The next morning, Natasha woke to a text from the owners of the West Hollywood branch of Spin Cycle, where she taught an early morning spin class that paired shouted positive affirmations with rocking club beats. There was a gas leak on the block, and the building was closed.

With her first gig of the day canceled, Natasha closed her eyes and snuggled into the pillow.

And couldn’t go back to sleep. Her body tensed, ears pitched to pick up any sounds of movement from the rest of the house. She rolled over in the bed that didn’t feel or smell like hers, mildly surprised Dimitri hadn’t crept under the covers with her in the middle of the night. She hadn’t heard him come home last night—home, as in his home, not hers—and she knew from nights spent with him that he wasn’t an early riser.

Worse, she had to pee. But what if he was up, and she ran into him in the hallway? She’d done the awkward morning thing with him plenty of times before—so many times, in fact, it was no longer quite so awkward to grab a spare toothbrush from under the sink—but this was different.

The reality of staying in Dimitri’s home as a guest sank in with stunning clarity. There was no way this wasn’t going to be weird. She just had to suck it up before her bladder burst.

She slid out of the bed, feeling for her chanclas before remembering she’d thrown them out. Their rubber soles meant they couldn’t go through the dryer on hot. She needed a new pair of slippers.

Barefoot, then. She tiptoed to the door and eased it open. At the entrance to the hallway bathroom, she paused to eye Dimitri’s bedroom door, which was half-open. She swallowed, debating whether it was better to go about her business quietly, or shut his door so she didn’t wake him. The carpet under her feet was thick and plush, completely unlike the scarred hardwood floors in the old prewar apartment where she’d grown up. By the time she was eighteen, she’d known every creak and crack in her great-grandparents’ home.

This was a fairly new house in Beverly Hills. She could take a chance.

She reached his room without making a sound, but standing in Dimitri’s doorway afforded her a perfect view of the man himself sprawled in the enormous California King-sized bed she knew so well. His wide chest was bared to the edge of his ribcage, where the blankets covered the rest of the goods. Thick arms wrapped around a squishy pillow, his face hidden in its folds. The scent of his cologne, something woodsy undercut with citrus, beckoned her in.

Natasha bit her lip. The sight of him, half-dressed and twisted in the covers, sent a low thrum of pleasure vibrating through her body. The way he held the pillow was how he held her, caged in his arms, his face buried in her hair. He said the smell of her fig shampoo helped him fall asleep.

With great care, she grasped the doorknob and pulled the door shut, blocking him from view before she did something dumb, like climb into bed with him.

Since she had a little extra time, she took a quick shower, then carried her camera and laptop to the dance studio on the other end of the house. Yes, she should use the time to search for apartments, but her multitude of summer jobs didn’t leave her a lot of time or energy to dance for the fun of it. The spin class especially wore her out, and she couldn’t find it in her to be upset it had been canceled, even though it paid well and she needed the money.

The studio had a couple stools in the corner, so she used them as tables to set up her equipment. Both the camera and laptop had been splurges, which she’d just finished paying off a month earlier, but they allowed her to film herself and edit the footage. As much as she enjoyed all the gigs she was able to take on as a dancer—from teaching classes, to ensemble work on TV musicals, to her status as a pro on The Dance Off—she missed choreographing routines for real dancers.

The Dance Off was a crapshoot. You never knew if your celeb that season was going to be up to the challenge or not. Dwayne Alonzo, her partner the previous season, was a football player with a huge fan following. As a dancer, however, he had more energy than skill, and his footwork left much to be desired. She’d choreographed routines that played to his strengths, both literal and figurative. Lots of lifts and hip action, with uncomplicated steps his big, blunt athlete’s feet could handle. They’d made it to the seventh episode before being eliminated.

Turning athletes and actors and anyone else who fell under the umbrella of “celebrity” into dancers was a challenge, for sure, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t feeling creatively stifled.

Since she had access to this beautiful, empty, free rehearsal space, it would be a crime not to take advantage of it.

With the studio door shut and Dimitri dead asleep on the other end of the house, she turned on the camera and the music—a slow, haunting melody with soulful lyrics about a woman done wrong—and began to move. The music and motion, as always, swept everything else away.

When she danced, it was the closest she came to knowing peace.