He grimaced.
“Look, if we’re going to get through to the finals then we need to give the viewers something special. And I’m not above using ab appeal to get some votes.”
“You’re so shallow.”
“Apparently I am.”
“I love it.”
Her chest constricted, and she turned away, exhaling slowly. He loved it. Not her. It was too soon to talk like that. And he wouldn’t say something like that when they were being filmed. Would he?
She sucked down some water, hoping it might pour sense to her brain. “Okay, are you ready to get started?”
“Are you dancing with me, or are you resting that toe?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Look, as much as I would like to demonstrate the steps with you, after yesterday, I think I’m better off resting if that’s okay.”
“Whatever you need is fine with me.”
What she needed was a cold shower, and not just because Toronto’s muggy heat was making her sweat when it was barely ten in the morning. How was she supposed to keep her cool when Luc would be wiggling his hips at her all day? Maybe she would be better off standing up so she didn’t have to focus on that.
“On second thoughts, let’s give it a go here. Now turn to the mirror, and I want you to wiggle.”
“Wiggle?”
She nodded. “Pivot from side to side, but let the action come from your hips and not your shoulders.”
She swallowed a smile as he tried. “Okay. Not thrusting but shifting. This dance really works the hip flexors, and the back, and your hammies, so you’ll likely feel a little sore at the end.”
“Awesome.”
She chuckled. “Come on. Shake that thing.”
“This big butt?”
“You’re gonna have to forgive Marco one day.”
“One day. Not to-day.”
“Come on. Back to it. It’s time to focus. Let’s samba, baby!”
Sunday
For a couple who weren’t a couple—yet—a samba was not a great dance. She should’ve tweaked it more, maybe toned down some of the movements to make sure he got it, but despite his impressive abs on show in that open shirt, she could tell they weren’t going to score well tonight.
Luc’s rhythm was off, and as she grasped his hand and did her-back-to-his-front samba shadow reverse rolls—one of the characteristic movements in this dance—she could sense his timing was behind by a half-beat, like he’d been stunned by her outfit and hadn’t quite caught up yet. It was revealing, and she really didn’t like how these spangled straps kept trying to slide off her shoulders.
Maybe it was more of a sexy dance than she’d realized. But it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her abs before, or that he hadn’t touched her bare waist. Maybe he was struggling with some of the moves because they’d admitted to wanting a relationship one day. He’d complained earlier this week in practice when she’d slid her hand to his hip then to his upper thigh. He’d thought that too sexy. She wondered what he’d say if they made it to next week and did the tango as they’d been allocated.
Still, the bounce and intricate rhythms, along with the high energy and performance, were things he needed to nail if they were to get through. He just needed to shift his head, so she could do this high kick as they’d planned. In three, two, one. “Now.”
He swerved, and she kicked high as his head shimmied away. She just missed his ear, then she swiveled to face the front to go into a whisk step then a splits lift sequence. He went to grasp her upper arms, missing, grabbing the top of her dress instead, right where the spangles were.
Time slowed, the spangled straps snapping, flinging off like a diamond whip as she completed the movement. No! But the show had to go on, including the last promenade sequence followed by a triple pirouette where she really hoped the fashion tape was working. This was a family-friendly show after all. She only had to complete the last spin, move into the last dip, then the jump and dive. Please Lord, let him catch me! A half-beat of wrong timing could lead to a bloody nose. She spun, saw his concentration as she jumped, and dived, and he caught her, mere inches from slamming into the floor. She glanced down. Her chest was still covered with fabric. And partly by his fingers. Oh no. That would definitely be a bad look. Although it could’ve been worse. Thank goodness the tape still worked.
The music ended, and he swung her up, hugging her, his face in her neck. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened there.”
She shook her head. “It’s okay. It’s over.” She hugged him harder. And unless there was a spectacular fail from one of the remaining couples, they’d just danced their last dance.
“Luc, darling,” Marco sighed and shook his head, “I hate to say this, because last week I was so impressed by your improvement, but tonight, my friend, I really think it showed that it’s time to hang up your dancing shoes and get back to your skates.”
Luc winced, as his grip on Bailey’s hand tightened. He knew he’d failed her, that she wouldn’t get her ten thousand bucks for making next week’s final. He’d tried, but ever since the wiggling exercise of day one of samba rehearsals he’d struggled. Struggled not to want to take this further. Struggled with wondering if she meant it when her hand had wandered to his hip. Struggled even more when he’d seen her in her costume that left so little to the imagination. He knew she had to choreograph according to the theme, but her movements were so distracting. Of course, it would be so much easier if they were married and she could wiggle like that for him in the privacy of their own home. His heart clenched.
“I don’t know where your head was at but it didn’t seem to be here tonight. Your musicality was all over the place, you missed your beats, you had poor Bailey trying to carry you along. Hats off to you Bailey, but I think we all know tonight you’ve reached the end.”
Luc winced, catching Bailey’s nod and shrug of resignation. Good news: they could be a couple now. Bad news: he’d disappointed her.
“Oh, now, let’s not get too hasty,” Cynthia said. “I’m prepared to add an extra point simply for the suave slicked-back hair that made you look very handsome. And another point for the shirtlessness. Thank you very much for that, Luc.”
He grimaced. Good to see double standards in ogling wasn’t a thing. Still, an extra point meant the humiliation of a spray tan was almost worth it. No way would he ever admit to the guys he’d done that.
“And Bailey,” Cynthia continued, “I just want to commend you for pushing through, even with that wardrobe malfunction. I know how hard that can be, and I’m glad it didn’t get any worse.”
So was he. Poor Bails.
“Look, I can appreciate what Bailey was trying to do with that routine,” John said, “but I’m afraid I agree with Marco here. There’s only so much one can do with a lump of dead wood—”
