Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,14

while. Sipping a glass of wine at an outdoor café. Buying fruit from a vendor. Walking down cobblestone streets. Twirling under a giant, blooming bougainvillea.

“Good,” Rhys says finally, looking through images in his camera. “We’re done for today.”

But I’m not. Because somewhere in the distance, music is playing. “Do you hear that?”

He frowns down at me. “Hear what?”

“That’s a live band playing.” I walk down an alley, following the tune of a saxophone. It’s definitely live. A few turns later and I emerge in a small square. Nestled against colorful houses, a band is indeed playing, and people are dancing salsa in front of it.

I clutch my bag to my chest. “Oh.”

Rhys snorts by my side—I hadn’t been sure he was following. “You were right.”

“This is perfect.”

“For what? For shooting?”

“For… experiencing.” I head to one of the small tables by the side and sit down, grabbing my phone. I have to take a picture of this for Penny.

Rhys sprawls in the chair next to me, placing his camera on the table with a sigh. “Filming for your online followers?”

“And so what if I am?”

“I thought you wanted to experience this.” He raises his hand for a waiter. “Une biere, s’il vous plait,” he orders. “Ivy?”

“Just water for me, please.”

“Bien sûr,” the waiter says, retreating through the dancing couples. I watch them move, the beat intoxicating.

“So you do speak French,” I say.

“Guilty.”

“Are the French?”

“Usually.” His small grin tells me he’s somewhere else, thinking of other experiences. And perhaps that’s more infuriating than anything he’s done so far—because he’s intriguing.

I want to ask how. Why. But it’ll no doubt yield nothing at all, so I watch the dancers instead. Breathe in the scent of the town, the beat of the live band, the feeling of being someplace new. It’s addicting. Beside me, Rhys fiddles with his camera, the picture of bored elegance.

A middle-aged man in a French boater hat breaks away from the group dancing to stop in front of our table. He looks straight at me, holding out his hand.

“Mademoiselle?”

There’s only one answer to that.

I put my hand in his. He pulls me out amongst the other dancers. The man leads me into a hesitant salsa, but grins when he sees that I know the steps.

“I used to dance,” I tell him. He nods, still smiling, and turns me around. The music flows through me, the beats strong and seductive, and I let go. It’s been years since I’ve danced like this. No routine, no plan, no timer. Just pure uninhibited dance.

He spins me once, twice, the skirt billowing out around me. The second I’m still again, he grins. “Trés bien,” he tells me. I don’t know how long we dance for, as one song bleeds into the next. And perhaps I put a bit extra sway in my hips, knowing that Rhys is sitting a table away and watching.

Sweat is running down my back, beneath the beautiful silk dress, when the man I’m dancing with nods toward the beach and asks me something.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t speak French,” I say.

He chuckles, like I’ve made a joke, and his grip on my waist tightens. He repeats the question, smile widening.

I pull back. “I’m sorry, but I think I’m done dancing.”

Raised eyebrows and yet another question spoken in the same incomprehensible language. I shake my head and take a step back. “Sorry.”

A tall figure appears by my side, a hand resting lightly on my lower back. Rhys says something in French that I don’t need to interpret to understand. It’s a polite but decisive fuck off.

Straw hat guy grins again and steps back, hands raised. And when the music picks up again, well… Rhys and I are the ones left dancing.

His hands are light on me, barely touching, like he doesn’t know if he has touching rights. I don’t know if I have them either, but his shoulder is firm under my hand.

“I can role-play as a boyfriend when I have to,” he says darkly.

“How chivalrous.”

“You okay? He wasn’t too forward?”

“Well, I couldn’t understand what he was saying, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.” Around us, dancers are moving in tune with the beat. And nothing, not the sweat on my skin, not even Rhys’s perpetually bad attitude, can take me down off the high I’m on. I smile up at him. “This place is fantastic.”

Rhys is quiet for a beat. He leads me slower than the beat, perhaps not as used to dancing, but he makes up