“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” I mutter the curse words under my breath as I climb out of one of the bright yellow taxis that seem to be bloody everywhere in this city. I thought it was all put on for films and stuff, but apparently it isn’t.

The strap of my bag catches on the door handle, and I almost trip as I yank it off. Being late to the first dance class is not how I planned on starting my new life in New York. Actually, I never planned on being in a damn class unless it was at Juilliard, but that’s not something to think about right now. I can’t think about her – if I do I’ll get that stupid canary car back here, get in, and go back to my overpriced apartment.

I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and look up at the building in front of me. It’s old school and doesn’t look right in Manhattan. Instead of the sky high, glass buildings that seem to be the norm, this building is red brick with just a small sign proclaiming, “Bianca’s Dance Studio”. I ruffle my hair with my fingers, sighing deeply, wondering if I’ve made the right decision. For the millionth time.

But I am late, so there’s no damn time left to worry about that. I tuck it into the back of my mind for later – for now I need my head on the dance floor and not in the clouds.

I push the door open and follow the small hallway to a large open room. A barre is against the far mirrored wall, and both guys and girls are lined up against it, running through the five positions in time with the gentle music playing. My eyes scan them, noting they all look about twenty or so, except the girl at the end.

Her dark hair is tucked into a pristine bun on top of her head and her eyes are lowered as she bends her knees and moves into a demi-plié. She’s utterly graceful, and it’s plain to see she’s completely at peace.

“Blake Smith?” a voice with a strong New York accent says quietly to my side. I turn to face the auburn haired woman staring at me and nod.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”

She smiles. “I’m Bianca.”

We shake hands. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you. You’re a little late, but I’d say London is quite different to here.”

I think of the twenty minutes it took me to get a taxi. “Yeah, you’re right there. Sorry – I’m still learning how to get around.”

Her laugh is gentle. “Yes, I’d imagine it would be tough. Well, if you have any questions feel free to come to me and I’ll do my best to answer them. If you put your bag over there in the corner and warm up, we’ll get started.”

She silently pads back to her spot, and I look back to the girl at the end of the barr e. e

.

Our eyes meet.

She almost hesitates in her warm up, but then carries on as if we’re not staring at each other. As if I’m not trying to work out what color her eyes are. They’re framed by long, thick lashes that curl toward her eyebrows, and her cheeks pink lightly. I run my eyes down her body, and I can’t help but admire the way her leotard and leggings hug her body. She blinks when my eyes lock onto hers again.

Shit. They don’t make girls like her in England. And if they do, my mother never introduced me to them.

She pulls her gaze from mine and looks to the front. Something … Something tells me I need to know this girl – and it isn’t even something in my dick.

I run through the warm up, half listening to Bianca talking to the class, half watching the girl with the dark brown hair. She’s standing slightly back from everyone else, her hands tucked into her sleeves and her head hanging slightly, yet her poise is perfect. Her back is straight and her feet are in position.

Slowly, she moves into the basic positions and moves to Bianca’s orders with the elegance of a swan floating along a river in the spring. Every move is perfectly precise – both in positioning and timing. She continues working through the moves at the barre, from plié and tendu to battements, oblivious to my eyes following her. Oblivious to my eyes following every curve of her body and every stretch of her limbs. Oblivious to the fact I’ve never been so attracted to a girl whose name I don’t know.

I switch from the warm up to the basic steps. I know full well Bianca is putting us all through our paces since just over half the class are new. Her eyes flick to each of us, lingering for a second or two as they examine our positioning and posture, but I’m barely concentrating. My thoughts are purely for the girl in front of me; my body is moving fluidly through the instructed steps.

For me, dancing is as natural as breathing. It always has been.

Bianca instructs us to pair off, male and female, and I move toward the brown-haired girl. How could I go to anyone else? As cliché as it sounds, she’s the only person in this room I’m really aware of.

