Page 16 of Lights, Camera, Love

I hobble down the aisle of the city bus as it swings back onto the road and fall into the last empty seat.

When I get paid for my role in Moving , I need to think about buying a car that isn’t held together by gaffer tape.

My old clunker clearly didn’t appreciate the four-hundred-kilometre round trip to the farm—the day I got back, it refused to start.

Now, it’s sitting in car jail at the mechanic’s while they wait for a new part to come in.

As the bus squeaks to a stop at every traffic light that’s ever been manufactured on Planet Earth, I tap open a news website on my phone.

The leading image drops a weight on my chest. It’s a grainy, candid shot of my father, who’s clutching a small leather duffel bag as he climbs into a shiny black SUV.

My palm flies to my mouth as I read the caption:

‘Spotted: Gabriel Dean arrives in Sydney on private jet!’

What the hell? He’s here ?!

Why is he here? Does Mum know? I consider calling her but decide against it. She’s probably already left to meet tonight’s Tinder date, and I hardly want to interrupt that little rendezvous with this news.

Private jet. Bile coats the back of my throat when I think about Gabriel’s lavish lifestyle while Mum and I can barely afford to pay our bills.

I once asked her why she never went after him for child support payments—surely, his bank balance would’ve been alluring for a chronic spendthrift like her—and she told me it would’ve been incredibly complicated and messy, given they lived in different countries with different legal systems. Plus, she said, she didn’t want my father to think she was only after his money, which was what he’d accused her of in the first place.

She refused to give him the satisfaction, and instead went with option B—acting as if he didn’t exist, just as he’d always done with us.

The day she told me that, I decided to never trade on my father’s famous name or use it to help further my career. If Mum, of all people, had enough strength of character to tough out life without his support, so would I.

Refusing to let this topic torment me any further, I turn my gaze to the foggy window and bite down on my thumb until blood springs to the corners of my nail.

The bus drops me off outside DanceLab a few minutes late. I rush into my teaching studio and eagerly greet my regulars, consoled by their smiling faces. It’s my first lesson back since the shoot at the farm.

‘Hey, legends, who missed me?’ I call out with a wink while hurriedly pairing my phone with the sound system.

‘Me!’ says Bliss, beaming, and Avalanche adds, ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, boss.’

Some of the tension lodged behind my ribcage begins to leak out. It feels good to be home .

After cranking up ‘7/11’ by Beyoncé, I line up in front of the mirror, tighten my high ponytail, and begin the warm-up.

Every minute or so, my attention drifts to the empty doorway, and I find myself hoping that a tall guy with smouldering eyes and pouty lips, who can roll his hips like no one’s business, will stroll in.

But Kye never shows up.

My students are smashing out one final round of tonight’s routine when Rafael wanders in, half of his shoulder-length hair tied back and dark liner smudged around his eyes.

He cups both hands around his mouth and blows me a kiss, which I ‘catch’ and press to my butt.

Barking a laugh, he edges past the dancers to meet me at the mirror and wraps an arm around me.

Together we watch Usher freestyling his mad-dog skills and Mayday falling into an out-of-control spin, his arm signalling for aid.

I’d love to help him, but it’s too late.

Still, he dusts himself off in no time. The song fades out, and Rafael and I give the breathless dancers a round of applause.

‘Before you all escape, I want to say a few words about the upcoming annual showcase,’ Rafa announces, his sparkling grin promising something exciting.

A flurry of hushed whispers erupts around the studio.

I’m all ears to find out what Rafael has planned.

But then someone steps into the doorway, and all my attention zeroes in on Kye.

He’s not here for one of the late-night classes, judging by his outfit of ripped black jeans, brown ankle boots and a loose purple T-shirt.

He looks freshly showered; the tips of his hair are still damp.

From across the room, his smoky brown gaze finds mine, sending a spiral of warmth coiling up my spine.

Rafael’s teacher-voice snatches our focus.

‘This year’s showcase is going to be held at a nightclub in the city,’ he states, ‘and it’s going to be a charity event with the media and some celebrity guests.

The celebs will perform dance routines as part of the show—a bit like Dancing with the Stars .

And, of course, between those dances, all our students—which means you—will also hit the stage and perform for the media! ’

Avalanche’s skin turns ashen, and Mayday freezes with his mouth open. Bliss does a little happy jig on her feet while Usher stands with his arms crossed, grinning.

