At this she snickered derisively. “I don’t think so. I was just an amusement for him, a way to pass the time. The only reason he’d want to make amends would be to use me some more, and I have enough self-respect not to let that happen. Fool me once, and all that.”
“You don’t think he’s changed?” I asked.
“People don’t change in a matter of weeks, Damon. At least not as much as Blake would’ve needed to. I was aware of his reputation for being a ladies’ man when we first met, but he’d been so kind to me, so chivalrous, that I thought perhaps it was all just rumours. I found out the hard way that it wasn’t.”
I was frowning again as she reached out to pick up the pot and pour some tea for us. “It’s his loss,” I said, my voice unexpectedly gruff. Bastard didn’t know how lucky he’d been.
She lifted a shoulder, then let it fall. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m horrible at relationships. I get so clingy and paranoid, always needing to know what the other person is thinking, needing to be with them twenty-four seven. Mum was like that, too, and we both know how badly that ended. It’s probably for the best that I stay single,” she said, her eyes on her teacup before she looked at me pointedly. “If not for me, then for the sake of the poor sod who gets stuck with me.” A small, self-deprecating laugh escaped her.
I tried to read between the lines of what she was saying. This was clearly her roundabout way of telling me I was better off not being interested in her. She had no clue how appealing I found the idea of her clinginess. In fact, she could cling to me all she wanted, preferably while naked.
The real take-home message though, was that she didn’t want to talk about what happened on Friday, and I couldn’t blame her. After the way I’d spoken and how I touched her, I was surprised she wasn’t ignoring me completely. I’d way overstepped the mark.
I stared at her for a long moment, so long she began to grow self-conscious as she clasped her fingers around her cup, her eyes on the table as she blew off the steam. My eyes were drawn to how her lips shaped themselves, forming a seductive “O” that she was entirely unaware of.
“Some men aren’t so immature that they can’t handle the love of a good woman,” I said, and she glanced up. “Blake is a fuckwit for how he treated you.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “You’re probably right.”
She skirted around the fact that I was talking about myself, how I’d never treat her like he treated her. However, I could tell she was nervous about me broaching the topic, so I let it lie. She was trying to be single for a while, and I was willing to accept that. It wasn’t like I was going anywhere.
“Can I ask a question?”
“Of course,” she said, and took a sip of tea.
“Why don’t you dance on stage? You’re so much better than half the women in the show. I don’t understand.”
She smiled wanly. “Some of us don’t crave the limelight the way others do.”
“Don’t you?”
She shook her head. “No. Well, it’s perhaps a little more complicated than that. I love to dance, but I’ve got terrible stage fright. I wish I could do it, but I just don’t have it in me. For some reason, audiences take all the fun out of it for me. It’s ironic, because dance is a visual art form designed to be seen by others, but I’ve always been more comfortable creating rather than portraying. It’s sort of like how writers write and actors say the lines. I create the routine for dancers to perform.”
“Artistry without applause,” I said. “A noble pursuit.”
“Well,” she ventured sheepishly, “perhaps not so noble. Sometimes I stand behind the curtains and close my eyes, pretending the clapping is for me. That way I can enjoy the reward without the fear of being on stage.”
I gave her a warm look. “There’s no shame in wanting acclamation. We all need it every now and again.”
She leaned forward, hands still cupping her mug. “Do you ever get nervous before a performance?”
“Nervous, yes, but not afraid. It’s easy to be someone else. Being myself is the problem.”
“When did you first know you wanted to be an actor?” she