The Right Moves (The Game #3)(9)
Author: Emma Hart

My hand covers my mouth and I giggle into it. “Well, I’m glad we cleared that up.”

He turns his head in my direction, looking at me with a striking pair of green eyes, and smirks. “Okay, not only is she a beautiful dancer, she has a smart mouth, too. I’m pretty sure that’s a recipe for my perfect girl. Hey, this could be fate, you know.”

I feel my cheeks redden slightly and grab my water bottle. “If that was a line, it was a terrible one.”

“Really?”

“Really terrible,” I clarify.

“Worth a shot though?”

I sit on the bench and look at him, grinning. “Definitely worth a shot.”

“Then it was worth completely and utterly embarrassing myself.” He smiles at me. “I meant it, though.”

“What, the fate thing?”

“If I said “maybe,” would it work this time?” he asks hopefully.

“No.”

“Damn.” Blake pauses, and I raise an eyebrow. “In that case, I meant what I said about you being a beautiful dancer. I don’t know what it is about you, but when you dance it’s like you’re in a whole other place. I noticed it the other day when we danced together. It’s like you weren’t even here.”

I smooth my hair back unnecessarily, looking towards the open door as the rest of our class starts to filter in. “I wasn’t,” I admit. “We’re all allowed to get a little lost sometimes, because life sucks. This happens to be where I get away from all the sucky stuff.”

“Right,” he says softly. “I get that. I feel the same, I guess. Just sucks we have to come back.”

“Exactly.” I turn back to him and our eyes meet. Something flashes in his eyes, something indiscernible. An understanding, almost. Something that connects us in a way I’ve never connected with anyone. After a beat I pull my gaze away and stand.

Chatter picks up around us, and I approach the barre. The cold metal is grounding to me, as always, and I hold onto it like it’s what’s keeping me standing.

“I feel like I should apologize for my bumbling speech when I came in and the really, really shitty chat-up line I inadvertently used,” Blake’s voice says lowly from behind me.

“Hey, like you said it was worth a try, right?” I drop my head a little and fight my smile.

“Well, it was. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t apologize. Honestly, I’m twenty-one; you’d think that by now I could bloody well talk to a girl without making a complete and utter twat of myself.”

I lift my head and glance round at him. “Twat? What the hell is that?”

He groans, dropping his head back for a second. “Bloody Americans.”

“Freakin’ British,” I respond, amused.

“Touché.” He laughs. “A twat is pretty much a… Well. It’s a glorified idiot.”

I let my lips form a tentative smile as his eyes find mine. “In that case, I feel like I should tell you, you really did make a complete and utter twat of yourself.”

Blake grins as Bianca steps into the studio and claps her hand twice. He winks as I turn my head to the front.

I feel his eyes on my back as Bianca’s uncle begins to play our plié music. I feel him watching my every move like he’s memorizing every inch of my body, memorizing the shapes my limbs make. His gaze is hot on me and it burns into my skin in a way that makes me inhale sharply. Facing the front and keeping my concentration is near impossible when a part of me just wants to turn my face and meet that searing gaze. It’s thrilling and disconcerting simultaneously, but there’s nothing I can do. I’m here to dance, not have a wary session of eye-sex with Blake the Hot British Guy. I have to grit my teeth and bear it.

Besides – if he was in front of me, I can’t say I wouldn’t be doing the same thing.

I might not want to feel. I might have walls built around me that rival any prison’s, but I am still human. And that means I can still appreciate a hot guy.

And, if I’m honest, Blake is about the hottest thing that’s appeared in my life since my aunt dropped half a pack of chili powder in her chili con carne.

Chapter Six – Blake

“The spiced prawn risotto, Blake! I need the damn risotto!” Joe yells across the busy kitchen. With the constant swinging of the doors and clashing of pots and pans, it’s a wonder I can hear him at all.

“Right. Risotto.” I pull open the heavy fridge door and walk into it. Shelves of pre-cooked meals wrapped in cling film stare back at me, and I look side to side, holding in my groan. “Risotto. Risotto. Where’s the f**king risotto?”

“Where’s the f**king risotto?” Joe yells, punctuating his words with a bang of a saucepan.

Good question. “There’s none here, Chef!”

“Then get your ass out here and make me some f**king pronto! I need it in one hour for the party coming in – they’re Friday night regulars and always order the damn meal!” The doors bang open. “For the love of beer, Jackie! How many of these goddamn tickets are you gonna pin on my board?”

“As many as I’m given!”

“Forty-five minute wait for food!”

“But-”

“Get out the kitchen before he throws the salmon at you, Jackie!” Matt, a trainee chef fresh from high school, yells at her.

The doors slam again as she walks out. I grab the prawns from the freezer compartment and leave the bag running under some water to defrost them while I gather the rest of the ingredients like there’s a rocket up my arse. When Joe says he wants something now, he means yesterday afternoon. It’s busier here than anywhere I worked in London – but I guess that’s what I get for taking a job in one of the most popular restaurants in the center of Brooklyn. So Brooklyn is no Manhattan, but it’s close enough and big enough to be busy as hell.

I cut the carrots, slice the olives, and finely chop an onion and a red chili pepper. The onion and rice cook in a huge pan, turning a golden brown color before being drowned in white wine. When the chicken stock I throw in has soaked into the rice, I add the rest of the ingredients, including pine nuts, and give it a damn good stir. A touch of black pepper, a few more minutes, and it’s ready to go.

The spicy smell of the chili wafts up to my nose, and my stomach rumbles quietly. Damn. The biggest problem with being in a kitchen that makes the best seafood this side of Brooklyn Bridge is I want to eat it. There’s only so many take-outs and quick-fix meals a guy can eat before he starts missing finer food.