Rafael finishes with a promise to share more information soon, and Kye shifts out of the doorway so the students can disperse.

Rafa and I have a quick chat about the showcase while I gather my stuff, and I promise to choreograph something fun for my regulars and to partner up with one of the celebrities for a salsa routine.

We stroll out of the studio together, finding Kye patiently waiting on the other side of the door.

‘You’re late for class,’ I say with a smile.

He brushes his fingers through his hair. ‘I just popped in for a quick chat. Glad I caught all that about the showcase, though—it sounds cool. Is it okay to have a word?’

‘You can have several.’ Why does my voice sound as breathless as if I’ve just been running?

Behind Kye’s shoulder, Rafa walks backwards towards his teaching room, his pierced brow arched at me as if to say: ‘He’s hot .’

I shoot him a subtle scowl, but my lips refuse to turn down as I focus back on Kye. I’ve become The Joker—I can’t wipe the damn smile off my face.

Honestly. I had one drink with this guy. Was the bourbon spiked, and the mind-altering effects are lingering in my bloodstream? Get it together, Evie!

Kye pushes off the wall. ‘This’ll only take a few minutes. Should we talk outside?’ He glances at the students waiting for Rafa’s late-night class.

‘Sure.’

Hmm, so this is a private discussion . What on earth does he want to talk about? Could it be something to do with the unexpected conversation we shared at the cabin that’s still living, rent-free, inside my head?

As we step through the building’s exit, my arm grazes the soft T-shirt clinging to Kye, and I feel the warmth of his muscular arm underneath. Every cell in my body arches towards him as we stop on the footpath, where cars rumble past us in a sluggish stream.

‘So, what’s up?’ I ask, folding my arms against my stomach, which is bare beneath my crop top. It’s cooler tonight than I was expecting.

‘You’re cold,’ Kye observes.

‘I’m good.’ I blink at him, ready to hear him out.

‘Yeah, so, well … ’ he begins after a throat-clear, ‘I’ve been thinking about the movie and how we can drive up interest in it.’

The deep thrumming in my chest subsides. This required a late-night, in-person visit?

‘From what I’ve seen of the marketing and publicity plan for Moving … ’ Kye continues, before pausing. ‘Let’s just say that I don’t have a ton of faith in it. And I assume that you want this project to do well?’

‘Of course.’ I thought that was a given. Where is he going with this?

He stills, his eyes settling on mine. ‘Fake dating.’

What? My heart makes a brisk jump. ‘You mean … us ?’

Kye almost laughs, and my eyes drink in the glimpse of that smile . ‘Of course not.’ He swallows thickly. ‘I think that you and Austin should pretend to be a real-life couple. To help draw attention to the movie.’

I blink at him, totally thrown by this. ‘Really?’

‘Actors do it all the time. It’s practically PR 101 for a romance film.’

A collision of confusing emotions tips me off balance. ‘I don’t know, that’s … that’s lying. I’m a pretty honest person. The other day, I walked three blocks to go back to a cafe after I realised they gave me a dollar too much change.’

Kye’s gaze softens, then skates down me, landing on my chewed-up hands. I push my injured thumb behind my back.

‘It’s just a suggestion,’ he says gently. ‘Don’t feel like you have to say yes.’

‘Why didn’t you just call me about this?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘Why come all the way down here?’

‘All the way?’ He almost smiles. ‘I could throw a stone here from my apartment.’

I don’t know why imagining Kye’s apartment makes my stomach feel tight and hot, and I don’t want to dig any deeper into that right now, so I return to the more relevant subject. ‘What does Austin think of this pretend-relationship idea?’ I ask.

‘He’s all for it. And it would only be for a few months.

’ He launches into a spiel about how he would plant paparazzi photographers to take pictures of Austin and me together around town.

Not only would it get people talking about the film, he says, but it would also help to position Moving as a mainstream romance movie, counteracting Buzz’s weird, esoteric approach.

As Kye goes on, the images begin unfolding in my mind.

The endless news reports about Gabriel Dean being pushed back to the no-man’s-land that is the middle section of the newspaper.

A large, colour image on page two, introducing the ‘sizzling new romance’ between heartthrob Austin Reynolds and his co-star, the professional dancer and choreographer Evie Scott.

Gabriel Dean flipping open a newspaper while he’s in a VIP lounge waiting for his jet to be refuelled, and experiencing the same nauseating stomach drop that I endure every time I see his face in the media.