Rush

I hear voices drift through the open terrace doors. Professional people talking in jargon I don’t understand, and my stomach hollows out. The choreographer will have to take command and make everyone believe in her. How am I supposed to do that when I don’t even trust myself? How am I supposed to make a man like Rush listen to me? Rush Osman is a perfectionist who does whatever the hell he wants. In other words, a complete nightmare.

I grab a pot of bircher muesli and fruit from the table and head back upstairs for a shower. After I get dressed, I pack up my things and take my bag downstairs.

I find Rush in one of the front rooms of the house, just finishing a phone call. He stands up and smiles when he sees me. “Any questions?”

I hesitate. “No questions. The concept is great and I’m excited for you. But I can’t take the job.”

His eyes narrow. “Yet I feel like you want to do it. What’s the problem?”

I swallow and look away. There’s no point talking about it because he can’t change who he is. I wish it had been some unknown indie band who came to me with this concept and a modest budget. Just about anyone but Rush and Saint Cyprian. I can’t do this. No way can I do this.

As if he’s read my mind, he asks, “Is it me?”

Him in general, a celebrity with the power to crush someone like me if I get on his wrong side. Him specifically, too. A perfectionist who has to have everything his own way, and who will probably fight with me over the details rather than let me do my job.

“I feel like you won’t listen to me. You’ve got a strong concept for the video. Too strong. I can’t work with someone who will hear my suggestions and automatically think they know better. If you weren’t the main dancer in the clip, I might consider it, but you are.”

“I can take instructions from others.”

I shrug. I’ve said what I wanted to say. I’m not going to fight about it.

“Come here.” Rush holds out his hand, palm up.

I stare at his hand in surprise, and more than a little apprehension. “What? Why?”

“Because I want to dance with you.” He pulls out his phone and taps it a few times, and a moment later, some classical music starts playing through the living room speakers. A waltz, slow and dainty. “Teach me how to waltz.”

“I don’t think—”

“Dree. Humor me for two minutes and then I’ll let you go. Please.” He holds out his hand again.

It’s a mistake to look at his bright and burning eyes, and that faint tilt to the corner of his lip has my knees feeling weak. The sunlight is hitting the side of his face just so, highlighting those high cheekbones and his sculpted jaw.

My hand lifts of its own accord and settles into his. I look at my fingers held by his big ones. I wish I could take a picture of our hands; they look that good together.

Lightly, he tugs me to him, and my free hand lands on his shoulder. Damn. Knitwear and muscles. I’m too goddamn weak for knitwear and muscles. I’m too weak for everything about Rush Osman, and I really, really should know better.

“How do you waltz?” he murmurs. “I’m listening.”

We’re really doing this now? He waits, expectantly. I guess we’re doing this now. “Okay. Do you hear the one, two, three of the music?”

Rush nods and slips an arm around my waist. I try not to arch against him. I’m too aware that his mouth is just a few inches from mine.

“On…on the first beat, you step forward with your right foot. On the second, you step out with your left. And on the third you bring your feet together.”

I feel his body move beneath my hands as he begins to step forward. Instinctively, I move back, and then we both step to the side and then draw our feet together. He moves again into the box step, leading easily, and I follow.

“Am I doing it right?” he asks, his mouth close to my ear. A shiver goes through me. He knows he’s doing it right. He obviously knew how to waltz already.

“Why did you ask me to teach you if you already know?” We keep dancing, moving across the carpet to the music.

“Because I want to show you that I’ll listen to you, even if I think I know what I’m doing. I can dance, but you’re the choreographer.”

He raises my hand above our heads and turns me in a circle. Then he draws me back into his arms, a large hand splayed against my back. My fingers flex on the muscles of his shoulder. I haven’t been this close to a man in…god, it’s been a year. And what a man Rush Osman is.