Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons #1)(94)

A few giggles erupt but are quickly squelched with a sweeping look from Tina. “We also have a guest today, as you have clearly noticed. Monsieur Guillaume is deciding if he would like to enroll in the academy. Please do your best to model good behavior, and show him how we conduct ourselves onstage.”

To my absolute amusement, Ansel looks ready to dive right into the world of being a little ballerina. Tina steps back against the wall, and I know her well enough to know this isn’t any test at all; it’s only a surprise for me. I could laugh it all off, and tell them to start their stretches while I talk to Ansel. But he seems ready for action and I want her to see that I can do this, even with the biggest, most gorgeous distraction in the world right in front of me.

“Let’s start with some stretching.” I turn on some quiet music and indicate the girls should do what I do: sit on the floor with my legs stretched in front of me. I curl down, reaching my arms out until my hands are on my toes, telling them, “If this hurts then bend your legs a little. Who can count to fifteen for me?”

Everyone is shy. Everyone, that is, except Ansel. And of course he quietly counts in French, “Un . . . deux . . . trois . . .” as the girls stare at him and wiggle on the floor.

We continue with the stretches: the bar stretch at the lowest ballet barre, the jazz splits that make the girls squeal and wobble. We practice a few pirouettes—if I live to one hundred, I will never stop laughing at the image of Ansel doing a pirouette—and I show them a straddle stretch, with my leg pressed flat against a wall. (It’s possible I do this purely for Ansel’s benefit, but I’ll never admit it.) The girls try, giggle some more, and a few of them become brave enough to start showing Ansel what to do: how to hold his arms, and then some of their made-up leaps and spins.

When the class takes a loud, chaotic turn, Tina steps in, clapping and hugging me. “I’ll take over from here. I think you’ve got something else to take care of. I’ll see you here Monday evening at five.”

“I love you so much,” I say, throwing my arms around her.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” she says. “Now go tell him that.”


ANSEL AND I slip out of the room and pad wordlessly back down the hall. My heart is pounding so hard, it seems to blur my vision with every heavy pulse. I can feel the heat of him moving behind me, but we’re both silent. Out of the studio and past my initial surprise, I’m so overwhelmed that at first, I don’t even know how to start.

A hot breeze curls around us as we push open the door to the outside, and Ansel watches me carefully, waiting for my cue.

“Cerise . . .” he starts, and then takes a shuddering breath. When he meets my eyes again, I feel the weight of every ticking moment of silence. His jaw flexes as we stare at each other, and when he swallows, the dimple flickers on his cheek.

“Hi,” I say, my voice tight and breathless.

He takes a step up off the curb but still seems to loom above me. “You called me just before you arrived.”

“I called from the parking lot. It was a lot to process, being here . . . You didn’t answer.”

“No phones allowed in the studio,” he answers with a cute smile. “But I saw the call light up my screen.”

“Did you come straight from work?” I ask, lifting my chin to indicate his dress pants.

He nods. There’s at least a day’s worth of stubble shadowing his jaw. The image of him leaving work and heading straight for the airport—to me—barely taking enough time to throw a few things into a small bag is enough to leave my knees week.

“Please don’t be mad,” he says. “Lola called to tell me you were here. I was on my way to meet you three for dinner. Also, Harlow mentioned that she would break both my legs along with any other protruding appendages if I didn’t treat you the way you deserved.”

“I’m not mad.” I shake my head trying to clear it. “I just . . . I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“You thought I would just stay there and fix it at some random point in the future? I couldn’t be so far from you.”

“Well . . . I’m glad.”

I can tell he wants to ask, So why did you leave like that? Why didn’t you at least tell me goodbye? But he doesn’t. And I give him serious points for it, too. Because although my entrance into and departure from France were both impulsive, he was the reason both times: one blissful, the other heartbroken. At least he seems to know it. Instead, he looks me over, eyes lingering on my legs visible beneath my nude tights, below my short dance skirt.

“You look beautiful,” he says. “In fact, you look so beautiful I’m a little at a loss for words.”

I’m so relieved I burst forward. He curls into me and his face is in my neck. His arms seem long enough to wrap several times around my waist. I can feel his breath on my skin and the way he shakes against me, and when I say, “This feels so good,” he just nods, and our embrace seems to go on forever.

His lips find my neck, my jaw, and he’s sucking and nibbling. His breath is warm and minty and he’s whispering in French, some words I can’t translate but don’t need to. I hear love and life and mine and sorry and then his hands are cupping my face and his mouth is on mine, eyes wide and fingers shaking on my jaw. It’s a single, chaste kiss—no tongue, nothing deeper—but the way I’m trembling against him seems to promise him that there’s so much more, because he pulls back and looks victorious.