Dancer's Body

Chapter 10

"You clean up nice," Juan said, eyeing her closely as they passed each other in the hall the following morning.

"I try every now and then," she said, but she was instantly unnerved. Was it that obvious?

She checked her reflection in the restroom before heading into Roman's office, setting the thick stack of papers on the marble counters.

Hannah had jumped on the chance to do her makeup that morning, expertly swiping the MAC Penultimate liquid liner into a cat eye. Olivia had protested when Hannah whipped out the bright red lipstick.

"It'll look subdued, but French! Very flirty," Hannah had promised. Olivia relented because Hannah hadn't even questioned her about the sudden need to dress up for her internship.

Now, standing in the mirrors in the tight black dress she normally reserved for sorority formal events, she wondered if it was too much. Olivia glided her hands across the loose chignon knotted at the nape of her neck and considered undoing it, but her phone buzzed. "Have to cancel tonight, need to study," Wyatt texted.

She lowered her hand from her hair and looked squarely at her reflection. The hell with him.

With a renewed sense of herself, Olivia swept into Roman's office, her strappy heels clicking against the floor.

"You finished?" he asked, without looking at her. He just reached for the stack.

She didn't want to tell him it took her until three in the morning, and it was only Hannah's artistry with concealer and highlighter that made her look like she'd got any rest. But she knew her work was impeccable. "Yes," she said clearly.

He looked up at her. "It looks fine," he said, and pushed another pile at her, this one twice the size of what she'd completed. "Have these ready for her understudy tomorrow."

She was crestfallen. That was it? This internship was going to kill her. "Okay," she said cautiously, reaching for the papers.

"I'm teasing, Olivia," he said. A smile played at the corner of his lips.

She couldn't help but laugh as he returned the stack to the other mountains that seasoned his desk.

"It's good to hear you laugh," he said. "People always take dance so seriously. They shouldn't. It's an art built on emotions. Elation, devastation, sometimes melancholy or stoicism. But never just seriousness."

"I wouldn't know," she said. "It's all new to me."

"Dance is new to you? It didn't look that way yesterday." He leafed through the stack she'd transcribed, nodding.

"No, dance isn't new. But this whole ... the industry of it ... I don't know. It's overwhelming."

"That's an understatement," he said. "Come here, let me show you something."

She looked at him nervously. The invisible fence between his side of the desk and hers seemed to have barbed wire.

"Come, come," he said, motioning her to his side. "See this here," he said, pointing to one of the sequences she'd transcribed. "This comment I made isn't meant to be relayed to the dancer. It's for my own records, so I can look back and see her progress—or regressions."

"Oh," she said, slightly crushed at how easily he spotted her mistakes.

"It's all right, you'll learn," he said. "That's what you're here for. The reason I don't want her to have these notes is because it might influence her growth. Negatively," he said, emphasizing the word.