Hooked 3 (Hooked #3)(9)

After a few moments, Drew spun me back down and I looked at him—nearly flustered. “What the hell?” I asked him, so curious.

“My mother had me take dance lessons, actually. You thought you were the only dancer here, didn’t you?” Drew smirked at me once more. A small tuft of his hair had come undone from all the dancing, all the energy. I didn’t want to fix it. I wanted proof that it had happened.

“Well. You’re quite good,” I replied. The song had descended into a slow, romantic song. We began to weave back and forth, holding each other’s eyes. “Have you considered picking it back up again?”

He shook his head. “Men in my line of work don’t tend to take dance too seriously. Of course, I do. I grew up with Mel, as you know.”

“Your aunt,” I teased him. “Who is younger than you.”

He threw his head back. “We have a crazy family, it’s true,” he murmured. He allowed me to spin out and back into his body. I felt the heat emanating from his strong, muscled chest. “A crazy family of dancing, of laughter, of love. It’s quite beautiful. I wish you could meet all of them.”

I beamed my head this way, then that. “You wouldn’t want to meet my family.” I thought of my mother, honed with such anger, such resentment back in her Indianapolis home. She was waiting for my failure, for my phone call demanding money—anything. But I wouldn’t give it to her.

Sensing a bit of sadness in me, Drew led me from the dance floor and ordered us more drinks. He spent the rest of the evening distracting me; from my money problems, from my loan. He made jokes and sang songs; he spun me in circles in the spotlight, making everyone notice. “Who is that stunning man and woman out on the floor, dancing so beautifully?” so many people wondered.

I had never been such a Cinderella; I had never been so envied, so hated by the most beautiful, richest people of Chicago. Feeling their eyes trace my slim frame, my strong arms, I felt electric—like the rush of the strings from the orchestra. I felt like nothing was impossible.



We stayed deep into the night. Before we left, I noted that Drew had to make a donation. I watched as he wrote the check, but I couldn’t quite make out how much he had donated. Quite a bit, I was sure. I watched as the elderly woman he handed the check to nod at it with approval, bringing her white, stark eyebrow high over her eagle eye.

Drew placed his hand on my lower back, leading me away from the dying party. I could still hear the strings playing, but the fingers, the arms of the musicians were tired, lackluster. My feet ached. As we flung ourselves into the front seat of the Porsche, I removed the shoes, feeling the way my feet throbbed in their freedom. I leaned my head back against the seat, loving the rushing street lamps, hearing the city as it went to sleep.

Drew helped me up the steps to our separate apartments, taking me step by step. I could feel the champagne coursing in my veins, and the drunkenness was putting me to sleep. When we reached our floor, I stood by my doorway, looking up at him with earnest doe-eyes. I longed to invite him in in that moment. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew the world we had just visited together was his world, and this grim apartment—this sad-sack place around us—was my world. I couldn’t enter into his permanently, and he couldn’t stay in mine forever, either.

Suddenly, he leaned his face toward mine, bringing his lips closer and closer. I lifted my fingers above my lips, halting him with a small whisper, “Don’t.”

He reared back, his eyes a bit hurt. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I apologize. I realize this was just a friendly encounter between two friends.” His eyes swept from left to right. He leaned toward me again. “But I have to say, it was one of the best nights—between friends—that I’ve ever had.”


My heart hummed with this knowledge. I slipped my key in the lock before he stopped me one final time.

“One more thing,” he murmured. “Do you want to go on another not-date with me, perhaps next weekend?”

I raised my eyebrow, feeling exhaustion take hold of me from the continuous night of play, of dance. “Next weekend?”

“A weekend trip, actually. Just one night. Not a date, of course.”

I nodded, feeling the information parse through my brain. He had taken me on so many adventures so far; the Cub’s game, bungee jumping, and dancing at the benefit. What harm would one more night do? Especially if he knew we were just friends? He could behave. And so could I. “All right. Just one more night,” I answered.

I pushed at the door, hearing it creak throughout the hall. My eyes blinked up at him, unable to rip themselves away. His want for me emanated on my skin; it was hot in my stomach. I longed for him to take me, right there in the grimy hallway. But I knew it wasn’t time.

“So. Next Friday, then,” he whispered. He started to back down the hallway, all the while removing his bow tie, unbuttoning his tuxedo shirt.

“Next Friday!” I responded timidly. He tucked into his apartment door, grinning out at me. I ratcheted into my own apartment, feeling the warmth of familiarity take hold. I flounced into bed, allowing the passion, the drive of the evening to fold around me and place me in a coma of happiness, of hope.

I didn’t wake up the next morning until noon, when Boomer trounced on my head, and I remembered that an entire week had to form; a week of hard work, of preparation for the new studio, before I could laugh and dance with Drew again. This knowledge forced me into a frenzy of continuous work. I was always on the phone, always tracking down new ballerinas, always looking for more money—money that could work me out of this hole. Soon, I knew, I would have to start paying the loan back. Not this year, sure. But in the next one. This knowledge made me nervous, made me wide-eyed and committed. I wouldn’t lose another studio. I wouldn’t lose it to that fast-talking, spirited woman—Carol—who owned the Goat. This was my dream, and I was going to make it work, no matter what.