Chapter Two

Patrick was running early, but there was no way he would let Anita know he was actually that responsible. Besides, a man could not show up empty-handed when starting a new partnership. Well, dance partnership, but beggars could not be choosers.

To delay himself, he stopped off at Amore, his favorite café along Main Street, and bought a nonfat latte and a hot tea. He liked to present her with options. Or at least he had liked it, before he had escaped to NYC for three months. The distance hadn’t been enough to erase her from his mind. His traitorous heart had lapped up the sight of her yesterday like a man finding a chain coffee store in the middle of the Gobi Desert.

He paused for a moment outside the small shop, staring far too hard at the white plastic lids. Was she still trying to switch to tea? Maybe she would rather have had something else, like an I Heart NYC key chain or a snow globe from Rockefeller Center. Maybe he had never really known her at all.

If he kept dithering, he would one thousand percent be late, and that would not set him up for success. This was his last chance. She had broken up with Mikhail, and this was it. If he couldn’t figure out how to tell her how he felt now, he had to be done.

He timed his arrival at Lewis Dancesport Academy precisely at nine, exactly as some of the stragglers from Toni’s Zumba class were milling out of the studio.

“Morning, ladies.” He smiled, tipping a to-go cup near his forehead as if doffing a hat. “Good class?”

“Missed you today, Patrick,” Melanie Templeton said, the tilting of her lips not meeting her eyes. Of all the people who could have forgotten that he taught Zumba, why did she always remember? She was stick thin and had a brittle personality to match. Patrick knew she was married, but it didn’t seem to stop her from trying to fondle him at every opportunity. Had she never heard of boundaries? “My legs were on FIRE yesterday, and I couldn’t stop cursing you all night. Did you have to be away so long? No one ruffles our hair like you.” Despite her assertions, her carefully coiffed blonde ponytail seemed shockingly kempt.

What was the minimum modicum of respect he needed to show without in any way encouraging her?

“Mel, you are so bad!” Her shorter and nicer friend Kim Somebody-or-Other swatted her playfully on the arm. Clearly Melanie had been recruiting acolytes during his time in New York. At least Kim was better at keeping her hands on more socially acceptable parts of his anatomy and was less fond of the midriff-baring top. “Toni is great as always. It was just nice to have a switch-up yesterday.”

As if hearing her name had summoned her, Toni herself walked out of the studio, hefting her black sports duffel bag over her right shoulder and holding a ridiculously large water bottle in her left hand. She wore a fitted jumpsuit in three different neon colors that matched the beads in her long black braids.

Thank goodness for Toni. She had saved him before, when he and Anita had just opened the studio and offered to rent the space for Zumba classes. They had been in the black that month for the first time. Now she was doing it again.

“Ladies, let Patrick by,” Toni said smoothly in her Georgia drawl.

He raised a hand to her in thanks and waved goodbye to the ladies from Zumba. He could still feel Melanie staring daggers into his back. Well, let her stare. It didn’t hurt him. He would never do anything about it.

****

Patrick placed the drink cups and his dance bag on the floor so he could change his shoes, because he had learned the hard way that suede soles had no place outside a dance studio. Toni had left an ’80s pop song medley running on the sound system. The woman had excellent taste in music, less so in men. The Georgia girl had followed an ex-lover to Lewis, then had “lost the douchebag, kept the accent.”

And yes, he was definitely thinking about Toni to avoid thinking about Anita.

“You’re on time.”

He glanced up from tying his shoe and felt his heart catch a bit in his chest the way it always did when he saw Anita. It wasn’t just her poetry-inspiring looks, how she smelled of spring break trips to St. Barth’s. No, when he allowed himself to think it at all—which was close to never, for the preservation of his sanity—it was the little familiarities that he liked best. The black open cardigan that molded to her curves in the most casually sensuous way, the way a dimple appeared in her frown, the look of utter joy and peace on her face when she was dancing.

This was his last chance to tell her. He had been in the Friend Zone long enough to know there was no escape. Not even three months in New York had been far enough. The moon wouldn’t be far enough to forget her.

“I live to surprise you.” He stood, dance shoes now tightly laced, and held out the two cups. “Nonfat latte or tea?”

