Page 46
“Explain,” I demand.
“What?” She leads me across the asphalt. “I said we were going dancing.”
“I assumed that meant someplace crowded and loud, where I could blend in and no one would care how I looked or that I’ve never danced. This…”
“Is a place where they teach people to ballroom dance.”
“Fuck me.” I close my eyes.
She giggles. “You’ll be fine.”
“Well, if I die of embarrassment, I know who to blame.”
That makes her laugh harder. “You won’t. I promise. Besides, we’re both beginners. I’ve never done this, either.”
“So…are we learning to waltz or foxtrot?” When Nia presses her lips together and shakes her head, I know immediately she’s withholding something. “What? Tell me.”
She sighs. “We’re going to rumba.”
I frown. “I know what a rhomboid is. I know what a rhombus is. I even know how to define a rumpus. But rumba doesn’t compute.”
“That’s why we’re here. To learn. And no, it’s not a muscle, a shape you used in geometry, or a commotion.”
“I’m going to suck at this. No telling Bas—or anyone. I’m swearing you to silence.”
“Don’t you want to know what the rumba is?”
“Only because I have to face it.”
Nia takes my hand and leads me toward the studio’s red door. “The dance of love.”
No holding back a groan as we make our way inside. Four other couples are waiting, all of various ages and backgrounds with two things in common: the women look excited…while the men are looking for the exit.
We pause a few feet inside the door. The guys are sizing one another up, probably wondering who will be the worst at this. The answer is surely me, and the fact I’m still willing to do this for Nia says something, probably that I’m either brave or stupid.
“Good evening, everyone,” says a man with brown hair, arms bulging out of his black tank. He’s got tight pants and a Russian accent. “I am Pasha. And tonight, Lacie is my partner. We will teach you basics of my favorite Latin dance, rumba. It is dance of love. Before we begin, we will demonstrate so you feel movement’s mood and pace. Watch.”
The willowy blonde at his side presses a remote, and Latin music fills the air. It’s slow and sultry and makes me think of humid breezes, warm evenings, and sex. Okay, this isn’t bad…so far.
Then the pair starts moving, hips swinging in synch, as they move closer, circling one another. The footwork is intricate. Her arms create fluid lines and flourishes all around her body as she sways and shifts, seeming to lure him in. He stands tall, shoulders squared, seducing her with the flow of his movements and his eyes. He shifts his weight, undulating, posturing, and preening.
“Men’s hips don’t move like that.” I whisper against Nia’s ear.
She represses a laugh and gestures to Pasha. “Obviously, they do. Now, hush and pay attention.”
By the end of their demonstration, I’m convinced I will never learn to do this dance half so well, especially in the three hours we’ll be here. What I do think, however, is I’ll get to watch Nia’s lush, lithe body move in the sexiest ways. That, I can appreciate.
We spend some time learning basic movements—a box step, a slow-quick-quick-slow rhythm to our footwork, and something called a crossover. And let’s be honest, I suck every bit as much as I thought. I’m a shit show with two left feet. But Nia is incredible. Watching her sway and flow while I rub up against her in the name of dance is a damn good time.
At the end of the three hours, we put everything we’ve learned together into a forty-second demonstration, and I’m more mesmerized by the way she lures me closer with a come-hither sweep of her fingers and her supple, seductive moves than counting my own steps.
God, everything about her draws me in. I don’t know how or why I’ve overlooked her for months now. I only know I’m determined to have her tonight.
And for the rest of our lives.
At the end of the class, we’re given a pat on the back and encouraged to come back for a six-week course of lessons beginning in January. I smile blandly. And I’m the first guy to pull his girl out the door and into the car.
When I toss the pizza box into the back and slide into the driver’s seat beside her, she’s frowning. “Evan, you practically ran a ten-yard dash out of that place. What’s wrong—”
