Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,28

enjoying this, seedy and cramped though it is. “Yes,” she shouts back, “but it’s not in New York!”

I grin back at her at that. She’s embracing the adventure, and for fuck’s sake, so should I. It’s my brand, after all.

Baptiste returns soon enough, handing her a tall cocktail and me a beer. Ivy manages that careful, oddly feminine thing of dancing while she’s sipping her drink, her body fluid. Having seen her dance salsa in St. Barts, I know she’s talented, but somehow she can carry that over to the mindless beating drums of contemporary pop. It’s spectacular to watch.

I want to photograph her dancing.

A well-lit studio and Ivy twirling to a song that only she hears. The image strikes me suddenly, the angles, how I could try to capture movement with a still image.

Baptiste’s attempts to engage her in conversation are skillfully deflected. She smiles and dances, tossing her hair, a moving flurry under the beating lights. He doesn’t seem to mind, which is his style, but I’m irrationally pleased nonetheless.

It’s not my business if she chooses to spend time with Paolo or Baptiste.

And yet, I’m glad she’s not taking their bait. And why should she? I have no doubt this is a commonplace occurrence for her.

The music shifts into a deep, throbbing beat that I feel in my bones. Ivy tosses her hair and twists her hips a little, subtle but irresistible, and glances my way. There’s a smile on her lips.

Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s the alcohol.

But I can’t look away, and through it all, it feels like she’s dancing for me, because I asked her to.

A woman stops at my side, putting a hand on my elbow. She says something in low French that I don’t hear.

I bend my head. “Pardon?”

She repeats her question, a variant of do you come here often? I’m a bit harsher in my response than I usually am, but I thank her for her interest and tell her I’m here with someone. Not technically a lie, not technically the truth. I’m skirting the line.

I’m starting to skirt a lot of lines.

When I glance back, Ivy’s not where I’d left her. She’s dancing with Baptiste and he has his arm around her shoulders. The emotion that courses through me isn’t something I’ll be proud of later.

I push my way through the throng of people, and perhaps I’ve gone completely mad, but I see relief in Ivy’s eyes. She slips under Baptiste’s arm and comes to my side, still moving, as if she’s never stopped dancing. As if it’s all part of the routine.

Baptiste gives me a shrug, the universal sign of I had to try, and nods toward the bar. He disappears a few seconds later.

Ivy looks up at me with a smile. “I think your cousin was interested in me,” she says, but because of the loud music, she has to stand on her tiptoes. Her hand curls around my bicep for support and God help me, but I flex.

“I know he was,” I say in her ear, pushing her hair out of the way. “First Paolo, now Baptiste? Must be tough being this wanted.”

Her hand tightens on my arm, and her voice… “They don’t actually want me,” she says. “They want the idea of me.”

But before I can ask her to elaborate, she pulls away from me with a smile and turns. Her dress flows around her, long legs on display.

“One last song,” she mouths, beckoning me forward. So I do. I dance to music I despise, in a club I’ve never heard of, in a city I have complicated feelings for, all for a sarcastic girl with golden hair and boundless positivity.

I tell Baptiste we’re leaving as soon as he returns. He makes the usual arguments, but I silence them with we have to work tomorrow.

He pulls me in for a half-hug. “Take care. Come back soon, and bring some of your siblings. We’ll go down to the countryside.”

“I’ll do my best to convince them,” I say, already knowing it’s a battle I’ll lose. Not offering an invitation to New York.

Ivy surprises me by grabbing my hand, pulling me toward the exit. We emerge into the still-warm air of Paris past midnight. It feels like a legendary night in the making.

Ivy is beaming. “Let’s walk back to the hotel.”

“We could,” I agree, shoving my hands in my pockets. “But it’s a rather long walk.”

“Give me the stats.”

“A mile?”

“In minutes.”

“About twenty. Think your feet can handle it?”

“Absolutely.” She glances down