Page 5 of Lights, Camera, Love

‘You need to tell me everything ,’ he says, pulling me close as if we’re sharing state secrets. ‘Let’s talk over sushi later. I also fell in love with a sexy-ass radiographer last night, and I need to tell you all about it.’

‘ What? ’ I beam at him.

He nods with a dopey grin and backs away. ‘I’m ticked that you stole my thunder with this Austin Reynolds news.’

I chuckle as Rafael hits play on a Latin track with a sick beat; I do a funky little air-walk out the door and into my studio.

I greet a few of my waiting regulars, then catch sight of a tall, broad figure sitting on the bench, bending to tie a shoelace.

Oh no .

Groucho straightens and glances in my direction, our gazes bumping together.

Just as I go to offer a polite smile because I can’t help myself—sulking is just not in my nature—he turns to shrug off his charcoal bomber jacket.

His fingers comb through his muss of honey-brown hair, his eyes now pointed everywhere but at me. At the person he’s met twice now.

Honestly. Is he socially inept?

‘Hi, Kye . It’s good to see you again,’ I practically coo as I sweep past him. Just because he lacks basic manners—which may be for medical reasons, for all I know—doesn’t mean I have to be rude.

The lesson should have started three minutes ago, so I hit play on ‘Big Energy’ by Latto, position myself in front of the mirror, and get started with some shoulder isolations.

Once we’re through the warm-up, I weave my way through the students, leading them in a hip-pump to the left, then a slow circle before— ow ! A size-fourteen sports shoe crunches down on my dance sneaker.

‘Shit, sorry, boss,’ blurts George, the student I secretly nickname ‘Avalanche’. His poor sense of direction makes him a moving threat on the dance floor, although the platinum-blond hair that wisps over his shoulders may have also inspired the pet name.

‘It’s all good, hun,’ I croak out. ‘You’re doing amazing . I really love your style and your energy!’

From the corner of my eye, I catch Kye frowning at my encouragement as Avalanche counts himself back into the beat, which he can’t quite locate.

Making an escape, I groove past the touchy-feely Sarah (I affectionally call her ‘Snuggles’), who gives my arm a passing squeeze, and then curl around the woman rocking a tie-dye tracksuit whom I nickname ‘Bliss’ (her real name is Cait, and she floats around in a dreamlike state of happiness—I adore her).

‘Mayday’ (real name: Liam) waves an arm for help again, but he’ll have to wait.

‘Do we keep going, Evie?’

My gaze snaps over to eighteen-year-old Aneesh, known to me as ‘Usher’ because he’s my most skilled dancer by far.

‘No, you can stop now. Awesome work, you guys! That was fire.’

I move back to the mirror and lead the class through the first steps of tonight’s routine, my eyes repeatedly drifting to Groucho, who’s found a spot at the back of the room.

No matter how many dance lessons someone takes, some people just ‘have it’ and some don’t. I’d never say this to any of my students; it would only hurt their feelings. But the truth is that Usher has it and Avalanche doesn’t. Bliss has it; Snuggles and Mayday don’t.

Kye has it. He moves like a natural—a professional, even—and when I reach the part of the routine where the choreography becomes more fast-paced, he picks it up and performs it like he’s the world’s leading authority on hip-hop.

Half an hour ago, I figured it would be best to try to steer clear of this sourpuss who can’t seem to manage a simple greeting. But now that I’ve seen him dance again, my body keeps pushing me towards him, as if it’s a little magnetised by his talent. Perhaps I’ve been too hard on him.

‘Okay, it’s time to hit some freestyle moves with the person beside you!’ I direct the class as the opening bars of ‘Better Now’ by Post Malone kick in.

I glide right up to Kye with a few arm-pops, expecting my cautious smile to be returned, but all he throws back at me is his smouldering stare. The lovely, soapy scent that I caught a whiff of the first time we danced sifts into the space between us.

‘It was funny seeing you in the casting studio last week,’ I say as I circle around him, which earns me one of those ‘hmpf’ grunts. ‘Do you work with Austin?’

