When Contracts Turn to Forbidden Kisses Chapter 18

Amelia

When I was out of my room, having a drink, a voice came from behind me.

"How's your ankle?" Ethan asked.

The unexpected question startled me. What caught me off guard wasn't his sudden appearance but the hint of concern in his voice—something I'd never heard before.

"It's much better, thanks for asking," I replied, instinctively touching my ankle. The pain had indeed subsided significantly over the past few days.

Ethan approached, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression shifting to something more serious. "The family gathering I mentioned," he said, pausing as his piercing blue eyes locked with mine. "Tradition dictates we perform the waltz after dinner. Do you know how to waltz?"

The question hit me like a bucket of ice water. Waltz? Deep in my memory, I recalled a humiliating elementary school talent show where I'd tripped on stage while attempting to dance, causing the entire audience to erupt in laughter. Since that mortifying moment, I'd developed a profound aversion to any form of structured dancing. But I couldn't tell him that—it was too embarrassing.

"I learned how to safely deliver babies in medical school, not how to gracefully glide across a dance floor," I said, waving my hands dismissively. "I'm really not good at this."

Ethan raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. "Yet I distinctly remember you being quite... noticeable on the dance floor at Blue Note. Your moves that night were rather eye-catching."

My face instantly flushed crimson. "Don't bring that up!" The memory of my alcohol-fueled dancing was something I desperately wanted to forget—especially given how that night had ended with an impulsive kiss I still couldn't explain.

Looking at Ethan's determined expression, I realized this wasn't a negotiable matter. I sighed deeply, nodding in reluctant agreement. "Fine, but don't expect too much. I might end up embarrassing you in front of your guests."

Without hesitation, Ethan turned to Michael, who had been quietly organizing books on a nearby shelf. "Move this furniture aside. We need some space."

Michael, efficient as always, quickly rearranged the living room, pushing the sofa and coffee table against the wall to create a makeshift dance floor. Throughout the process, my heart rate steadily increased, and my palms began to sweat. This was going to be a disaster.

Ethan walked over to the smart sound system, selecting a classic Viennese waltz. The elegant melody filled the room, its gentle rhythm both beautiful and intimidating. He turned to face me, straightening his posture and extending his hand with perfect gentlemanly form.

"Miss Thompson, may I have this dance?" His voice was deep and formal.

I nervously placed my trembling hand in his warm palm, immediately feeling the heat of his skin and the strength of his grip. The intimate contact sent my heart racing even faster.

Ethan's movements were graceful and natural, as if waltz was a skill he was born with. He effortlessly guided me through the basic steps, every movement exuding aristocratic elegance.

I, on the other hand, was the complete opposite—stiff as a board, eyes glued to my feet, terrified of missing a beat. My body was tense like a tightly wound spring, utterly incapable of relaxation.

Just then, I remembered my father's birthday party next week. Maybe... maybe I could invite Ethan to attend with me? But as the words formed in my mind, I couldn't bring myself to say them out loud.

"What are you thinking about?" Ethan's voice cut through my thoughts, tinged with annoyance. "Dancing requires presence in the moment, not daydreaming."

His piercing blue eyes scrutinized me, seemingly trying to read my mind. I hastily pulled my thoughts back to the task at hand, focusing on my footwork, but my nervousness only made me clumsier.

"Ah! I'm so sorry!" I apologized frantically after stepping heavily on Ethan's foot.

His face remained expressionless, those deep blue eyes calmly regarding me. "Focus."

I tried desperately to concentrate, but thoughts about my father's gala kept intruding. How should I approach the subject? Would Ethan agree to come? Or would he think I was taking advantage of our fake marriage?

Lost in these thoughts, I stepped on his foot again. This time it was worse—I practically crushed his foot with my full weight.

"God, I'm really sorry!" My face burned with embarrassment. "I'm truly terrible at this. Maybe we should just give up..."

Ethan took a deep breath, and I could see his patience wearing thin, though he maintained his gentlemanly composure. "Continue. Don't stop."

Just as I gathered the courage to mention my father's birthday, my attention was completely scattered. During a turning movement, I stomped hard on his handcrafted Italian leather shoe—harder than any previous misstep.

Ethan sucked in a sharp breath of pain and immediately stopped dancing. I could see a flash of agony cross his eyes, though he struggled to maintain control.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I apologized profusely, my face burning with guilt. "My dancing skills are clearly ten thousand leagues below my delivery skills. Maybe I should stick to what I'm good at—helping babies enter the world safely—instead of torturing your feet here."

I wanted to find a hole and crawl into it. This was easily one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, worse than when my hands shook during my first surgery in medical school.

To my surprise, Ethan didn't give up despite my clumsiness. He straightened his clothes and resumed his position. "No, we continue. Any skill requires practice, dancing included."

His persistence both touched and made me more nervous. I wanted to bring up my father's gala again, but fear of rejection silenced me. What if he thought I was using him? What if he flat-out refused?

"You're distracted today," Ethan observed, looking at me with confusion. "Is there an emergency at the hospital? Or something else troubling you?"

I opened my mouth, wanting to voice the invitation, but ended up shaking my head. "No, just... just nervous."

It was partially true, but not the whole story. I was indeed nervous, but more because I wanted to invite him yet didn't know how to ask.

After practice ended, I felt deep guilt for my awkwardness and disappointment for lacking the courage to extend the invitation. Throughout the afternoon, I kept looking for the right moment, but each time the words reached my lips, they were swallowed by fear.

Ethan began adjusting his cufflinks—his signal that he was preparing to leave. I knew the opportunity was slipping away, and a sense of urgency welled up inside me.

"Ethan, I..." I opened my mouth to say something, but seeing those penetrating blue eyes, all words caught in my throat.

In the end, I could only say softly, "Thank you for your patience. I know I was terrible today. I'll practice on my own, so I don't embarrass you at the gala."

Ethan nodded, saying nothing more before leaving the living room. I watched his tall, straight figure disappear, filled with frustration and self-reproach.

Perhaps this was fate telling me that some boundaries shouldn't be crossed.