By a Thread: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy

After Dominic caught me when I all but swooned on him, I went back to the bar. Back to Austen. Back to the stool that my boss guarded like a gargoyle. And pretended like everything was just fine.

My neck hives had hives.

Dominic didn’t touch me again. But his hand remained a firm presence on the back of my chair. A reminder of his claim.

I wished I had it in me to flirt with my “date” to knot Dominic up the way he did me, but I could only stare blankly at Austen while he talked about his wedding.

There I sat, debating my options.

Quit and get fucked.

Or stay and get fucked over.

I, of course, was taking the high road. My situation demanded that I keep this job. My circumstances would force me to keep my dignity when my body didn’t seem capable of it.

Beside me, Dominic gave a rumble of a laugh in response to something Delaney said.

I was so tired. And sad. And angry. I’d wasted a night off. I could have had a visit with my father. I could have taken a catering shift or spent the entire evening figuring out how to patch the living room ceiling. Or, you know, making actual progress on a monumental task that was going to give me some breathing room.

Hell, I could have called my best friend, Faith, and caught up with her.

All of these things were better than being sandwiched between a man who wasn’t over his ex and one who was punishing me for not being stupid enough to quit my job to spend one night naked with him.

Because I was the one who had to compromise? Bullshit.

I fantasized about jabbing my elbow into his too close torso, tossing my drink in his face, and then kneeing him in the balls.

Right now, I hated him. I loathed him.

The only thing I hated more was the fact that I still wanted Dominic Russo.

It was pathetic. My father hadn’t raised pathetic. He’d instilled in me a deep and abiding faith in my inherent value. I was more than just some toy for a bored, horny executive to play with. I was better than a quick fuck.

But even as I told myself that, my underwear was getting damper and damper by the second. As if sex hormones had destroyed my brain so that nothing else mattered but being touched by the man next to me.

Every touch, no matter how innocent, how platonic, took on layers of meaning. Each one kicked off chain reactions in my body’s chemistry. The brush of his pant leg against my calf right now was demanding more of my attention than Austen’s story about… Oh, good God. His honeymoon.

Behind me, Dominic talked to Delaney easily, casually. They discussed everything from spring lines to kids to a humanitarian crisis her firm was following. But I felt the intensity he directed at me.

I’d had enough. I felt battered, exhausted, and sexually frustrated. The fact that I still wanted him to touch me made me doubt my decision-making abilities. Not since junior high had I been so hormonally compelled to make such a terrible decision.

That is what Dominic Russo was. A terrible fucking decision.

“Hey, do you want to split an order of cheese sticks?” Austen asked suddenly.

“You know what? I gave up cheese recently.” Very recently. “And it was really nice meeting you. But I’ve got to get going,” I told him.

He turned an adorable shade of pink. “I guess I really made a mess of this, didn’t I?”

I slid off the stool, shoving Dominic out of the way with my ass. Take that, jerk.

“You just need time,” I told Austen. And maybe some therapy. But didn’t we all? “Don’t feel bad about taking it.”

“It was really nice to meet you, Ally,” he said, rising. “Thanks for listening.”

I laid my hand on his arm and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I think you’ll be just fine, Austen.”

From behind, I felt a force field of disapproval slam into me.

I slid into my coat and turned to face him.

“Have a nice night, boss.” To any innocent third party, the words sounded normal. But I pumped every ounce of venom I could muster into the look I shot him. We stared at each other for a long, hard moment.

“Aren’t you staying for dinner?” he asked.

I blinked. That was a stupid, weird question.

“I’m not hungry,” I said and pushed past him. “Delaney, it was nice meeting you,” I called on my way to the door.

The bitter wind felt good compared to the fires of hell I’d left behind me.

It was still early, and I didn’t want to head home to my cold, empty house to eat leftovers under the covers. I could go back to the office. If I finished up Shayla’s changes to the graphics and sent them to her, I wouldn’t have to come in early tomorrow. That meant more time with Dad.

There was just one thing I needed to do first. Decision made, I hunched my shoulders and headed into the wind.

The studio was closed for the night. Not many people in Midtown were interested in taking dance classes after eight on a weeknight. But I had a key and permission to use the space whenever I felt like it.

And tonight, I felt like it.

I changed into my dance clothes in the locker room, tied my hair back, and cranked my Fuck Off playlist on the speakers. I shut off all the lights except for the strands around the mirrors.

And I let go of it all.

Gretchen Wilson’s “Her Strut” was all I needed to warm up. I paced toward the mirror, loosening up my shoulders with a shimmy. My hips had already found the beat and were working on making it their bitch.

I moved and spun and writhed around the studio’s floor, pausing only to turn on the LED disco light.

A relentless beat from Nine Inch Nails washed over me, followed by Blondie. I was sweating now. My muscles were warm. My kicks higher. Backbends smoother. But that icy rage had yet to thaw in my chest.

Kid Rock’s “So Hott” came blasting through the speakers, and I forgot about everything else but how it felt to move to music.

It had started with ballet class in elementary school. Even as a kid, it had been too rigid, too confining for me. I added tap. And then I’d fallen hard for Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. I’d practiced MTV video routines in the living room while my father graded papers at the kitchen table. In high school, I’d made the trip into the city twice a week for a hip-hop dance class. There’d been dance classes in college. I’d even given ballroom a spin.

I’d learned the basics, the counts, the steps. And then I mashed them together in one celebration of movement.

Somewhere along the way, I’d started teaching. Dance made me feel like I was honoring my body, my life. It colored how I moved through this world.

I felt a tingle at the base of my spine. It worked its way up between my shoulder blades. If someone was watching me from outside, I couldn’t see them through the windows. And it didn’t fucking matter anyway.

I danced for myself.

The beat changed, and I melted down to the floor in a slow, muscle stretching split. I crawled forward toward the mirrors, rocking and writhing on my hands and knees before climbing to my feet and kicking my leg into the air with violence.

Sweat ran in jagged rivers down my chest and back. My hair was escaping its confines in damp, sloppy curls.

Anderson East’s gravelly voiced “All on My Mind” had me slowing down. I slipped into a familiar choreography I’d been working on and let myself pretend that nothing else existed on the other side of that glass.