, represented his failure to take risks and produce his own projects, and his reliance on the industry machine to keep him in the spotlight.

Hell, maybe his focus on Natasha was further indication that he was just lonely and looking for a distraction. Someone to fill the space, consume his attention.

No. Deep down, he carried an undeniable certainty that they were right for each other. Yet in the three years they’d been . . . whatever they were doing, she’d never shown any sign that she wanted more from him than what their arrangement allowed.

He wanted more, and had since the beginning. But he wouldn’t ask, not until he was sure she wanted more, too.

She was in his house now. He’d get to the bottom of it, find out what she wanted. They were good together in bed. She didn’t hide anything there, didn’t hold back in her pleasure. They’d start there, and once he was past her guards, he’d find out what else she was hiding.

First, he had to get her to retract her rule.

But for now, he’d give her space. Let her unpack and settle in. Even though he wanted to help, he stayed in his office instead, pushing aside the contract and pulling up a spreadsheet of wine orders on his laptop.

The entertainment industry was an uncertain beast, and dance careers didn’t last forever. Nothing did. He’d learned from experience early on that the best move was to diversify his interests, and he went for low risk with maximum reward.

The restaurant had been a sure bet. Everything had lined up perfectly to make it happen, but he hadn’t gone public as the owner until Krasavitsa was a clear success. It turned out he was good at running a restaurant, and of all his side ventures, it was the one he was most involved in, and left him most fulfilled.

But it wasn’t dancing.

His eyes wandered over to the bookcase in the corner, and the massive three-ring binder settled into one of the shelves, surrounded by classic Russian literature and gathering metaphorical dust.

Not real dust. Trina, his housekeeper, would never allow it.

An email popped up from one of the vineyards he did business with. Putting the binder, the contract, and Natasha out of his head, he got back to work.

Half an hour later, his phone buzzed, and the Yeti King’s epic theme song from the Elf Chronicles movies rang out from his pants pocket.

He pulled the phone out and swiped it on. “You’re up late,” he said by way of greeting. “It’s almost midnight over there.”

“Yeah, but I knew you’d be up.” His cousin Alex sounded tired. “What are you doing?”

Dimitri closed his laptop and played with a pile of paperclips on the desk, pushing them into ever-changing designs and patterns. “Going over wine lists.”

“Ah, the best part of being a restaurant owner. Aren’t you glad I forced you to take that sommelier class?”

Dimitri grunted. Alex had not only pushed him into taking the wine class, but he’d facilitated the purchase and opening of the restaurant. He put the phone on speaker and leaned back in his chair. “I know you didn’t call from New Jersey in the middle of the night to discuss wine. Spill it.”

Alex was silent for a long beat. Dimitri abandoned the paperclips and sat up straight. Alex always hesitated before telling him something he didn’t want to hear.

Like the time they’d had to close their Broadway show. Alex had hemmed and hawed like an elementary school kid trying to get out of trouble before he broke the news. Despite great reviews, ticket sales weren’t where they’d needed to be. Dimitri had sunk everything he had into it, both financially—borrowing and scraping together every cent from other gigs—and professionally, working on all aspects of the choreography, the story, even the production and the marketing.

It hadn’t been enough. No matter how good you were, no matter how big your name, if the money wasn’t there to back you up, you were a failure.

The line was quiet for so long, Dimitri worried the call had cut out. “Sasha?” he said, using Alex’s family nickname.

“I have news, Mitya,” Alex finally said, using Dimitri’s own nickname.

“Tell me.”

“Marina’s pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

Dimitri blew out a breath. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought you were calling to tell me something bad. That’s great news. Pozdravlyayu.”

“Spasibo.”

Dimitri switched to Russian. “So, why don’t you sound more excited?”

Alex sighed. “I am. I’m thrilled. A little exhausted, because we just found out, and Marina’s been up early with morning sickness. By the way, don’t tell anyone else in the family. I’m only telling you.”

That was suspicious. “Why haven’t you told your parents yet?”

“We will, but we want a little time before they start smothering us.”

“I’m flattered you chose to share the news with me first, but why?”

“Two reasons. One, we want you to be the godfather.”

A warm feeling sparked in Dimitri’s chest. His cousin’s child, still just a little bean, would soon be connected to him, too. He swallowed hard.

“That’s . . . yeah, of course. Of course, I’ll be the godfather.”

“And the second reason . . .”

Shit, he’d forgotten there was a second reason, and he’d fallen victim to Alex’s stalling tactics.

“This puts us on a deadline.”

Dimitri wrinkled his brow and glanced at the contract pushed to the corner of his desk. “A deadline for what?”

“If we’re going to do another stage show, it has to be now. I want to be around more once the baby’s born. I can’t be flying to LA whenever you need me, or spending all my time in Manhattan. I’ve got a wife and a home in New Jersey, and my own business that I run full time. If we’re going to do this, it has to be now.”

It was Dimitri’s turn to fall silent. He sucked in a breath through his nose and leaned his head on his hands. “When is the baby due?”

“Mid-March.”

Shit. That was hardly any time at all.

“Look, I know you’re sitting on a ton of ideas. If we go all-in for the next seven months or so—”

“It’ll be a risk. Especially to rush it.”

“It will always be a risk, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it. Think about it and get back to me, okay? I’m going to bed. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Thanks. And again, congratulations. I’m honored you asked me to be the godfather.”

“Who else would I ask? Ivan?”

They both laughed. Their youngest cousin was trying to become famous for filming himself playing video games on the internet. Dimitri had supplied him with camera equipment, but didn’t ask how it was going.

“You sure you didn’t just throw the godfather thing in to keep me from getting upset about this deadline?”

“You’ll never know.”

The call ended, and Dimitri stared at the phone for a minute. Then he picked it up and dashed off a text to his agent.

When is the contract due?

The reply was almost immediate. The man lived with his phone in his hand.

In a few weeks. Why? You got the copy I sent you, right?

Yeah, just checking.

After placing the phone carefully on the desk, Dimitri slid the contract over. Grabbing a pen, he scrawled his obnoxiously bold signature across the line, but hesitated before dating it. Instead, he shoved the whole thing into the bottom drawer. When he slammed it shut, his phone rang, and he jumped. It was a regular ringtone, one that mimicked an old telephone.

The restaurant. He picked up immediately. “Dimitri.”

He listened while Carlito, the manager, rattled off the latest emergency. With a sigh, Dimitri pushed to his feet.

“Calm down. I’ll be right there.”

He spared the desk drawer a glance before leaving the office, and headed to Natasha’s room.

He stopped short in the middle of the hallway. Natasha’s room. Not Nik’s room, which it had been for years, and which he had still thought of it as until . . .

An hour ago.

Already, his mind was settling her in, making her a permanent fixture in his home, in his life. She didn’t view it that way. “Temporary,” she’d called it.

They’d see about that. He had no intention of letting her move back into that tiny box of an apartment. Not when he had all this space here, just waiting for her to fill it.