I tap her on the shoulder. “Do you want to …”

A pair of startlingly light blue eyes crash into mine. Blue. That’s what color they are. It’s the kind of blue that makes you stop dead and instantly makes you think of a crisp summer’s day, complete with beer and a barbecue. It’s also the kind of blue that shows everything – the hue too pale to hide shadows lurking beneath – it’s the flicker of darkness that makes me pause and stare at her.

I’ve seen those shadows before.

I know how they linger, barely scratching the surface before pulling you under. And I know the climb is always harder than the fall … If you’re lucky enough to get a grip on the climb.

“Do I …?” she questions shyly, raising her hand to her face then dropping it again.

“Um.” I cough and scratch the back of my neck. Her hesitant smile reminds me what I’ve actually approached her for. “Do you want to dance together? Since we have to pair off. You know. Yeah.”

Shit. I sound like an awkward teen boy who has no idea how to speak to a girl.

Her smile stretches a little and her eyes flit around the dance hall. Everyone is paired off and talking to each other quietly.

“I … Sure,” she replies.

“Great. I’m Blake. Blake Smith.”

“Abbi Jenkins.” Abbi’s hand slips into my outstretched one. My fingers curl around her smaller ones, but my focus isn’t on the silky smooth skin against mine; it’s on the gentleness of her tone and the way her lips moved when she said her name.

“Abbi,” I repeat. “Have you danced long?”

“Since I was eight.” She takes her hand from mine and clasps both of hers in front of her stomach protectively. “We all need a little something to escape in, right?”

Right. “Definitely.”

Three sharp claps draw us both from the conversation, and we turn to Bianca. As she instructs us on what we need to do, my eyes trace the line of Abbi’s profile. It’s dainty and cute – from the way her button nose curves, to the obvious plumpness of her lips. I don’t notice I’m smiling until her eyes meet mine again and she raises a questioning eyebrow. I shrug one of my shoulders, and her lips quirk.

“Shall we?”

“Uh, sure.” Shall we what? Crap.

Abbi lets the smile break across her face. “Dance,” she responds with a twinkle in her eyes.

Right. Dance. What we’re here for.

Shit. I come thousands of miles to achieve my dream, and what do I do? I get distracted by a pretty face. I need to be thinking with my feet not my damn dick.

For the second time since I walked into this studio, I offer her my hand, and for the second time, she takes it. She moves onto pointe seemingly without thinking and closes her eyes. Once again I’m struck by the ease of her movements as I fall into my own … With her. It’s not until you dance with someone you can truly appreciate the beauty of it.

And it’s been only a few seconds, a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of things, but seeing Abbi Jenkins give herself over to the music is to see true beauty.

One moment – one I’ll never forget.

Until she opens her eyes as we begin to move, and I’m reminded that even shadows can fall over true beauty.

Abbi looks at me, but I can tell she’s not really seeing me. There’s a gloss over her eyes, brightening the blue hue of her iris through the pain lingering there. She’s somewhere else, somewhere far away, but her steps never falter. She never falls out of time, never makes a wrong move. Even her breathing doesn’t change.

Despite the chopping and changing of the music and movements, combined with Bianca’s never-ending comments and instructions on arm positioning and timing, my blood is rushing through my body as we move together. I can hear it pounding in my ears and drowning out the music. And I’m mesmerized. I’m mesmerized by the fluidity of her movements, the ease of our dance together. It’s like we’ve always danced together.

The music stops, and Abbi closes her eyes as we come to a standstill. When they open they’re clear again, and she smiles shyly. My arms fall from her and she steps back, her fingers lightly brushing across mine. She tugs her sleeves down over her hands, clasping her fingers in front of her stomach again.

“Thank you,” she says, her eyes meeting mine.

My lips curve on one side. “What for?”

“For the dance.” She smiles as softly as she speaks, turning back to the barre. I watch her go. Watch the gentle pad of her feet across the floor, the sway of her hips with each step …

“No,” I mutter, never taking my eyes from her. “Thank you.”