After he licked and sucked his partner, after he came all over a near-stranger’s ass…then he started to feel off.
He could almost laugh at himself, if he weren’t being attacked by a renewed glut of gut-sick worry.
As if he’d lost his plans entirely.
Which was why he kept his plans and his problems to himself. The sick, wandering worry that came with the lack of a goal wasn’t something he’d inflict on anyone else, much less his girl. How could he share anything with her when he trusted his judgment so little?
Lizzie would likely want to snuggle with Paul. Of course she would. No matter the strange turn in their relationship, an old partnership wasn’t the same as initiating a new relationship with another man.
Dima shoved the worries down. Refusing to acknowledge fears denied them power. He offered a hint of a smile and brushed a soft kiss over Lizzie’s mouth, then Paul’s. They both blinked up at him as he pushed off the couch.
“Perfect. Little one, I hope you sleep well.” He pressed another kiss to her forehead because he never could sleep right without the small ritual. “Paul, Lizzie can show you what you need.”
The other man’s smile was nearly bright enough to distract Dima from the sudden darkness that sprang up in Lizzie’s eyes, or his disappointment when she didn’t say anything at all.
Chapter Thirteen
Lizzie stared up to where dawn had begun to chase the shadows on the ceiling.
Back to normal?
Normal with benefits?
Absolutely no telling.
She could’ve stayed entwined with Paul, because damn was he a solid hunk of cuddle. Discipline and long years of habit meant she was awake before the sun rose. Throughout high school, she and Dima had put in two hours of practice every day before classes started. Nothing could be more grueling than a four a.m. wake up.
Except facing Dima had every hallmark of an emotional marathon. He was bumping around the kitchen, making tea. Soon he’d start yoga. Lizzie risked a quiet tsk of reproach if she didn’t get her ass up and join him.
She would, just like she’d search every action, word and look for a clue as to what was going on in his head. Not that she’d find much. He’d shut down pretty damn fast after coming. He might never process the experience well enough to give her an indication of what it had meant to him.
Same as always.
She’d been wickedly disappointed after they won their first junior pairs title—especially considering how badly she’d fucked up the year previous, not trusting him. For her, that win rolled glory and redemption all in one. Dima had only smiled, looking as if he was merely enduring every congratulatory word and hug.
What kind of young man took defeat so hard but refused to show any hint of how victory felt?
The worst part—or perhaps, what kept her searching past his reserve—was that he did feel. She’d caught glimpses through the years. Weeks after that junior pairs win, she’d caught him staring at the trophy in their coach’s practice room, his hand pressed to the glass case, head bowed. Sixteen years old, he’d gathered her into an unexpected embrace and whispered, “Spasibo.”
Thank you.
The next day, practice as usual.
That was it. That was Dima.
And that’s why things were going off course. Initially she’d been cool with his way of doing things. His calm kept her calm. Their goals matched, so why wonder what was in his head? Practice hard, work toward innovation and unison, keep each other sane on the road. Win. His thoughts were completely unreadable, since her injury and since…whatever the hell this was. When they needed to communicate the most, she was back to realizing how little of that he managed.
She closed her eyes. Keeping each other sane had been such a part of their partnership. Sometimes travel meant airplanes, and sometimes bus rides that were, holy crap, centuries long. They’d snoozed in an airport in Dallas once, having missed their connection. Both of them against a pillar at their gate. Both of them exhausted. Shoulder to shoulder, heads listing. He’d been warm and gentle and back to that calm she’d always needed.
The memory that had stayed with her most clearly, however, was on a ride from Phoenix to Sacramento. Some minor competition, but that wasn’t the point. It was their first road trip without their parents—a novelty for both of them after so many years of being molded and, to be frank, scrutinized. Watched for signs of fatigue, flirtations with dancers, injury, mistakes, disinterest, cattiness, and “a smile that didn’t convince anyone.”
That last was her mother’s refrain.
The bus ride had been freedom.
When their coach had fallen asleep up near the driver, she and Dima had snuck toward the back. Not for anything sexy. Alone time. Breathing time. The competition in Phoenix had done a serious number on her feet. Bloodied and blistered. Dima had filled a water bottle from the sink in the bus’s teeny-tiny bathroom. He’d retrieved a towel, bandages, Tylenol and a tube of antibacterial salve. Seventeen. Only seventeen years old. He shouldn’t have known she was in pain. Shouldn’t have cared enough. Yet there in the last row of seats, he’d urged her to lay her head back against a wadded-up warm-up jacket while he tended her injured feet. His touch and that lukewarm water had been heavenly.