Stefanie London - Only the Brave Try Ballet

She held open the door to the waiting room. ‘Shall we get lesson number two over with?’

‘It’s going to feel even longer if you count down every single lesson,’ Grant said, walking past her, close enough that she could smell the faint aftershave on his skin.

‘You were the one who wanted to speed up the results,’ she said, focusing her attention on the mirrored wall as they walked over to the barre. Each breath had to be forced in and out of her lungs, as though she might forget to breathe if she were near him for too long.

‘Do I need to wear these stupid things every lesson?’ He pulled at the fabric of his sports tights and allowed it to snap against his thigh. ‘At least at footy I can wear shorts over the top.’

‘Are you worried about your modesty?’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s not me I’m worried about.’

She put on her most serious teacher voice. ‘I need to see how your muscles work while we’re going through the exercises.’

Heat crawled up her neck and she forced her eyes to stay on his face. She would not look down. She would not look down.

‘My muscles? Right.’ He drew the last word out, barely containing his laughter.

‘I think you should consider taking these lessons a little more seriously, Grant. Preventing injury is no laughing manner.’

‘God, you sound like an insurance commercial.’

He was pushing her on purpose, and he seemed to be getting an immense amount of pleasure out of it. Since this was her lesson, she could pay him back.

‘Why don’t we get started with some calf raises?’

He rolled his eyes and groaned, as though she’d told him he needed to climb a mountain with one hand.

‘Suck it up, Grant. If there’s one thing you should know about people who’ve studied ballet it’s that we have discipline beyond anything you could imagine.’ She sounded smug, sure, but he totally deserved it.

He shook his head and laughed. ‘You’re not selling the ballet ideal very well.’

‘You don’t think you’ve got what it takes?’ She cursed herself. She shouldn’t be baiting him. No doubt he’d be the kind of guy to enjoy a little verbal sparring. But the words had slipped out before she could stop them. It was too...fun. And she needed a little fun right now.

He grinned at her, confirming her fears. ‘If I want something, there ain’t a force in the world that will stop me from having it.’

Jasmine gulped. His pointed look sent liquid fire through her veins. There was no doubt in her mind that she was on his list of things to want. She had to remind herself that this was business and—fun as it might be, she was only after a pay cheque. But that grin...the crooked, self-assured way he smiled...it was like a fist through her stomach.

No, this would not work on her. She wasn’t another airhead groupie, ready to fall at his feet.

‘You can’t have everything you want. That’s not how the world works.’ And didn’t she know it.

He raked his eyes over her. ‘Watch me.’

Awareness tingled on her skin. She could feel his gaze so keenly that it might as well have been the brush of his fingertips or the rasp of his tongue for what it was doing to her insides. She bit down on her lip, trying unsuccessfully to blank out the flickering reel of R-rated images in her mind.

‘Since you’re so strong of mind, why don’t you focus some of that energy on this lesson?’

After Grant had made his way through the warm-up she moved them on to a new exercise, facing him at the barre.

‘We’ll start the tendu à terre in first position. Watch me.’ She extended her right leg forwards until only the tips of her pointed toes touched the ground.

Looking as out of place as one would expect from a footballer in a ballet studio, Grant struck an angled version of first position with his working arm, his shoulders bunched up around his neck.

Jasmine rested her hand on the tense muscle. ‘You have to loosen up from here or you’ll never relax into it,’ she said, running her hands down his arm and shaping it into the proper position. Her fingertips brushed his hard, curved biceps. Her breath quickened while her heart bounded like an over-excited puppy. ‘Now, extend your working leg forwards slowly. Point your foot and keep it on the ground.’

He shifted as he moved his leg forwards, tipping his hips out of alignment. Her hands automatically went down to put them back into place. Her fingers fluttered involuntarily against his hipbone. Through the thin fabric of his running tights his muscular thighs were perfectly visible. The fitted garment didn’t leave much to the imagination...and, speaking of imagination, hers was running wild.

From the sharp intake of his breath and the flare of his pupils he must have felt it too. And the jolt of electricity that made her whole body feel like a live wire—could he feel that as well?

She stepped back and instructed him to complete the exercise on his own. Using her remote, she played classical music so he had timing to work with. He fought to keep his posture straight and Jasmine clasped her hands in front of her to stop herself from reaching out to touch him again.

‘That’s looking good. If we can get those hips to stay square, then you’ll master this in no time. The tendu leads on to a lot of other steps in ballet.’

She was babbling—a side-effect from the onslaught of lust. God, it had been far too long since she’d been with a man, it must be the hormones making her crazy. That’s all it was, a perfectly reasonable and natural response...absolutely nothing to do with him. She needed a break. Now.

‘Why don’t you grab a drink?’ She walked to the front of the studio where her water bottle sat next to the MP3 player and her mobile phone. ‘We’ll get started again in a few minutes.’

They had another half an hour to go—how was she going to keep herself in check for that long? She took a swig of her water and relished the cool liquid sliding down the back of her throat.

‘Did you ever think about going pro with your dancing?’ His voice caught her off guard and she stiffened.

Busying herself with the MP3 player, she grappled for a response. She tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry.

‘I’m not sure if any ballerinas would refer to it as “going pro.”’

‘Picking on my slang is an excellent way to avoid the question,’ he said. ‘But I’ll rephrase. Did you ever think about dancing professionally?’

‘Yes.’ Not a lie, but not an invitation either.

‘And?’

She bit her lip and sighed. The last thing she needed was for him to pity her...or, worse, want to help in some way. She always dealt with problems by herself; she preferred it that way. Dealing with things on her own meant there was no one pushing their ideas on her, no one convincing her to do something outside her comfort zone and no one controlling her.

But how could she get around this topic for the rest of their time together? At some point it would come up again and she’d have the same dilemma: lie or expose herself.

‘I was a soloist with the Australian Ballet.’ She kept her voice even, unemotional. ‘I trained in ballet my whole life and have wanted to be a professional ballerina ever since I was eight years old.’

‘Then why did you quit?’

‘I didn’t quit.’ The word tasted dirty in her mouth. She would never have stopped dancing if her hand hadn’t been forced. ‘I was injured in a car accident and now I don’t have full movement in my foot and ankle. I can’t dance en pointe anymore.’

She opened her mouth to continue but the words died in her throat. Her lips were parched and her tongue was heavy, as if physically resisting the truth. She couldn’t mention the constant pain. The mental torment. The shame of how it had happened.