The song changed and she thrust her hands into the air, swinging her hips again, bumping Brodie gently. His fingertips gripped her hips like a magnet had forced them together. Every touch caused awareness to surge through her veins.
‘You can’t dance like that and expect me not to join in.’
His breath was hot against her ear. Her whole body tingled as the effects of the cocktails she’d downed before hitting the dance floor descended. The alcohol warmed her, giving her limbs a languid fluidity. Head spinning, she tried to step out of his grip, but stumbled when another dancer knocked into her. She landed hard up against Brodie, her hands flat against his rock-hard chest. He smelled good. So. Damn. Good.
Against her better judgment she ran her palms up and down his chest, swinging her hips and rolling her head back. The music flowed through her, its heavy bass thundering in her chest. She probably shouldn’t have had so many Blue Hawaiians—all that rum and blue curaçao had made her head fuzzy.
‘I can dance however I like,’ she said, tilting her chin up at him defiantly. ‘Mr Cheese.’
‘You’re going to pay for that.’ He grinned, snaking his arm around her waist and drawing her even closer. ‘There’s a difference between charming and cheesy, you know.’
‘You think you’re charming?’ she teased, ignoring the building tension that caused her centre to throb mercilessly. It was the alcohol—it always made her horny. It was absolutely nothing to do with Brodie.
‘I do happen to think I’m charming.’
His lips brushed against her ear, and each bump of his thighs sent shivers down her spine.
‘I’ve had it confirmed on a number of occasions too.’
‘How many women have confirmed it?’ She bit back a grin, curious as to the number of notches on his bedpost. Brodie had a bit of a reputation and, as much as she hated to admit it, Chantal could see why.
It wasn’t just that he had a gorgeous face and a body that looked as if it belonged in a men’s underwear commercial. Hot guys were a dime a dozen at the resort. Brodie had something extra: a cheeky sense of humour coupled with the innate ability to make people feel comfortable around him. He had people eating out of the palm of his hand.
‘I don’t kiss and tell.’
‘Come on—I’ll even let you round up to the nearest hundred.’ She pulled back to look him in the eye while she traced a cross over her heart with one finger.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand behind his back, forcing her face close to his. ‘I’m not as bad as you think, Little Miss Perfect.’
‘I doubt that very much.’
The music switched to a slow, dirty grind and Brodie nudged his thigh between hers. A gasp escaped her lips as her body fused to his. She should stop now. This was so wrong. But it felt better than anything else could have right at that moment. Better than chocolate martinis and Sunday sleep-ins… even better than dancing on a stage. A hum of pleasure reverberated in her throat.
‘I bet you’re even worse.’
‘Ha!’ His hand came up to cup the side of her jaw. ‘You want to know for sure, don’t you?’
Her body cried out in agreement, her breath hitching as his face hovered close to hers. The sweet smell of rum on his lips mingled with earthy maleness, hitting her with a force powerful enough to make her knees buckle.
Realisation slammed into her, her jaw dropping as she jerked backwards. His eyes reflected the same shock. Reality dawned on them both. This was more than a little harmless teasing—in fact it didn’t feel harmless at all.
How could she possibly have fallen for Brodie? He was a slacker—an idle charmer who talked his way through life instead of working hard to get what he wanted. He was her opposite—a guy so totally wrong for her it was almost comical. Yet the feel of his hands on her face, the bump of his pelvis against hers, and the whisper of his breath at her cheek was the most intoxicating thing she’d ever experienced.
Oh, no! This is not happening… This is not happening.
‘You feel it, don’t you?’ Worry streaked across his face and his hands released her as quickly as if he’d touched a boiling pot. ‘Don’t lie to me, Chantal.’
‘I—’
Her response was cut short when something flashed at the corner of her eye. Scott.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he roared. His cheeks were flushed scarlet, his mouth set into a grim line.
‘It’s nothing, man.’ Brodie held up his hands in surrender and stepped back.
He was bigger than Scott, but he wasn’t a fighter. The guilt in his eyes mirrored that in Chantal’s heart. How could she have done this? How could she have fallen for her boyfriend’s best friend?
‘Didn’t look like nothing to me. You had your hands all over her!’
‘It’s nothing, Scott,’ Chantal said, grabbing his arm. But he shook her off. ‘We were just dancing.’
‘Ha!’ The laugh was a sharp stab of a sound—a laugh without a hint of humour. ‘Tell me you don’t feel anything for Brodie. Because it sure as hell didn’t look like a platonic dance between friends.’
She tried to find the words to explain how she felt, but she couldn’t. She closed her eyes and pressed her palm to her forehead. She opened them in time to see Scott’s fist flying at Brodie’s face.
‘No!’
REJECTION WAS HARD ENOUGH for the average person, and for a dancer it was constant. The half-hearted ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ after an unsuccessful audition? Yep, she’d had those. Bad write-up from the arts section of a local paper? Inevitable. An unenthusiastic audience? Unpleasant, but there’d be at least one in every dancer’s career.
Chantal Turner had been told it got easier, but it didn’t feel easy now to keep her chin in the air and her lips from trembling. Standing in the middle of the stage, with spotlights glaring down at her, she shifted from one bare foot to the other. The faded velvet of the theatre seats looked like a sea of red in front of her, while the stage lights caused spots to dance in her vision.
The stage was her favourite place in the whole world, but today it felt like a visual representation of her failure.
‘I’m afraid your style is not quite what we’re looking for,’ the director said, toying with his phone. ‘It’s very…’
He looked at his partner and they both shook their heads.
‘Traditional,’ he offered with a gentle smile. ‘We’re looking for dancers with a more modern, gritty style for this show.’
Chantal contemplated arguing—telling him that she could learn, she could adapt her style. But the thought of them saying no all over again was too much to deal with.
‘Thanks, anyway.’
At least she’d been allocated the last solo spot for the day, so no one was left to witness her rejection. She stopped for a moment to scuff her feet into a pair of sneakers and throw a hoodie over her tank top and shorts.
The last place had told her she was too abstract. Now she was too traditional. She bit down on her lower lip