She grimaced and extended a cautious hand toward the tea. “I’m still trying to switch. There was this really good article about green tea being better for you. I guess I just am not strong enough to quit that first morning cup of coffee.”

“Then don’t.” He sipped the latte, the creamy bitterness coating his tongue. “Why deny yourself life’s simple pleasures?”

Anita turned back to the dance floor, her tight, blonde ponytail whipping behind her. Patrick had missed that kind of whiplash. “We have a TON to do today. I thought we would start with Standard, do a test dance. If that works, great. If not, we can try Latin.”

“Why not just do a showcase?” He leaned against the check-in desk, latte in hand. “Only one dance to learn and not screw up.” She averted her gaze from him, but he could still see the way she bit her lip. Seriously, how did even the most mundane actions make him want to kiss her senseless? “Admit it. You want to beat Mikhail.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“The great Anita Goodman, out for vengeance. Now that is a superhero movie I would watch.” Why had he gone to New York again? He had not bantered with anyone like this in months. Sometimes, late in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep because he couldn’t stop thinking about the smell of her shampoo, he wished that he hadn’t left working with her at the studio. Last year, finally realizing it was just too painful to spend all day working with her but not, frankly, all night, he had stopped teaching lessons and shifted more to writing. The lonely hours in front of the computer felt like penance of some sort. Or maybe purgatory.

Maybe this was his ticket out of purgatory? A chance to move things in a different direction?

“We don’t have time for this. We need to start practicing,” she replied primly.

So, no chance of a new direction, then.

Anita walked to the sound system and turned off the ’80s power rock. “What do you think? Quickstep first?”

Interesting option, but he was in the mood for something more classic, maybe a bit overly dramatic.

“Nah, let’s waltz.” He did some arm and leg circles to warm up while she thumbed through the songs on her playlist.

The opening strains of Lifehouse’s “You and Me” emanated from the speakers as she took her position across from him. “I approve the choice.” He grinned as he bowed to open the dance. She curtsied pertly, then they stepped together, opposite hands raised toward each other.

Something was different. It wasn’t the frame, the placement of his right hand on her back and their other hands entwined. It wasn’t the electric thrill in his body that noticed every move she made, the way they seemed perfectly in tune. He had always felt that way when they had danced together.

No. Now it seemed almost as if she finally noticed it too and was subconsciously trying to ignore it.

Intriguing. Definitely intriguing.

He led her through a series of different waltz elements, turns, whisks, establishing the rise and fall of the dance. Through the connection of their bodies, he felt her relax into the music, into their rhythm. It was almost better than sex.

Almost.

He sang softly under his breath as they swayed around the floor, closing his eyes in an overly dramatic, and hopefully romantic, way.

“Are you seriously singing right now?” She giggled—giggled!—and he tucked her into a complicated figure, loving how she followed wherever he led. “You are not taking this seriously.”

“I always take you seriously. Hey, keep your frame.”

Her gaze flicked toward his. Was that surprise, pleasure? Whatever it was tilted her mouth and lifted the corners of her eyes in this incredibly sexy way that made him want—

Things he could not have.

The music crescendoed. Might as well have a bit of fun.

He turned her into and out of a series of turns, then into a Viennese spin. “Arabesque,” he whispered. As commanded, she lifted her right leg in an arabesque, and then he put his hands on her waist and lifted her into the air. He twirled her for an eight count, his gaze riveted to her, stretched out over him like a willow tree. His hands burned where they touched her waist. If only he could transfer his strength to her, but he knew better. She did not need his strength.

The music slowed to a close, and he gently lowered her back to the floor, his hands sliding along the sides of her body, trying to make the few beats last as long as possible.

He breathed heavily, deeply, his heartbeat racing faster than was probably wise.

This woman would kill him one day. He would probably let her.

His gaze met hers. Had he remembered to temper the fire within him? Her eyes widened. Was that a flicker of desire? A momentary tightening of her hand against his?

Finally, finally, maybe he could just incline his head a little—

And she pushed him away, standing up and moving back to the sound system all at once. She took a long, long drink of water from her travel mug. “Well,” she said at last. “Your Standard isn’t bad. Let’s try jive.”

He bounced up and down on his toes. A dance they could do almost entirely in shadow position. Maybe she had finally felt that kick in the heart, too.