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“Sorry!” She wipes tears of laughter from her eyes. “It’s just—your face when you realized we were turning the wrong way!”
“Like a confused puppy.” I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying this disaster. There’s something freeing about failing spectacularly with someone who’s equally terrible.
Marisol sighs dramatically. “Enough! You dance like floppy kittens, not passionate lovers. Next!”
As Annabelle steps away with a giggle and bow, I feel a rush of affection for her. I can’t believe how much my appreciation of her keeps growing, especially after that first night where all she did was cry. First impressions definitely aren’t everything.
Serena approaches next, her movements precise as she takes a position before me. Her face bears the concentrated look I recognize from the chess match with August—analytical, methodical, problem-solving.
“I’ve been observing the foot patterns,” she says. “It’s essentially a mathematical sequence with minor variations. If we count together, we can make it work.”
“Spoken like a true romantic,” I say, and she laughs.
“Yeah, we’re just in survival mode here.”
Dancing with Serena is like following an instruction manual. Her steps are technically correct, her timing right, but there’s no spontaneity, no joy in the discovery, no connection beyond the mechanical placement of limbs. I find myself counting silently, focusing more on not messing up than on feeling anything resembling passion. But I’ve been with Serena in other settings, and I’ve truly enjoyed our time together. She’s really the total package in every way that matters.
When Marisol finally calls for the next partner, Serena steps back with a small nod of satisfaction. “Not the worst ever.”
I laugh. “You did great.”
Luna glides forward before Marisol even calls her name, her silent confidence filling the space between us. Unlike the others, she seems perfectly at home in this courtyard.
“Ready to actually dance?” Her brown eyes hold mine with an understanding that surprises me. “This can be enjoyable, you know.”
Before I can respond, she takes my hands, placing them correctly on her waist and in her palm with gentle firmness. The guitar begins a faster rhythm, and Luna moves with such natural fluidity that I find myself following without thinking.
“There you go,” she murmurs as we turn, her body somehow both soft and strong against mine. “Don’t overthink it.”
And for a few moments, I don’t. The constant awareness of cameras fades. The guilt about what happened with Brielle recedes. There’s just movement, music, and the unexpected ease of dancing with someone who knows exactly how to lead while appearing to follow.
“You’re good at this.” I’m genuinely impressed as she executes a perfect turn without breaking eye contact.
“Dance is my language.”
Marisol claps her hands. “Yes! Now there is some fire! For the final test, each couple will perform twenty seconds. Show me what you have learned!”
Luna’s eyes spark with competitive spirit. “Let’s give them something worth watching.”
When our turn comes, Luna transforms before my eyes. Gone is the graceful guide, replaced by a passionate performer who moves with such intensity that I can only try to keep up. As the guitar reaches a crescendo, she spins into my arms, throws her head back in a move Marisol definitely didn’t teach us, and then—with the cameras positioned to capture it—she leans in and presses her lips to mine.
I reciprocate automatically, part of me still in performance mode while another part screams about last night. Today’s kiss is technically perfect—right pressure, right duration, camera-ready passion—but utterly hollow compared to what I shared with Brielle. No electricity, no desperate need, just two actors hitting their mark. But really, how could there be anything more right now? This is public and scripted.
When we break apart, Luna’s eyes search mine with a question I can’t quite decipher. Did she feel the emptiness, too? Or is she simply gauging my reaction for the next strategic move?
Marisol declares the exercise complete, asking me to name a winner. Despite the conflict churning in my gut, I award the victory to Luna. It’s justifiable—she genuinely danced circles around the others.
When it’s all over, Chloe pulls me aside with her face twisted. After a long hesitation, she says, “A PA just came and told me that my grandfather’s in the hospital. I need to go home.”
“I’m so sorry, Chloe.” I touch her shoulder.
“It’s okay—he’s stable. But I think it’s pretty clear by now I’m not your top choice, so I’d rather be home with my family.”
I nod. “Of course. I understand, absolutely.” And she’s not wrong.
After I walk her to the production SUV and give her a hug goodbye, she’s off, and I return to the other women still on the dance floor, announcing Chloe’s situation and departure.
As the women are led away to practice more steps, I step off the platform, my mind racing ahead to tonight’s private date with Luna, excited to see what it’s like with her unscripted. Another performance, another test of my ability to compartmentalize feelings that are becoming increasingly impossible to contain.