Page 32

And a split second later, I realize that my brain-to-mouth filter has failed me. Again.

Ugh. I breathe slowly and look up to the slightly discolored ceiling tiles. At least socks are marginally better than big pants.

Max blinks, a confused but amused spark in his eyes. “My . . . socks? They’re very ready.” He steps a fraction closer. The subtle scent of his cologne shifts into my space as he looks down at my standard low-cut trainer socks. My toes curl inside my sneakers. Slowly, he lifts his chin and meets my eyes. “Are yours?”

I could die of embarrassment right here. I take another long, bracing breath and gesture vaguely toward the front desk. “Let’s just, uh . . . sign you in.”

A few minutes later, we walk past the rows of weight machines and the guys grunt-lifting near the mirrors, landing on the wide-open turf area. “Since you mentioned jump rope, I thought we could warm up with that,” I say, grabbing a weighted speed rope from the nearby rack.

“Is that what you usually do?” Max asks. His brow furrows as he looks from the rope to my bad ankle. “I can’t imagine that would be terribly comfortable for you.”

“It’s not . . .” I start, then catch myself. “I mean, I usually ride the bike for about twenty minutes to get my blood pumping, but I thought it might be better for you if we stuck to your routine. You’re the one doing me a solid.”

“Katie,” Max says, stepping a little closer. I have to tilt my head back just to keep eye contact. “The bike is perfectly fine by me. We don’t exactly have a fleet of exercise bikes at the theatre—that’s the only reason I jump rope. It’s just a space-saver.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling silly.

“Don’t push yourself.” He reaches out, sliding his hand smoothly over mine. His fingers linger against my skin, sending a sudden spike of adrenaline straight to my veins as he slowly guides the handles out of my grip and hangs the rope back on the hook.

“It’s not that bad. Just a little sore.” The hitting session I had with Zoe this morning didn’t do it any favors.

Max shoots me a knowing look. The kind that someone gives you when they’ve spent a lifetime working through their own fair share of injuries. “To the bikes, then?” he asks. His eyes hold mine for a moment before he gestures toward the cardio deck.

“Okay,” I say. At this point, I don’t technically even need cardio. Thanks to Max, my pulse is already jumping like tackling a mountain peak on the Tour de France.

After a twenty-minute spin that starts as a steady cruise and ends with us both breathing a little harder than we’d care to admit, we head back to the turf. Max scans the equipment rack and grabs a blue half-circle stability trainer—a Bosu ball.

“This was my best friend back at the Westminster Ballet’s Upper School,” he says, dropping it flat-side down with a muffled thud.

Watching Max warm up, I finally get what years of ballet training actually do to a person. Every single movement is controlled, fluid, and completely effortless. As he bends down to adjust his weights, my eyes wander right back to his legs. Deceptively strong is a massive understatement. I quickly snap my attention back to my own side of the rack before he catches me staring.

“What was that like?” I ask, leaning against a nearby squat rack as I fight to keep my voice casual.

“Intense,” he admits, with a dry laugh. “I spent years wishing I could skip straight to jazz or contemporary. Unfortunately, you need that classical technique. It’s the foundation for everything.”

“Sounds like me and footwork drills. Nobody likes them, but everybody needs them,” I say.

“Exactly. Different sport, same suffering.”

“Why did you study there if you weren’t a fan?” I ask.

“My dad,” Max says, stepping onto the rubber dome. “He’s on the staff there. The head pianist.”

I blink. “Wait. Wouldn’t he have wanted you to study music, then?”

“Maybe.” Max shrugs, his arms drifting out to the side. “I was rubbish at the piano. Dance, on the other hand—I have a knack for remembering the movement. My body just knows what to do.”

He holds a perfect, one-legged balance. “Dad never pushed me, but I always knew how much it meant to him to have me there. Especially when it was clear my siblings weren’t going to go down that route.”

He hops off the ball with a soft whoosh of air and nods toward my feet. “Your turn.”

I step onto the Bosu ball and immediately feel like a fledgling bird trying not to fall out of the nest. I instinctively stick my butt out and throw my arms out for balance.

“Is your mom artistic too?” I ask, my voice tight as I fight the wobble.

“Relax and stand up taller. Tighten your core. Imagine everything stacked on top of each other,” Max says, watching me carefully. His hands hover just millimeters from my waist.

“That’s it,” he says, nodding in approval as the frantic shaking mostly subsides. “My mum plays the bassoon. She was good, too. Earned an invitation to the London Academy of Music, but she was more interested in teeth.”