“What is it?”
“I have to leave town for a while.”
“What?” I slide off him and sit up. “When? For how long?”
He shifts, putting his back to the headboard and pulling the sheet across his waist. “It’s work. I have to take these trips sometimes. Out of the country.”
If it was a weekend or even a week-long trip, his expression wouldn’t be so grave.
My stomach sinks. “For how long, Cole?”
“A year.”
My heart stops. “No. Tell them you can’t do it.”
“Can’t do that, baby.” He bends forward, dropping his head and avoiding eye contact.
A dead giveaway. When he can’t look at me, it means the worst news is coming.
“Why?” It’s all I can ask. My entire body is in shock.
“I work for a government agency that deploys—”
“You’re a fucking auditor!”
“Let me finish.”
I sit back and cross my arms to hide my shaking. This shouldn’t upset me so much. We’ve only been together nine months, but dammit, I haven’t been separated from him for a single night since we met. I’ve never been this person, this dependent, needy creature who can’t live without a man. But now I am, and I hate myself for it.
“I’m sorry.” I roll back my shoulders and meet his eyes. “Go ahead.”
“I audit records for freedom of information, and I’ve been assigned to the al-Bashrah oil terminal in the southern waters off Iraq. I’m stepping in as a project manager to make sure the government isn’t getting screwed by the contractors.”
“You’re going to Iraq. For a year.” I let that sit for a second and measure my breathing. “When do you leave?”
“Next month.”
“Next month,” I echo hollowly.
“When do you want to get married?”
“I don’t know.” I can’t even think about that, but I know I have to. He’s leaving. “I kind of hate you right now,” I say without conviction.
“Hate me all you want.” He grips my chin and waits until I meet his eyes. “We’re getting married. We can do it now or a year from now, but it’s happening.”
I’m going to spend a year alone. I can do it as his fiancé or as his brand-new bride. Tears flood my eyes and spill down my cheeks, collecting in a salty pool at the corner of my mouth.
“Damn you, Cole.” I lift a hand to shove his touch away, but my fingers curl around his forearm instead, holding on with aching desperation. “A fucking year.”
He hauls me onto his lap, arranges my legs around his hips, and hugs me tight to his chest. “I can’t stomach the thought of being away from you.”
“I’ll go with—”
“No. It’s not even an option.”
My eyes widen. “Will you be in danger?”
He laughs—an empty sound I’ve never heard him make—and strokes a hand through my hair. “No.”
“Then why can’t I go?” Mother of God, am I whining?
“You have a dance company to run. Besides, civilians aren’t allowed near the offshore oil platforms. You can’t be there.”
The gravity of the situation sets in, and the lump in my throat burns red-hot.
No Cole smiles for a year. No riding on the back of his bike. No strip teases on the pole. No holding hands at Cardinals games. No sharing beers in the backyard.
“No sex for a year.” I trail my fingers across his bottom lip.
“I’ll be jerking off to memories of you dancing naked.”
I smile sadly. “You’ll come back to me?”
“Yes.” He lifts my hand and touches his lips to my ring, his eyes bright and unyielding. “I promise.”
One promise.
One forever.
“I’ll wait for you.” I fold my arms around his neck and touch my mouth to his ear. “I’d wait for you forever.”
I didn’t see Trace at the casino when I met with HR the morning after our confrontation. In fact, I haven’t seen him or heard from him for the past three weeks. I’ve spent that time shuffling my schedule, moving evening dance lessons to days, and merging classes together.
So I can belly dance five nights a week.
At The Regal Arch Casino.
For three-hundred-thousand dollars a year.
Holy.
Fuckamoly.
“Waz up with you, hoss?” Nikolai O’Shay releases my hand midway through a left-and-right Samba whisk, his Caribbean accent thickening with exertion. “You need to grease dat waistline.”
In other words, I’m not moving my hips like they’re oiled. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. But of course, he did. We’ve been dance partners since college and entertain at ballroom functions a couple of times a year, like the mayor’s Christmas party. We landed a gig at Anheuser-Busch’s upcoming Fourth of July celebration, and we only have six weeks to nail this routine.
One More Night by Maroon 5 thumps through the speakers in my dance studio. The choreography is tricky, but the beats per measure work for the Samba. If I find my groove, we’ll be golden.
“I have a lot on my mind.” I bend at the waist and rest my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
“Tell your boy all about it.” Nikolai shuts off the music, takes a running leap, and slides across the dance floor, ending flat on his back with his legs between my feet and his silver eyes staring up at me.
Perspiration glistens in his tight curly hair, which he keeps cropped close to his skull and bleached blond. Half-Irish, half-Afro-Caribbean, he was born and raised in Trinidad. His accent sounds like he likes to sing when he talks, and his pale eyes and dark skin give him a head-turning exotic look.
“I’d rather focus on the routine.” I place a foot on his chest and lift his chin with the toe of my high-heeled dance shoe. “Let’s take it from the top with the traveling lock.”
He curls a hand around my calf, and his gaze journeys up my bare legs to my spandex shorts and sports bra. “You need to release some of that tension, girl.” He winks. “I can help with that.”
Nikolai is one of the best dancers in the Midwest. He also models, and recently finished an ad campaign for United Colors of Benetton. But his natural-born skill is flirtation. Coming on to women is as involuntary for him as breathing.
We had sex on and off through college, and over the past few months, I’ve considered taking him up on his advances again. But I know I’d regret it. One, he’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. Two, monogamy is a language he doesn’t speak. And three, he’s really not that great in bed.
“How about I dump all my problems on you,” I say, stepping toward the sound system, “after we run through the routine again.”
“All right.” He jumps to his feet, brushes off his loose pants, and rolls his neck. “Let’s do it.”