This wouldn’t be a long stay. Maybe a week, max, until she got paid for all the gigs she was working. In fact, tonight, she’d start a search for available apartments. If she were lucky, she’d find a place that didn’t require a security deposit.
Yeah, right. And maybe her nonexistent fairy godmother would swoop in to save her.
Still, there was no point living out of suitcases. Tired as she was, Natasha unpacked her clothing into the empty drawers—or at least, the clothing she’d managed to salvage.
Over her years in LA, working in television, she’d amassed a considerable wardrobe of beautiful outfits. They were her pride and joy. Some people had kids or pets. Natasha had style. When she went out, she dressed to the nines, looking like a fucking supermodel. Now, some of it was flat out ruined by the bathroom ceiling cave-in. Some was at the dry cleaners. The stuff she’d been able to salvage was mostly gym wear and casual attire that could survive being put through a hot dryer.
And her shoes . . . she couldn’t even think about them. If she did, she’d cry. Again.
Ignoring her reflection in the large oval mirror above the dresser, she tucked away the last of her garments. She didn’t need to see the dark circles under her eyes to know she was exhausted.
Maybe she’d look up apartments tomorrow. Sleep beckoned, although knowing Dimitri was down the hall would probably keep her up.
He’d acted so strangely during their “tour.” Although perhaps that wasn’t an accurate assessment. He always acted a little strange, except when they were dancing or screwing. His behavior alternated between sexual fiend and arrogant playboy, but today, he was more eager puppy.
It threw her off. Dimitri was difficult enough to handle—running cool and hot—when he was trying to get in her pants, but this happy host version of him was even more suspicious.
And still, here she was moving into his house, with no assurances, and no clear sense of where they stood.
A knock sounded on the bedroom door, and her shoulders hunched, fingers stilling on the neatly folded pile of gym clothes. If she went and opened the door, he’d be standing there, too close. If she were going to live here and stick to her rule, they needed to keep her distance. Taking a deep breath, she called out. “Yeah?”
The door muffled his deep voice. “Problem at the restaurant. I have to go out.” A pause. “Will you be okay?”
She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “Yes.”
“I’ll see you when I get home.”
Not if she could help it. What the hell was she doing here, playing house with him, acting like they could be roommates? Even the sound of his voice through a door gave her a thrill, his simple farewell affecting her like a promise.
Be strong. She cleared her throat. “See you.”
The house was big, but quiet. She put her ear to the bedroom door until she heard the door into the garage open and close, then she stepped into the hallway and out into the living room. A minute later, the sound of the engine faded as he drove away.
She let out a breath, and her shoulders slumped. Alone at last. In Dimitri’s house.
It was weird being in his house like this. She’d been here plenty of times before, but this time, she wasn’t drunk or horny. She was desperate in a totally different way.
The living room sofa mocked her, reminding her of all the times they’d fucked on it. She wandered past the dining table, noting the chair that had been repaired after they’d broken it. She still wasn’t sure how that had happened, but maybe it was a sign not to bang on top of tables.
She hurried back to the bedroom—Nik’s bedroom? Her bedroom? No, the bedroom. It wasn’t hers. But at least it held no memories. She collected an armful of toiletries and carried them out to the hall bathroom, arranging her bottles in a line on the counter.
The most intriguing room in the house was the dance studio, but even that now held a memory. When he’d pulled her into the dance, she’d gone, like every time before that. Dancing with him was irresistible, something she’d dreamed of long before they’d met, when she was just a teenager watching him on the movie screen. The rush of a rollercoaster, but with the security of knowing he wouldn’t let her fall.
And the damned man had known it. He always knew. Sometimes it seemed like he knew her body better than she did. When he’d pulled her against him, the thrill of the dance, her delight at the room, his warmth, his scent—all combined to set her body pulsing. It had taken all her strength of will to push him away.
No sex, she’d told him. And she was sticking to it. Even if it killed her.
Her phone buzzed with a text. It was a selfie from Gina. She had her arm hooked around Stone’s neck, and a beautiful landscape of water, mountains, and pine trees stretched out in the background. Gina added the caption, Look who’s hiking! #totesoutdoorsy
After winning the previous season, Gina had accepted a gig on Broadway, and Stone had gone with her. They were splitting their time between New York and Los Angeles for work, and spending breaks at their new home in Alaska.
Natasha smiled in spite of herself, but a pang of jealousy shimmered underneath the glee at hearing from her best friend and seeing her so happy. She smothered it, but a tiny voice inside whispered, I want that, too.
Didn’t matter, though. That kind of love wasn’t for her.
Natasha typed back, Don’t fall off a cliff! with a line of heart emojis.
Since Dimitri was out, she took advantage of the empty house. She showered, lotioned up, and climbed into bed, intending to read for a bit. The bed was comfortable, but it was strange being in a bed that wasn’t hers—alone. The sheets and pillows smelled like fabric softener, and she wondered who did Dimitri’s laundry. She couldn’t picture him doing it himself.
Nope, don’t do it. She shook her head to banish the thought. Better not to think about him in domestic terms.
She’d just pulled up a classic British novel on her ereader when her phone rang. Before she touched it, the name flashing on the screen made her snatch her hand back.
Esmeralda.
Her mother. The last person she ever wanted to talk to, but especially not when she was so out of sorts.
With a sigh, Natasha leaned back into the pillows and answered. “Hola, Mami.”
