He hit snooze and willed himself to go back to the dream.
He ran his fingers through her hair and gave it a little tug. It was so short, it made her neck scream to be kissed. Her eyes closed as his tongue trailed down that pale neck and teased her breasts…
Shit! He hit the snooze again.
This time he was awake and Roxie’s true features came into focus. She wasn’t skewed like she’d been in the dream. Now her hair splayed out on the pillow as he imagined her grinning up at him while he drove into her.
Her eyes didn’t look at him nearly as adoringly as they had in his dream. He squeezed his eyes shut to try and change them from scorn to adoration.
Sick bastard, he thought later as he went into the bathroom, feeling much better. You need a woman. Bad.
At least now maybe he wouldn’t alarm her with his traitor dick every time she got near him. He’d managed to hide it from everyone but Roxie the day before. Just add one more huge notch to his growing list of embarrassments where she was concerned.
She looked away, as if the thought of even seeing him made her want to cease living. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. And he couldn’t wait to touch her again. Although he’d have to start chanting “Grandmother, grandmother, grandmother!” to avoid embarrassing himself with her again. This morning’s dream only made him more aware of her.
It wasn’t like she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. He’d been with many more beautiful, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember who. She had such an expressive face. Thick eyebrows, wide-set, eyes—sometimes green, sometimes blue—that pulled you in and spat you out, thick blonde hair so long it made you want to get lost in it, and pale, smooth skin; she didn’t fit the typical model mold he’d dated. He couldn’t remember ever being so interested in a face, though. Those lips. And then the way she moved so gracefully. Her body was made to be a dancer, lean and sculpted. Her breasts were perfect, not too big, not too little. His gut clenched and he groaned inside. One shoulder was exposed, showing her hot pink sports bra. Her nipples poked through the shirt like there was nothing that would hold them back. She turned around to put her bag down and he saw her ass in yoga pants for the very first time. The baggie sweats had been nice the day before, but fuck him, these were like a second skin.
Sweet almighty Mary and Joseph! He was desperate. Mother Teresa’s great-grandmother!
It was like a work of art, the Michelangelo of booty. Tight and juicy.
Yeah, he was already coming up with a melody. Her ass was what songs were made of … the songs he’d written in middle school. He’d never claimed to be the most mature person out there anyway.
She turned around and his cheeks lit on fire. He knew for a fact no woman had ever made him blush, whether he was being an asshole or not. Back in his heyday of women, not so long ago, he’d actually been quite smooth. So there had to be some sort of spell she’d weaved on him.
He pulled the coffee he’d bought for her out from behind his back and it was the brightest her eyes had gotten so far. Ah—Miss Taylor has a weakness! He made note to bring her coffee for every early morning rehearsal they had together.
She snatched it out of his hands. Greedy.
He raised an eyebrow at her aggressiveness.
“Thanks,” she said with her raspy voice. It was always husky, but sounded especially so that early in the morning.
He smiled and her eyes softened. Just a touch, but enough to make him breathe easier. “Thanks for coming out so early. I know you didn’t really commit to giving up your weekends, at least not this early in rehearsals. You’re a quick learner, we’ll have it in no time, I promise.”
“It’s fine,” she said softly. “Thanks for this opportunity.”
He paused, not expecting that. Maybe she was warming up to him…
“Just keep your weapon away from me,” she added, with a raised eyebrow.
No, she hadn’t warmed up.
Anthony walked in, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week. He probably hadn’t. David apparently hadn’t taken the breakup well.
“You all right?” Beckham asked.
Anthony lowered his fedora. “Ugh, don’t ask. When I get home from work every day, David starts calling every ten minutes. I finally picked up last night at midnight, just to tell him to never call again. We ended up talking until three. He said he never meant to hurt me … that he was just having a mini what-am-I-doing-with-my-life crisis and acting out.” He said it all so matter-of-fact, as if it were nothing, but his lower lip trembled a little.
Roxie put her hand on his arm. “Men suck. I’m sorry.”
Anthony smiled at her. “Don’t they? Thank you, hon. Come on, let’s get to work.”
If the day before had been a disaster where Beckham’s focus was concerned, this rehearsal was a thousand times worse. Beckham and Anthony had worked out the choreography weeks before; Beckham knew the material inside and out. But he kept getting distracted by Roxie. The song was all about seduction and the way she looked at him as they moved—he could have sworn she was seducing him.
He closed his eyes to shake it off and imagined her with short hair again. So weird. When he opened them, her long hair was whipping around in her ponytail. He squinted his eyes. Those lips, her beautiful neck, blue-green eyes staring up at him. She twisted gracefully around him and then he grabbed her waist and held her close, as their hips rocked in time with the slow, but driving tempo.
“Have I met you before, Roxie?” He stared at her, curious.
She went completely still. Her face went white, and she turned around quickly, but he’d already seen the look. She stalked over to her water bottle and kept her back to him. He walked behind her and put a hand on her back. She jumped.
“Everything okay? Need a break?” Anthony asked from across the room.
Roxie nodded and this time she did run out of the room.
What the hell? This girl was all kinds of unpredictable. He shrugged at Anthony and paced the stage as they waited for her to come back.
When ten minutes went by and she still hadn’t returned, Beckham told Anthony he’d go look for her. He looked everywhere. There was no sign of her. Finally, he went outside and saw her sitting in her car. He knocked on her window. She jumped again.
“Sorry!” he yelled. He opened her door and squatted down so he could see her better. “What’s going on, Rox?”
She turned to face him and he froze when he saw she was crying.
“What’s wrong?”
“I made a mistake coming here. I-I can’t … I can’t do it,” she whispered.
“Roxie, you’re the best dancer we have. You can totally do this.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard, trying to convince her he meant it. He meant it with a force that surprised him. The thought of her leaving had him panicked.
“I really can’t.” She shook her head and then leaned her forehead on the steering wheel. She was still for a couple of minutes and when she lifted her head, she looked determined. “I am so sorry to do this, but I need to get out of the tour. I-I’m so grateful you gave me a chance, but I made a huge mistake. Please, please let me out of the contract. I know it’s a huge inconvenience, but it’s still early enough … there are so many dancers that would jump at this opportunity.”
“I want you,” he said sincerely. “Roxie, look at me.” She didn’t, so he kept talking. “We need you—you’re the one who makes it all come alive out there. You’ve gotta know that with that attitude you must be a brilliant dancer to still be here.” He grinned, but it dropped when he saw another tear falling down her cheek. “We can’t lose you.” He felt like he was talking to a board. “What’s going on here? Why do you want to leave? I would send everyone else home before you!”
Roxie narrowed her eyes. “My, how things have changed…” she said, her tone caustic now.
“What do you mean?” He was beginning to get nervous. She didn’t answer. He looked at her for a long time. “Wait—was it because I asked if we’d met before? Have we?”