The Right Moves (The Game #3)(3)
Author: Emma Hart

“Have you ever asked anyone to leave?”

“Every time I start a new class,” she responds sharply. “Now warm up before you become the first.”

I fight my smile, training my features into a plain mask, and start my warm up. I remember hearing the same speech when Bianca walked into the gym hall, and I remember asking her the exact same questions and getting the same answers. It’s what endeared me to her so much – unlike most people who know my past, she didn’t look at me any differently. To her I was – and am – a girl with a dream, everything else be damned.

The movements of the warm up are so familiar, and the main door opens as I begin to drop into a demi-plié. The feeling of being watched crawls over my skin, prickling at the back of my neck and down my spine. I don’t want to, I don’t even need to, but I glance upwards and in that direction.

His straight-backed posture and precise steps announce him as a dancer – and a late one – as Bianca approaches him. His dark hair is short but messy, and a faint, distinct British accent floats across the sound of the piano. My eyes roam over his body from his broad shoulders to his defined arms. Dancer’s arms; strong yet gentle. The touch from his large hands at his sides would be hard yet soft.

You wouldn’t know he’s a dancer unless you are. His build is closer to that of a football player, but he’s far too pretty to do that. Crap. Did I really just call him pretty? What am I even doing? I shouldn’t be standing here trying not to undress the Hot British Guy with my eyes.

He nods once and turns his face toward me. Or the class, but it’s me his eyes fall on. Our gazes lock for a fleeting moment, and I almost falter in my warm up. Even across the studio there’s no mistaking the green in his eyes. There’s no mistaking the way he looks me over, interest sparking in them as he does so.

And there’s no mistaking the apprehension in my chest… Or the fluttering inside my tummy when his eyes find mine again. I swallow and look away from him, telling myself I’m imagining the interest in his eyes and the intensity that kept me looking at him for as long as I did.

I’m not here to eye up Hot British Guy. I’m here to dance, and nothing else.

The dream, Abbi. Juilliard.

Chapter Two – Blake

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” I mutter the curse words under my breath as I climb out 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 stupidly overpriced apartment.

I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and look up at the building in front of me. Its 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 in hall, and I look back to the girl at the end of the barre.

Our eyes meet.

She almost hesitates in her warm up, but she carries on as if we’re not staring at each other the studio. As if I’m not trying to work out what color her eyes are. They’re framed by long, thick lashes that curl towards 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 begin 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 Bianca 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 every move in front of me. 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.