Chapter 51
The morning sun filtered through the tall windows, casting a golden hue over the marble floor. The scent of breakfast still lingered faintly in the air, but for once, Erin hadn't been the one bustling around the kitchen. Xander had reminded her the day before that her little vacation was over—the leg was healed, and she was back to her usual duties starting tomorrow.
Still in her freshly ironed uniform, Erin was sipping a glass of water when the butler appeared at the doorway.
"Miss Lane," he said with a slight bow. "The young master is expecting you. Kindly follow me."
Her brows lifted. "Expecting me?"
"Yes. He asked that you meet him in the third west wing room."
Erin followed him, her mind buzzing. Xander wasn't the type to call her unless he had a reason, and her instinct told her it had something to do with yesterday's bet. As they approached the door, the butler stepped aside and gave a small nod. Erin pushed the door open and took a single step in.
Her jaw dropped.
The room was completely empty. Furniture had been cleared, leaving behind polished wooden floors that gleamed under the sunlight. Curtains were drawn open, letting in warm light, and soft classical music hummed from an unseen speaker. It was a dance floor. A makeshift ballroom.
Xander stood at the center, hands in his pockets, wearing a black shirt rolled at the sleeves and slacks that made him look way too relaxed for someone she had mentally cursed ten times already this morning.
"You cleared the whole room for this?" Erin asked, blinking.
"Well," Xander shrugged, walking toward her, "you said you needed a proper space to learn. Consider it…a stage."
She frowned. "You really think you can teach me to tango in two hours?"
"You really think you can't?" he countered, holding out a hand.
Reluctantly, Erin stepped into position. The moment she did, her right foot smacked directly onto his.
"Ow," he said flatly.
"Oops," she said, not sounding sorry at all.
"What are you, a genie? You grant pain instead of wishes?"
She rolled her eyes. "You didn't even give instructions yet."
Xander sighed, then placed one hand on her waist and guided her left into his. "Tango is all about tension. Controlled steps. You follow my lead, got it?"
Erin arched a brow. "Trusting you is already a gamble."
"Try not to gamble with my toes then," he muttered.
They started again. Erin was stiff, awkward. She kept missing the beat, turning the wrong direction, or pulling back when she should've leaned in. Every time she tried to adjust, she somehow made it worse.
"Erin," he sighed. "You look like you're preparing for combat, not a dance. Relax."
"This is combat," she retorted. "With footwork."
It didn't help that tango was filled with intimate moments—close steps, dramatic dips, turns that pressed her right up against him. The first time their faces brushed during a gancho, she nearly pulled away like she'd been burned.
Xander looked at her, amused. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," she snapped.
It took nearly twenty minutes before they started finding a rhythm. Xander slowed the music, counting the steps aloud. They moved through the basic eight count: slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. Erin gradually adjusted her timing. The awkward flailing turned into hesitant stepping, then firm strides. Her foot slid against his in a more controlled cruzada. A molinete turn followed, her skirt swaying as they spun.
Something changed.
Their bodies got in sync.
Her hand fit more comfortably in his. His grip around her waist steadied her every move. When he guided her into a forward ocho, she didn't stumble—she glided. The tension in her spine eased, and the room faded away.
It was just them.
Their feet moved in precise harmony, sharp pivots and dramatic pauses punctuating the space between them. At one point, Xander guided her into a dip. His hand splayed against her back, supporting her, and their faces were close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath.
Erin's heart thudded. Her mind drifted. She forgot the bet. She forgot the mission. Just for a second.
Then the world slipped back in.
What are you doing? she screamed internally. You have 15 days. Fifteen.
She quickly regained focus, trying to pull back mentally even as her body stayed tangled in his. Her gaze flicked away from his eyes. She reminded herself that none of this was real. She wasn't here to fall in love. She was here to win.
Meanwhile, Xander's mind wasn't silent either.
She was brushing dangerously close to his lower half. Not just once—multiple times. Sometimes it was just the turn of her hip, or the flick of her leg during a boleo, but it happened enough that he started to wonder.
Is she doing this on purpose? he thought, eyes narrowing.
She looked so lost in the dance. Innocent. Unaware. But was it real? Or just another ploy to throw him off?
Still, her progress surprised him. She was getting better. She completed a backward ocho and nailed the pause before the next beat. Her foot slid between his with more confidence.
He finally slowed the music and stepped back, releasing her hand.
"You earned a break," he said.
Erin blinked. "Wait. That wasn't terrible?"
He gave a small smirk. "You're better than expected. Stay here. I'll get you something cold."
As he disappeared through a side door, Erin exhaled. Her entire body was warm—and not from the dancing.
She wandered to the edge of the room, catching her breath, when something caught her eye. One of the portraits on the wall looked slanted, slightly ajar. The frame was slightly off compared to the others.
Curiosity prickled.
She approached it slowly, examining the edges. Beside the painting was a narrow gap, barely visible. Her heart skipped.
That looks like a hidden compartment.
She'd grown up in a castle. She knew what to look for.
She gripped the bottom edge and pulled gently. The portrait swung open like a door, revealing a small wall safe behind it. It was old, but well-maintained. There was a combination lock. She reached forward…
Footsteps.
Her blood ran cold.
She swung the portrait back and slid onto the couch in a breath, crossing her legs casually just as Xander entered the room with two tall glasses.
He didn't suspect a thing.
"You look like you just saw a ghost," he said.
"Maybe I did," she replied smoothly.
He chuckled and handed her the glass. "You're not bad. You just lack grace."
"Gee, thanks."
They drank in silence. The mood shifted—still light, but slightly heavy underneath.
Xander looked at her for a long moment. "You're confusing."
"Excuse me?"
He smirked. "One minute you're clumsy and hostile, the next you're…actually pleasant. Hard to read."
She tilted her head. "And you think you're a book?"
He laughed. "No, but I'd rather be one than a puzzle."
Erin almost said something. Almost let it slip. But she stopped herself just in time.
She forced a smile. "That sounds like a you problem."
Thirty minutes passed.
They continued practicing, this time with smoother flow. They moved through a full tango sequence: basic eight, forward and backward ochos, a molinete, a slow gancho that brought them close again. Erin didn't stumble. She didn't hesitate.
Xander leaned in during a dip.
"Seems you forgot something," he whispered.
"What?" she murmured.
"The bet."
Her eyes widened.
He straightened. "You already learned it, Erin. You just tangoed for a full minute without fumbling."
She opened her mouth to protest, then paused.
He was right.
She had actually…learned it.
She wasn't about to fake ignorance either. She'd wanted to learn tango for years—the only professional dance she hadn't mastered.
Xander. Taught. Her. In under two hours.
She turned toward him, almost impressed.
"Alright," she said, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt. "You win."
"Really?"
"I'm not going to pretend. I learned the tango. In less than two hours."
He stepped closer. "So I get a wish?"
She nodded slowly. "Yes. What's your wish?"
Xander didn't answer right away. He stepped closer.
Her heart skipped.
He leaned in slightly, his breath grazing her cheek.
"I'll tell you… tonight," he said, voice low.
Erin stared at him.
What the hell does that even mean?
He smiled.
And walked out of the room.
Leaving Erin in the middle of the empty floor, pulse quickening, and very much not in control. Not anymore.