Wild Thing. Nicola Marsh

way her insides quivered with nerves she needed all the help she could get.

      Her mum had taught her many life lessons, and dress to impress had been one of them. It didn’t matter whether she was doing a yoga class early on a Saturday morning or picking up groceries on her way home, she always wore lipstick and mascara. She felt naked without them. And while her budget might be verging on dire, she managed to find outfits at second-hand shops that garnered compliments.

      As she caught sight of herself in one of the many mirrors lining the club, she squared her shoulders and stood tall. She could do this. Meet with Hudson. Convince him to hire her. Dance her ass off for however long this show ran. Definitely doable.

      Until she caught sight of him striding towards her, and her tummy went into free fall, her confidence following suit.

      This was Hudson.

      The guy she’d secretly crushed on for years.

      The guy she’d idolised.

      The guy who’d been the best friend a girl could wish for.

      The guy who’d seen her stark naked, at her most vulnerable, and turned his back on her.

      Crap.

      ‘Hey, Mak, glad you could make it.’ He held out his hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world they shake in greeting, when it had once been customary for them to exchange a kiss on the cheek. ‘Let’s head into the studio to talk.’

      Mak managed a mute nod, surreptitiously swiping her palm against the side of her dress when he released it. Yeah, like that would stop the tingles creeping up her arm.

      It had been years since she’d seen him, so why the same irrational reaction, as if her body recognised on some visceral level what her brain refused to acknowledge?

      She should hate him for how he’d treated her, how he’d dismissed their friendship without a second thought. But she couldn’t afford to let her residual bitterness towards him flare now. This job had to come first.

      ‘How was your day?’ He cast her a sidelong glance, as if he couldn’t gauge her mood. Join the club. She didn’t have a clue how to act around him now that her faux confidence had dwindled on sight.

      ‘Same old,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I work part-time at a patisserie. Le Miel. You may have heard of it?’

      Of course he had, considering his boss Tanner had worked there temporarily while his brother Remy had been laid up in hospital following a fall. And Abby knew him, which meant he’d know she worked there, too. But she wanted to see how honest he’d be, how their new working relationship would pan out from the start.

      He was staring at her as if he knew she’d been trying to trip him up somehow. ‘Tanner’s my best bud, so yeah, I know it. And I’ve met Abby, she’s lovely.’

      Relieved he’d been honest, she nodded. ‘They’re both good people.’

      He cast her a quizzical look. ‘Are you okay?’

      No, she wasn’t. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t pretend they didn’t have a past. Like the argument that had ruined their friendship never happened. Like she wasn’t still hurting that he’d thought so little of her; that he hadn’t known her as well as she’d thought he did.

      ‘Honestly? I’m having a hard time accepting you as my potential boss considering we share a past.’

      He didn’t react. In fact, she couldn’t see a flicker of acknowledgement on his stoic face bar a slight clenching of his jaw. How did he do that? Hold his emotions so closely in check when she was having a hard time not blurting every single thing she wanted to say to him?

      ‘Let’s talk in here.’ He pushed the double doors to the studio open and waited until she’d passed through before closing them.

      Makayla should’ve relaxed stepping into the studio with its familiar set-up of stage, mirrors, steel rails lining the walls and spotlights. The space was new, or rarely used, because it didn’t have the familiar smell of stale sweat and greasepaint. Maybe that explained her nerves.

      A crock and she knew it. Her nerves had everything to do with the man staring at her with trepidation, as if he knew she was about to unleash years’ worth of home truths.

      Before she could speak, he held up his hand, annoyingly imperious. ‘I know we need to talk about what happened back then. But before we do, I want you to know you’ve got the job of lead dancer. Your audition blew me away and I’m not saying that out of some warped case of guilt because of how things ended between us, I’m saying it because you’re incredibly talented and I need this show to succeed, so I want you in it.’

      He blew out a long breath after his ramble and in that moment she realised he was nervous, too. Hudson didn’t do long-winded speeches. Less was more for him when it came to words. So the fact he’d blurted all that indicated he was just as nervous as she was.

      ‘Thanks, I’m thrilled to get the job.’ She sounded formal, stilted, and cleared her throat, wondering how long she’d have the job for once she said what needed to be said. ‘But the last time we saw each other you basically called me a whore and it’s difficult getting past that.’

      He flinched as if she’d struck him. ‘I didn’t—’

      ‘You didn’t use the word but it was pretty damn clear from everything else you said what you thought of me.’

      That night was imprinted on her brain. The night she’d been so desperate to give her mum the funeral she deserved that she’d shelved her principles and done whatever it took to get the money she needed.

      Hudson hadn’t given her a chance to explain. He’d taken one look at her stripping on stage and flipped out. She’d expected better from her best friend. She’d expected so much more than what she’d got.

      While time should’ve eased her resentment it hadn’t, and seeing him again seemed to bring it all back in a mortifying rush.

      She remembered every single moment of that humiliating night in excruciating detail. Pretending not to care when the club owner leered at her, demanding she strip down to bra and panties so he could see the goods before he gave her the gig. Throwing up before she went on stage. The stench of cheap aftershave and beer when she’d been taking her clothes off.

      And in the midst of her degradation, she’d spotted Hudson, staring at her as if she were the worst person in the world.

      His opinion mattered to her. He mattered to her and having him witness her shameful, demeaning show had crushed her. She’d been desperate to explain. He hadn’t let her. His appalling lecture had rung in her ears long after he’d stormed out.

      Now she had to dredge all that up so they could move forward as professionals. Ugh.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ He leaned against the nearest wall, looking like a cool, impervious model, not a guy hell-bent on repentance. ‘That was the night I landed the job at Embue and I came looking for you to share my good news. Bluey told me he’d seen you entering Le Chat so I headed there.’ He shook his head, remorse twisting his mouth. It was an improvement on the loathing she’d seen all those years ago. ‘I freaked out. Said some things I shouldn’t have—’

      ‘You were my best friend! You should’ve trusted me.’ She swallowed down the lump of emotion lodged in her throat, making her voice embarrassingly squeaky. ‘I didn’t owe you any explanations then and I sure as hell don’t owe you any now, but that was the worst night of my life and having you witness my mortification, then berate me for it, sucked big time. Then you turned your back on me...’

      Damn, if she didn’t wind this up soon she’d end up crying and that wasn’t the professional impression she wanted to present.

      ‘Maybe it was for the best, us moving on with our lives separately, leaving the Cross behind, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss the friendship we once had.’ There, she’d