He pushes up the sleeve of his long-sleeve tee, and I glimpse the dark tip of a tattoo etched on the inside of his forearm. ‘I’m Austin’s manager,’ he reveals, complementing my moves with his own.

Excellent—three words. We’re moving on up. Also, Austin’s manager ? I’m impressed.

Together, we do some criss-cross steps, leaning a little further out with each one, and it’s impossible not to grin. I steal glances at Kye’s face, which is angled away, watching for his pouty lips to twitch even a little bit. Come on, Groucho. My kingdom for a smile. You know we’re good at this.

‘Congratulations on getting the movie,’ he suddenly mumbles.

‘Thank you.’

He says nothing else, but an urge to keep the conversation going overcomes me. ‘If I’m honest, I was shocked to get the part,’ I say. ‘Especially with no callback. I thought I was terrible in the audition.’

‘You were.’

My lips pop open. ‘Tell me what you really think,’ I mutter with an embarrassed laugh.

I appear to have unlocked a blockage in Kye’s vocal cords because he keeps going.

‘You got the part because of how you look,’ he says matter-of-factly, his eyes flickering over my bare midriff.

‘Buzz, the producers, Austin—they all wanted the most beautiful dancer they could find. That was their only criterion.’ He shrugs and leaves it there.

‘Um, I don’t think so,’ I say defensively. ‘My agent sent in a video of me dancing before I went to the casting. I’m pretty sure that’s what got me the job.’

Kye lets out a dry chuckle, as if I’m the most clueless person on Earth. ‘Good dancers aren’t unicorns. That’s not why you got hired.’

Okay, I’m speechless. Could he be any more blunt and rude?

But I can’t deny it: there’s something kind of refreshing to have someone in show business—who isn’t my mother—speak the raw truth to me.

In an industry in which flattering people is the fastest way to climb the ladder, it’s sometimes hard to know what people’s honest opinions are.

Knowing that Austin Reynolds thinks I’m ‘beautiful’ also makes me feel as if I’ve stumbled into my teenage dream.

Yet, what Kye said about my looks has left a slight burning sensation behind my ribcage.

My gaze floats over to the mirror, and I examine my face, which I scrubbed free of makeup before I left the house.

I see Gabriel Dean’s features staring back at me, and the burning intensifies.

I’m more than a face.

And I’m definitely more than my father’s face.

Kye’s eyes seek out mine, cling there for two heartbeats, and then flash past my shoulder. He grabs my bicep and yanks me towards him. I gasp as my lips smack against the firm warmth of his upper torso. He quickly steps backwards, putting space between us.

‘Shit, sorry, boss, almost took you out again, didn’t I,’ Avalanche moans behind me, giving my back an apologetic pat.

‘It’s all good, lovely,’ I say to him, slinking away to safety. ‘Keep working on those spins.’ This time, I don’t overdo the praise and instead call out for everyone to change partners.

Kye turns towards the nearest person to him—Snuggles. Oh god, if she tries to hug him, he’ll probably spontaneously combust.

I subtly eye them until Usher strides over to me, grinning with two hands held out.

With a broad smile, I accept his invitation and fall into step with him, but after a few rolls, turns and pops, I feel a bit off-kilter, like our chemistry is wrong.

When I go to swivel left, Usher turns right, and we laugh awkwardly before coming back together for another go.

I cast Kye a sidelong glance, expecting to find him frustrated with the ever-struggling Snuggles.

But he’s carefully explaining the slow-motion walk to her.

To say that Groucho looks warm and friendly would be majorly pushing it, but he is being patient and gentle.

I would almost go so far as to say he’s being nice .

I can’t help but notice Snuggles’ eyes drifting across Kye’s face, a blush climbing over her cheeks. Smooth slow-motion walks aren’t easy to master, and she clutches onto his arms for support, her tight black curls bouncing around her shoulders as she belly-laughs.

Kye doesn’t combust. He doesn’t smile either, but something is happening to his face that I can’t quite tear my eyes away from. The line that appears to live between his brows—the hardness that casts a dark shadow over his expression—is softening.

His rich-brown eyes dart to mine and seep into my stare.

Time freezes. Bends. Warmth flutters up the back of my neck.

Then, he pulls his gaze away from mine.