I grabbed my things from him. I was so torn between wanting to get away from a man who had physically attacked me and wanting that same man to put his arm around my body again.
“You’re supposed to come in through the staff parking lot on the other side. Not sneak in on this side with a firearm.” He handed me my key card. “And this picture doesn’t do you justice.”
I didn’t snap the card away. I held it between my thumb and my index finger, imagining I felt his heat through the plastic. I was supposed to thank him for the compliment, but after having his arm around me and his breath in my ear, I was sure we’d moved past small courtesies.
“You’re really forward for a security guy.”
He let go of his side of the card, and I took it.
“I’m not exactly security.”
“What exactly are you?”
Besides impossibly handsome.
“I’m Darlene McKenna’s new bodyguard.”
That was great. Just great. He’d be around all the time now, and I had to work and keep my head together while he watched me dance. This was not going to work out well.
“Well,” I said, holding up the card, “you know who I am. This is my face. Remember it. I’m running late. So. Nice to meet you.”
“Carter. Carter Kincaid.” His deep voice made the name all the sexier. “Nice to meet you too.”
My right hand was full of crap, so we couldn’t shake. He offered me a fist, and I bumped it. The gesture seemed natural on him, but I felt like an awkward goofball.
“Okay, uh, better get to work.” I slid my key card into the slot, and when the door clicked, he opened it for me.
A gentleman too.
I didn’t think I could stand close to this guy another minute.
CHAPTER 3
EMILY
I made it my business to be on time from then on. One, because it was my job. Two, a few minutes before call was a great time to get coffee at the craft services table and make conversation.
The third reason, limited parking, yielded a firm statement from Darlene that no one was to park in the choreographer’s spot. Even if she was late. Even if she was sick. If an ambulance pulled in to take Darlene herself to the hospital for a life-threatening stroke, it could park in the street.
Darlene took care of me, but she was still a star.
She stopped short in the middle of a move. “I cannot do that, Emily.” The music cut out. The dancers flopped from inertia.
“Yes, you can. Look.” I did the move, landed, and turned to her. “That.”
“Stop showing off.”
“We can make it easier.”
The Downtown space she’d rented was called Citizens Warehouse. It had windows everywhere and glossy wood floors. Big show. Ton of people. Dozens. I didn’t know what half of them did, but they were all busy, all the time.
“Who here thinks Darlene McKenna can do these steps?” I called out, raising my hand high. Simon, her dance partner, came all the way in front of her so she could see his hand up. Behind her, ten professional dancers raised their hands, while the four-time Grammy winner who could stack platinum records higher than her Malibu mansion stood there with her arms crossed.
Her publicist raised his hand. Her three tech guys. Liam the manager. The DJ. The costumer and the six foot two of pure muscle poured into a perfectly tailored suit, aka the dude from the parking lot two weeks before: Carter Kincaid.
Sexiest name ever.
Darlene briefed me on him. Fans had discovered the studio space and parked an RV across the street to watch her coming and going. Not dangerous in itself and not illegal, but creepy. And there were letters recounting all the interesting things that could be done to Darlene’s body. One compared himself to Genevieve Tremaine’s killer, who was famous for murdering the actress, her estranged husband, then killing himself.
Fun times.
Darlene stopped looking at the scary letters and just brought on the best security money could buy.
Carlos, her head of security, had hired Carter on a contingency, assuring her that he was highly sought-after and she was lucky to get him.
He scanned the space constantly. It made me nervous whenever his blue eyes crossed my part of the room. I caught myself tucking hair behind my ear, shaking, sweaty-palmed, knees knocking, can’t-do-the-fucking-steps. It wasn’t his job to speak to me, but he said hello sometimes, and we exchanged complaints about the food over the craft services table in the morning. Then I got rubber-legged and stupid. All he had to do was look at me, which he was doing right the hell now. I could see him in the mirror. Was he still looking at me? Why did he do that?
“Don’t matter what they think,” Darlene said, distracting me before my palms got sweaty again. She knew damn well she could do it.
“If you want Chantelle to outperform you . . . ,” I said, invoking the name of her competition. The dancers hooted and clapped before I even finished. “One-two-down-and-up-and-over.” I did the move, which was difficult. It’s true. But fuck that. She was who she was, and she knew as well as I did that if the dance moves didn’t accentuate the pace and power of the music . . . Well, Darlene McKenna didn’t do almost-got-it-right. That was the bottom line. Period. End of chapter. The end. No cliffhanger.
When I looked over at Carter, he was looking at me. There was a little hiccup in my body.
Darlene lowered her eyelids enough to let me know the challenge was accepted and one-two-down-and-up-and-overed herself without a word, landing with legs crossed and arms up the way she was supposed to, tipping only a little.
“You got this!” I clapped twice, and the music lifted. “One-two-down-and-up-and-over—”
A booming voice from craft services interrupted.
“Lunch!”
Everyone stopped midstep.
“We’re working on ‘More Than a Sister’ after break!” I shouted. I snuck a look at Carter. When he saw me, he turned away as if he’d been caught looking.
CHAPTER 4
EMILY
Organic, artisanal, handmade meals were catered on steam tables with a staff to spoon out salads, vegetables, high-protein lean meats, and whole-grain desserts. I was fine with that to a point.
“More,” I said to the hipster behind the chafing dish. A warehouse floor full of dancers could eat a farm-to-table establishment out of house and home.
“Give her that big piece.” Darlene pointed her fork at a giant piece of chicken. “Everything we do she does ten times.” She leaned into me. “I left a surprise dessert for you.”
“I think we need to change the opening on ‘Make Him Yours.’” I took the extra chicken and pushed it to the side to make room.
“Make it harder.” Darlene’s assistant handed her a salad with the tomatoes taken out.
“Is that a dare?”
She winked at me. She complained and begged for more at the same time. Hard work was her MO, and diva was her brand. She honored both sides, and I understood them. I wondered if I would have been the same way if I’d been the one to race in front of the pack instead of drop to the back of it.