Free Amour Amour by Krista Ritchie, Becca Ritchie Page A

world. Shay would tell me that I have no choice, that this isn’t fiction. I have no say in which world I live in.
    As I spread my legs open into a split, I reach as far as I can, my muscles extending with the position. The back doors suddenly burst open, and the directors march into the gym, carrying folders, tablets and clipboards. They exude an air of superiority, vacuuming all oxygen.
    Nikolai is among them.
    He chats with Helen as they near the long table. Dressed in his usual gym attire (shorts, red bandana, shirtless), I wait for him to turn his head and acknowledge the four of us left to audition. But he’s in a heated discussion with Helen, and I catch him gesturing to Ivan by the aerial silk more than once.
    Helen raises her hands in defense, and Nikolai’s lips snap shut, his nose flaring. She speaks calmly, it seems. And then her eyes plant on me.
    I freeze, wondering if I was just caught eavesdropping. Everyone was doing it though—I assume. I’m about to look to Kaitlin for verification when Helen calls my name, “Thora.”
    I instinctively jump to my feet. Glancing briefly at Nikolai, I can’t read him beyond his six-foot-five, masculine dominance. He’s an intimidating fortress in a gym full of straw huts.
    “You’re first today,” Helen tells me. “We’d like to see some basic acro dance lifts. We want to know how well you work with Nik. He’ll lead you through them.”
    I try to bottle some of my nerves, slowly approaching the center of the mat. In the corner of my eye, I spot Elena twisting the red silk in her fist, clearly being instructed by the choreographer to practice. My stomach twists and backbends and somersaults—in the worst ways.
    “Thora,” Nikolai breathes, very close. He grips my attention, his concentrated gaze on me. “Don’t watch them. Right now, this is about you and me. Do your personal best, so that whatever happens, you have no regrets.”
    I inhale a deeper breath, flooded with more confidence. I nod and retrain my mind, blocking out my competition.
    He steps even closer, and I sense my ribcage jutting out in a heavy rhythm. He notices, concern knotting his brows. Which only causes me to breathe harder. Fantastic.
    His intense steel gaze searches my features with headiness, care and lust. Intimate. A combination for long-time lovers, for something greater than a friend. Than anything we are. His acting is up to par. That’s for sure.
    His large hand cups my oval face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. His frown darkens, and heat builds across my skin at one thought: what if he’s not acting?
    “Did someone hit you?” he asks lowly. His jaw muscles tic.
    The bruise. “No, I, um.” I roll my eyes at myself. “I fell.”
    Doubt crosses his features.
    I realize falling is a cliché excuse used to cover worse things. But it’s sadly the truth here.
    He says slowly, “You fell. On your face?”
    I sound like a royal klutz. Someone you would definitely not want as an acrobatic partner. “I had a nightmare,” I explain, my throat closing. I’m a ball of hot lava right now, the swelter spreading and it’s not just from embarrassment. It’s just—he’s so close. Of course he is, Thora.
    “Must have been some nightmare.”
    I was being drained of blood by vampires. I purposefully leave this part out. “Yeah…it was really gruesome.”
    “Let’s hope you don’t land on your face again, myshka.” His finger lightly brushes along the ridge of my nose, like a feather tickling my skin. If I blinked, I would’ve missed it. “What’s your favorite lift?” he asks before I can process anything else.
    I go cold, despite his hand that falls to the base of my neck. “I…” have never done an acro lift. Or worked with a partner on aerial silk. I’ve been solo since no one would practice with me.
    His eyes dance around my face, reading me quickly. “Do you have any formal circus training? Even a summer camp?”
    “Not formal.” I watch him glance cautiously