He tilts the mouthpiece away from his chin and catches my gaze from across the room. “You left the prescription in the car. Do you need it brought up?”
“No, it’s not for me.”
Virginia won’t run out of her arthritis pills for a few days. Besides, I need to leave soon. Playing house with Trace Savoy is wreaking havoc on my already confused brain.
“That’ll be all,” he says into the phone, ends the call, and returns to the couch.
“Thanks for dinner.” I stand, tugging on the short hem of my cut-offs. “I’m gonna head out.”
“Stay.” He leans back on the couch, staring up at me.
“Why?”
“Watch a movie with me.”
That’s the last thing I expected him to say. This day just gets weirder and weirder.
“What movie?” I chew the inside of my cheek.
I shouldn’t stay. Any second, something coarse and horrible will vomit from his sexy mouth, and I’ll regret sticking around.
He grabs the remote, and the screen on the wall powers on. “Dirty Dancing.”
My pulse spikes. “Why did you suggest that one?”
“You have the movie poster framed in your bedroom.”
Oh. Duh. “Isn’t it the best movie ever?”
His thumb moves over the remote, his attention on the TV. “I’ve never seen it.”
“No way.” I press a hand against my heart as excitement percolates through my blood. “How in the ever-loving world is that possible?”
“It’s a wonder I’ve made it this far without the experience,” he says dryly.
“No shit.” I trip over his legs in my hurry to climb onto the couch beside him. “Prepare to be blown away.”
And just like that, I’m committed to spending the next hour and forty minutes with Trace Dirty-Dancing-Virgin Savoy.
As he rents the movie, the elevator chimes again. What now?
He hands me the remote and crosses the room to greet whomever steps off the lift. I can’t see around his tall frame, so I crane my neck and lean.
The same three servers sweep through the kitchen, gathering the platters and dirty dishes. But they’re not alone. Someone stands on the other side of Trace. When he shifts, long slender legs come into view. A form-fitting skirt suit encases a curvy body. Dark brown hair falls around slender shoulders. Golden skin glows on a face I’m not thrilled to see.
Marlo Vogt hands him a black gift bag, and as they exchange words too quiet for my ears, her fingers slip around his waist, resting on his hip with familiarity.
My stomach cramps, but I can’t look away. Because I’m a fucking masochist.
In five-inch heels, she’s only an inch or so shorter than him. They look like they belong together. Dressed to the nines. Elegant postures. Perfectly coiffed. Beautiful. I want to gag.
She doesn’t spare me a glance as she returns to the lift with the servers and vanishes from sight.
Trace taps a digital panel on the brick wall. Locking the elevator? Then he joins me on the couch and sets the gift bag on the floor. “Do you want another beer? Mint tea? Coff—?
“Why am I here and not her?” My voice is louder than I intended, drilling, accusing, demanding.
His heated gaze touches my eyes, my throat, and lower, scanning the length of my stiffening body. “I enjoy looking at you.”
I stare at him blankly. He doesn’t want to have sex with me. He thinks I’m messy. But he enjoys looking at me?
“I don’t know what to say to that.” I laugh raggedly, uneasily.
“Don’t say anything.” He starts the movie, and the intro plays to the backdrop of Be My Baby.
He settles in, propping his shiny shoes on the trunk and stretching an arm along the back of the couch behind me. I’m not ready to let go of the conversation he just swept under the rug, but I’m drawn to the TV screen compulsively, additively, absorbed in the movie that defines me.
Scene by scene, I inch toward the edge of the cushion, leaning, bouncing, reciting the words by rote. Yeah, I’m one of those.
Then comes one of my favorites parts, when Baby carries a watermelon and watches Johnny Castle get PG-13 dirty on the dance floor for the first time. I vibrate with the need to jump up and shake my ass through those exact steps.
“You know how to do that?” Trace’s voice shatters my trance.
I startle, twisting to look at him. “What?”
“Can you dance like that?” He nods at the bodies writhing and bumping on the screen.
“Yeah,” I whisper wistfully, turning back to the movie. Boy, can I ever.
My lungs heave. The muscles in my legs burn, and perspiration clings to my nape. But I can’t stop smiling as Nikolai flings me away, spins me back in, and slams me against his damp chest.