CHAPTER 8
Sloane
“I take back what I said about the malfunctioning robot,” Xavier said. “I don’t want to insult robots.”
I dropped my arms and glared at him. “If I had a better teacher, I’d be doing better.”
We were on the villa’s terrace, where heated lamps warded off the late-night chill and portable speakers played a medley of local and international music. Xavier had insisted the outdoors would help me “relax,” but so far, I was embarrassed, frustrated, and no closer to improving my dance skills than when we started my lessons an hour earlier.
“You have to loosen up.” Xavier brushed off my indictment of his teaching abilities. “Dancing is about movement. You can’t move properly if you’re imitating a petrified piece of wood.”
“I’m loosened up.” A defensive note crept into my voice. “Also, might I remind you I could be sleeping right now instead of enduring your insults?”
I should walk away because there was nothing worse than trying my best and failing, but the competitor in me refused to give up.
I was Sloane Kensington. I didn’t fail, and I didn’t quit. (The only reason I’d stopped my childhood ballet lessons was because I outgrew my age group. Also, I was pretty sure I’d given Madame Olga an ulcer when she retired).
“Yet you’re here.” Xavier placed his hands on my hips.
I stiffened, every muscle turning rigid at the warmth seeping through my dress.
“See what I mean about petrified wood?” He shook his head. “Pretend you’re back at the spa. You’re getting a massage, your muscles are loose…now move your hips like this. No, the other way.” His touch seared my skin and distracted me from his instructions. He probably had a fever from walking around shirtless all the time. He should really get that checked out. “Move them in a circle, Luna, not a square.”
“It is a circle.”
“No offense, but you might need to brush up on your geometry.” Xavier’s grip tightened, stilling my movements. “What are you thinking about?”
“Moving my hips in a circle.”
“That’s your problem,” he said. “You shouldn’t be thinking about that.”
“You just said—”
“You have to feel the movement. The more you think, the less natural it looks.”
My teeth ground together in frustration. “I’m sorry, but I like thinking. It’s something I try to do on a daily basis.”
“That explains a lot.” Xavier released me and stepped back.
A cool wave of relief coasted through my chest, followed by an alarming pinch of…disappointment? No, that couldn’t be right.
I waited for him to continue the lesson, but he simply studied me with that deep, dark gaze.
Tousled black hair fell carelessly over one eye, shielding his thoughts as the silence stretched into uncomfortable territory. There was a pensiveness to him that I rarely saw, and it molded his features into a devastating portrait Michelangelo himself would’ve been proud of.
The dramatic slant of his cheekbones, the thick dark brows, the sculpted mouth that seemed infinitely more inviting when it wasn’t wearing a provocative smile…his face dared me to look away, and I couldn’t.
Electric awareness dripped into the air and snuffed out the oxygen.
Xavier and I had been alone many times before, but this was the first time I recognized the danger in him. Beneath the layers of indolent self-possession, there was a man who could set my world aflame if he wanted.
God, what is wrong with me? I’d gone years without reacting to his presence in any discernible way (unless irritation counted), but ever since we arrived in Spain, my shields had slipped. Maybe it was the brief glimpses into a realer, more vulnerable side of Xavier—the side that wasn’t all about drinking and sleeping—or maybe our spa day had rewired my brain.
Whatever it was, I didn’t like it.
Self-preservation punctured my awareness right as he spoke again. “Let’s get a drink.”
He turned and walked toward the bar cart nestled in the corner.
The remaining static fizzled into nothing as I tried to keep up with the whiplash. “What about the lessons?”
“We’ll resume after the break.” Xavier grabbed two glasses and started mixing drinks right there in the middle of the terrace.
My eyebrows skyrocketed. I’d never seen him make cocktails before, but he moved with the fluid grace of a seasoned bartender.
“So much for not getting wasted,” I groused when he handed me an admittedly delicious-looking pale orange drink.
“It’s one drink. You won’t get wasted unless you have the tolerance of a five-year-old.” Xavier’s mouth tilted at the corner. “Salud.”
I kept my eyes on his as I took a small sip. Fuck, that was good. “Did you make this up on the spot?”
I didn’t recognize the taste, and yesterday’s party had cleared out half the bar, leaving only a handful of ingredients for him to work with.
“You make do with what you have.” A roll of his shoulders, followed by a teasing smile. “I’m naming it the Sloane. Bitter at first but with a sweet aftertaste. Just like someone I know.”
“You don’t know how I taste.”
