The Dance We Remember (Love and Other Dreams #4)

Chapter 3

Aurora

I have been staring at the stranger since I entered the ballroom a few seconds ago.

Those eyes... They shine like a sunrise...

"Pair number forty-three, please," someone announces in English. The woman's voice is as sharp as a knife yet distant, far away. Strange. "Forty-three."

A warm breeze brushes against my ear. Someone takes my hand. "Aurora, it's our turn."

I blink hard, yet I can't tear myself away from the mesmerizing fire of those captivating green eyes. A tingling sensation runs down my back, then continues along the back of my legs and up the front again. It reaches my thighs, my stomach, and finally my heart, which immediately starts beating harder against my chest.

"Come on."

Who is speaking? Could it be the person shaking my arm? The vibration travels all the way to my fingertips while I remain lost in the stranger's eyes.

It's as if there's only the two of us.

Just him and me.

Nothing else.

Not even the earthquake forming in my shoulder.

"Dammit, Aurora!"

Someone whirls me around.

The glowing fire vanishes. Instead, there's Enzo, with a pronounced furrow between his perfectly groomed eyebrows. A bead of sweat trickles down his high forehead and crawls into the elongated groove.

"It's our turn," he says, rushed, and suddenly, I'm wide awake.

I know where I am. And why I traveled hundreds of miles from my home in the heart of Italy here.

This is the audition for the most innovative dance training in Europe. The Académie de Nouvelle Danse Paris accepts only the most promising talents each year. In a multiday selection process, they study the strengths and weaknesses of the candidates. They evaluate with a keen eye and show no mercy when it comes to nervousness or any other feelings that don't belong on the dance floor.

If I don't give my best now, I will regret it for the rest of my life. Enzo and I have already failed the auditions at England's most prestigious dance centers. There was no place for us in our homeland of Italy either. This is the last chance. Everything depends on it.

My promise. My big dream.

Determined, I nod at Enzo, gather my focus, and lift the corners of my mouth. Hand in hand, we stride into the center of the expansive ballroom, its walls mirrored from floor to ceiling. I make an effort to breathe calmly and gather my concentration. Distraction is the last thing I need now.

Only a few steps to go, and we'll be there. I don't look to the right or left. And definitely not forward, where the long table stands, and the gaze of five pairs of eyes bores into my body.

Including the stranger's.

I can't see him, but I feel the heat of his radiance effortlessly reaching me from a distance. He watches me, observing every move, sensing every bit of uncertainty.

Still, I maintain my composure. My heart beats so fiercely that I can hear my blood rushing in my ears. It's only interrupted by the muffled sound of my dancing shoes on the polished dance floor.

We've arrived. Enzo extends our intertwined hands upward, and I execute a turn. I stop gracefully in front of him, ready to dance in close embrace. In an elegant motion, I place my free arm gently on his warm shoulder.

"Ready?" he whispers softly, the furrow on his forehead now vanished.

Despite barely being able to breathe from excitement, I remain outwardly composed. My response is a brief nod. The lady by the stereo presses a button, and the classical waltz music fills the room.

I feel the melody enveloping me. I sense its rhythm. Breathe in its momentum. Enzo takes the first step of the slow waltz. I lower my shoulders, tilt my head, and follow his lead. We glide across the ballroom, making full use of the space. My skirt billows in wave-like motions as I arch my upper body back.

The arms stay in position.

Generate momentum from the embrace.

Focus on the fixed point.

Smile.

I pay attention to every detail. Nothing escapes my focus. Even the position of my little finger is under control. My legs find the step sequence effortlessly. I give it my all, yet I can feel it's not enough. Enzo's stiff movements make my turns angular. It's as if we're dancing against the music rather than gracefully gliding with it.

But I smile despite everything. Because in every second, I'm fully aware of how crucial these minutes are for the rest of my life. I want to be graceful, my movements flowing with the waltz music. Together, we must appear carefree, as if dancing on clouds.

Yet my legs feel like they're made of wood. During the open turn, I almost lose control of the tempo.

No, no, no! The slow waltz is my signature dance. How will I pass the next three rounds of the audition if I fail at this one?

Unwavering, I push the thoughts aside, focusing on the next figure, the promenade. I imagine the step sequence, measuring its length in relation to the size of the room.

It works. I am back in sync with myself. Now I need a fixed point to focus on. After positioning my head, I lift my eyes.

And I find myself directly locked in the glowing eyes of the judge.

Wow. For a moment, time seems to stand still.

Enzo tightens his damp hand between my shoulder blades and spins with me in a circle. We're at risk of losing the rhythm. I try to correct it, but Enzo doesn't want to relinquish control.

Once more, the standard step sequence. Turn. Lady’s solo.

The music reaches its climax. The violins grow louder, and we intensify our dance one last time in the same rhythm.

Preparing for the final pose.

Now.

Left foot back. Softly arching the upper body backward. Stretching the neck. Exhale.

The music falls silent. We hold the pose, and I gaze up at the intricately decorated ceiling, waiting with heavy breathing until Enzo pulls me upright. Once standing before him, I see the questions in his sweaty face.

Were we good enough?

Could we have given more?

I press my lips together.

No, it wasn't good enough.

And yes, we could have given more. Much more. No, could is the wrong word—we should have.

Those who wish to be accepted here at the Académie de Nouvelle Danse Paris live for dance. The judges expect nothing else during the audition. And that's precisely what Enzo and I failed to show them.

Nonetheless, my dance partner nods encouragingly at me, and we take a step apart, turning toward the examination committee.

Summoning the most radiant smile I can manage, I bend my knees. Only when I hear the restrained applause from the jury do I straighten up.

One by one, I try to read their expressions to understand what they think of our performance.

The nostrils of the academy's director, sitting at the far right edge of her chair with her gray bun, appear flared. The suit-clad man with the slicked-back hair beside her yawns and idly taps something on his phone. Swallowing hard, I let my gaze continue. Over the multiple-time French champion in standard dance, Juli Brohn, whose facial features convey a questioning impression, and the dance director of the academy, David Grant, who incessantly taps his chin with his index finger.

Finally, I land on him —the man with the eyes like beacons of light.

Hesitant, I first look at his hands, resting relaxed on the evaluation form, holding a pen between his fingers. My gaze travels upward over his forearms. Defined muscles are visible beneath the tight-fitting black T-shirt, and his posture tells me he must be a dancer. However, I don't know who he is or why he sits at the jury table.

At his neck, I notice a twitch under the skin, right where a nearly imperceptible vein protrudes. It comes and goes in sync with the rhythm of my pounding heart.

I hold my breath, observing his clean-shaven face with the curved lips and the slender nose. How symmetrical his cheekbones are. And how flawless his skin.

There they are again—his eyes. The beacon of light is gone, replaced by something else.

A whole firework that I suddenly feel in my chest. Just like when I entered the room earlier and our gazes met for the very first time, he captivates me. So much so that I forget everything around me.

I hear nothing, smell nothing, and taste nothing. There are only his eyes and the indescribable feeling they evoke in me.

"The next, please." The sharp tone of the academy's director abruptly bursts the soap bubble in which the stranger has me floating.

Abruptly, I look around and realize I'm standing alone in the center of the dance floor. Enzo has long left the floor.

Heat rises inside me, rapidly spreading to my cheeks. Feeling embarrassed, I lower my gaze, bow briefly, and hurriedly stumble out of the dance hall.