Nicola Marsh - Valentine's Day

They chatted excitedly as they stripped off the layers of magic and mystery and slid themselves back into their clothes. Just one hour ago being in her underwear in front of strangers was excruciating. Now they were sisters. Lumps, bumps, big, small. The thing that had shifted inside her wasn’t switching back.

The three others had only been coming weeks and were curious whether she’d enjoyed it, whether she’d be back. She knew, without question, that she would.

‘I hope you’re bringing him every week,’ Emma said. ‘Way to change the dynamic!’

They all laughed.

‘No one means any offence by dancing for your man,’ another said. ‘It’s just the novelty.’

‘He’s not my man,’ Georgia was fast to correct, though low so that Zander wouldn’t hear them through the flimsy fabric walls.

That caused more hilarity. ‘Oh, love,’ Emma whispered, ‘if he’s not I think he soon will be. We all saw his face while you were dancing. He’s wound as tight as a drum. It would be a shame if no one was to benefit from all our good work tonight.’

Georgia stopped one leg halfway into her tracksuit bottoms and stared at the women. They laughed wildly again. She understood exactly. A weird kind of adrenaline was still coursing through her body, too. She would have joined their laughter if the suggestion hadn’t thrown her into such a breathless stupor. And an unshakeable vision of her benefitting from tonight’s endeavours.

She tidied her hair, carefully folded her borrowed costume items, and placed them in the washing pile, and then dawdled a moment longer. Delaying the inevitable. She wasn’t sure she could walk out there and see Zander if the women with all their speculation were still around.

The longer she took, the fewer people would be in the room.

But eventually she couldn’t delay any longer. He needed his interview. She rolled the waistband of her running pants down to be more like the beautiful women she saw at the gym, more like the low-hung skirt that had just caressed her legs. More casual. As if this weren’t an enormous deal. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the change area into the dance space. Only a handful lingered. None of them was male. After the events of the evening she couldn’t really blame Zander for stepping outside so that he didn’t have to face his unexpected seductresses in the full fluorescent light of indoors.

She thanked the instructor warmly and whole-heartedly, assured her she would be back the following week and stepped out into the cool night air.

She looked left.

She looked right.

She looked across the road in case he was leaning on the lamppost, waiting.

Her stomach clenched. Nothing. No Zander anywhere.

They’d arrived separately but she saw him pull up so she knew where his Jag was. Tucking her crossed hands under her armpits, she hurried down the road a way in case he was waiting in his car. But there was just a dry rectangle on the otherwise rain-dampened road where his Jag had been.

Gone.

Her jaw tightened. Maybe he’d gone for a drink with one of the other participants in the class. Maybe he’d formed a connection with someone in particular while she was so busy ignoring how he was ignoring her. But that seemed both unlikely and unfair to Zander—he wasn’t a complete jerk. His absence didn’t automatically mean he’d scarpered with some hot, bejewelled stranger. It just meant he hadn’t stayed to see her.

That probably should have made her feel better.

But it didn’t.

All that power, the erotic blast, the sensual costume...the out and out risk she’d taken forcing herself to let those secret feelings show on the outside. All that had done was sent Zander running. So embarrassed by her display that he couldn’t even stick around to face her.

She’d thought maybe he was being tactful, keeping his eyes averted, trying to make a difficult class that bit easier for her. That maybe he was more affected than he was letting on. She’d thought that burning, blazing moment in the mirror might have been sensual desire pumping back at her.

But what if it was anger? Or discomfort.

A tight ball settled high in her chest. Maybe he was just plain embarrassed. Just because he’d admitted to there being some chemistry between them didn’t mean he wanted it there. Or wanted to do anything about it beyond the kiss they’d shared—some lousy accident of adrenaline.

She hooked her thumbs under the curled waist of her pants and let them unravel back to their usually modest position. She flattened them down with unsteady fingers as deep sorrow washed through her.

That was it.

She was done.

If who she was just wasn’t enough for the high standards of Alekzander Rush, then so be it. She liked Georgia Stone. Lots of people did. And not because she was a carbon copy of everyone else spilling out of London’s entertainment district, but because she was her: loyal and bookish and fond of long, quiet walks in ancient forests and lazy afternoons with girlfriends tucking into a steaming ale pie.

She’d set out on the Year of Georgia to find out who she really was and—surprise, surprise—she’d been there all along. And it only took her half a year.

She turned and walked the block back to her car.

And if Zander didn’t like the Georgia she’d uncovered, well...his loss.

EIGHT

August

There really weren’t enough showers cold enough or long enough to get the haunting, hot mirror scene out of Zander’s mind. It was all too easy to cop out when you were the boss, when you had staff to do things for you.

Minions.

He’d never felt the distinction so clearly until he had Casey ring Georgia up and let her know he wouldn’t be coming to belly-dancing classes with her any more. That she was OK to go to them solo. That he got what he needed that first night. It wasn’t hard to find an excuse. Salsa was on a Wednesday night. Belly dancing was on a Tuesday. He had network meetings until late on a Tuesday.

Not so late that he couldn’t get across town to the dance studio, in fact, but it was too convenient an excuse to pass up. There was no way on this green earth that he was setting foot back in there while Georgia was around.

He’d already been back to see the instructor, to get from her the interview he’d been too much of a coward to get from Georgia right after her first class had finished. It was only the fact that her borrowed car was parked virtually outside the door to the dance studio that made it even remotely OK that he’d just bolted on her. Left her there alone.

What a class act.

She hadn’t called him on it. Or emailed. Or even asked Casey what was up with her coward of a boss. And that said a lot about how she was feeling about his disappearing act. Defiant. Irritated.

Possibly hurt.

But getting hands-on with her was no better an idea now than it had been up at Hadrian’s Wall. And so walking out of there seemed like the most prudent action at the time. He’d spent a lot of time and energy avoiding emotional entanglements, focusing on his career; this was really no different. If spending time around Georgia was making it too hard to keep her at arm’s length, then there was really only one solution.

Getting Casey to do his dirty work for him—well, there was no excuse for that. He’d just needed some space from the mirror scene before they headed off into the wilds of Turkey together.

But that was only effective if he could exorcise the memory branded into his brain.

And three hours in the air and three more in a car—no matter how luxurious—was a lot of nothing to try and fill with other thoughts.

Another cowardly act. Getting Casey to shift his flights so that they weren’t travelling together. That bought him precious more hours to build up his reserves against Georgia. To get through the weekend in Turkey. Both of them had jobs to be back for come Monday morning so this was the most fleeting of Turkish experiences. But he’d re-routed through Istanbul whereas Georgia was touching down in Ankara. Again, precious hours for last-minute fortification.