“Mira, nena.”
Natasha rolled her eyes. Her mother still called her “girl,” even though she was now twenty-seven years old. And Esmeralda usually said it like a curse.
She’d never once called her mija—my daughter. But at least Abuelita had.
Her mother continued to rattle on in Spanish, skipping the pleasantries and getting right to the point.
“One of my girlfriends from the salon is a fan and she wants to see the show. We’re flying out for the premiere. Get us tickets.”
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Natasha fought for calm. She’d been offering her mother tickets to her performances since she’d first moved to LA five years ago. Now she was finally coming, but only because her friend wanted to see The Dance Off. It figured. Esmeralda didn’t even watch the show.
“You have enough space in your apartment for us to stay with you?”
She’d know if she’d ever bothered to visit. Before she thought better of it, Natasha said, “Sí, tengo un dormitorio segundo.”
Carajo. Natasha smacked her forehead. Why the hell had she just offered her mother the second bedroom? The one with all her stuff sitting in it, in an apartment with a hole in the ceiling, in a building with a mystery bug infestation. Exhaustion, nerves, tension. She was losing her mind.
“Claro.” Her mother said it like it was all settled. “See you next month. Hasta luego.”
“Bye.” Coño. Natasha dropped the phone on the bed and rubbed her eyes. What the hell had possessed her to agree to letting her mother stay with her in an apartment that was currently off-limits? Temporary insanity? Short-term memory loss? It was like she’d forgotten her home was currently in shambles, her bank account nearly empty, and she was staying with a man whose relationship to her could most accurately be termed a fuck buddy.
Of course, her mother would pick now to finally visit her.
But she couldn’t tell Esmeralda the truth. The woman would go nuts, shouting at her about her life choices, with a strong, underlying current of I told you so. She’d been saying it Natasha’s whole life, ever since she’d shown a natural aptitude for dance and an interest in pursuing it.
You’ll never make it as a dancer.
She had, though. She’d gotten jobs as a working dancer on not one, but two major network TV shows. The Dance Off was always in the ratings top ten, and before that, she’d been on Everybody Dance Now. While The Dance Off paired professional dancers with celebrity partners, Everybody focused on pairing dancers from different backgrounds and styles. After Natasha and Gina moved to LA, Gina had gotten them an audition, and they’d joined Everybody Dance Now together.
Natasha made enough to live in Los Angeles, where she enjoyed more luxury than she ever had while growing up in the Bronx in a two-bedroom apartment occupied by two old people and a teenage mother whose daughter slept in a partitioned-off area of the living room.
She’d come a long way. Being able to afford a good apartment on her own was going to be the final step. Except now it was ruined.
If only she’d saved more . . .
If only she’d put off paying down her credit cards and canceling them . . .
If only the car hadn’t died right when it did, forcing her to buy a new one . . .
If only the ceiling hadn’t fallen in, or the building not been infested with bed bugs . . .
Any one of those things, if removed from the equation, would have left her stable. Secure. Able to cling to the outward signs of success. But all of them combined?
All combined, the events of the last couple months had reduced her to living in the spare bedroom of a man she couldn’t even call a friend, with only a pile of tank tops, yoga pants, and denim shorts. At least Los Angeles weather was predictable enough in summer that she didn’t need much.
Maybe it was better this way. If she didn’t have access to her killer wardrobe, she’d be less tempted to go out partying, which she couldn’t afford to do anyway. And besides, she didn’t have the time. She’d lost track of how many gigs she was working now, teaching classes at various gyms and dance schools, from spin to pole-dance, from elderly aerobics to kiddie ballet. Her schedule was nuts.
One thing was for certain: Esmeralda could not find out she was living with Dimitri.
When her phone buzzed again, Natasha checked it with dread. But it wasn’t her mother calling back to berate her about who knows what. It was a group text from Kevin Ray and Lori Kim, two other pros from The Dance Off.
Lori texted first. Yooooo let’s go to Club Picante, y’all! Followed by the dancing lady emoji.
Kevin’s reply flashed on the screen. I’m down!
A wave of longing threatened to swamp her. Natasha wanted to say yes, to go out drinking and dancing with her friends. Kevin and Lori were a blast, and since Gina moved out, Natasha had been spending way too much time alone. She wasn’t used to it.
But it was time to act like a responsible adult.
Before she could answer, Lori’s next text popped up. Pre-game drinks at Natasha’s?
Oh, hell no. They couldn’t know she was staying here, either. Not only would it be dangerous for her job, but then they would know about her utter failure to take care of herself. No one needed to know she was desperate enough to room with Dimitri.
Besides, Kevin didn’t like Dimitri. His green eyes narrowed whenever they were out partying and Dimitri showed up to sweep her away. It wasn’t jealousy—Kevin had never shown the slightest bit of sexual interest in her—but the times she got drunk and whined about Dimitri’s lack of commitment, Kevin spent the rest of the night scowling.
She quickly typed a reply. Sorry, guys. Not tonight. Got work early tomorrow.
Before she could see their answers, she put her phone on silent and practically threw it onto the bedside table.
The ereader had shut off while she was texting. She set it aside, as well. Reading had lost its appeal.
She settled back into the pillows, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling in the dark. Temporary. This was only temporary. She’d swear Dimitri to secrecy, and uphold her one condition. Then she’d get back on her feet, back in her own place, back to being a success. No one had to know about this little lapse.
No one would know she was a failure.