Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
“But it sounds like you want to date her?” Rachel asks.
I sigh, thinking on that topic once again but then reminding myself it doesn’t matter. “I want to settle into my new life in this town where my plans don’t get ripped to pieces by a romance that’s a lie.”
Juliet smiles sympathetically. Rachel nods and says, “I hear you.”
“And right now, I need to get to a dance lesson with Chloe.”
“You’re dancing with her?” Juliet squeals. Yes, squeals.
“Yes,” I bite out.
“You’re going to be dating her before you know it,” she says.
“Goodbye, Juliet. Goodbye, Rachel.”
I hang up and head to the dance studio. It’s not a date. It’s a dance lesson.
* * *
I can run. I can bike. I can swim. I can sing. How hard can it be to dance? And the answer is…
“Ouch!”
Chloe’s hopping on one foot on the hardwood floor of the dance studio. And it’s all my fault. Still, I say, “Your fault, sweetheart.”
“I know,” she hisses.
“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”
“Yes, Sawyer, kiss my foot,” she whispers, but then she takes a deep breath, pins on a smile, and says, “doesn’t even hurt.”
“Liar,” I say, maybe because it’s easier than saying I suck at dancing. Only, I hardly need to say it. It’s obvious here at our first dance lesson. Mirrors don’t lie—the reflecting glass across the entire wall is mocking me. We’re thirty minutes into the beginner steps for the waltz, and already I’ve stepped on her toes three times.
But the teacher—Chloe’s dad—has assured me that’s normal.
In tight pants and dapper lace-up shoes, he sweeps by again as I hold my arms out at a precise angle in the so-called starting position, the one I’ll assume during the instrumental bridge of “Fly Me to the Moon.”
“You’re doing great,” he assures us as other couples move around the dance floor, some with more grace, some with less.
I scoff. “You must be mistaking me for someone else.”
“No, you are, Sawyer,” he says again. He’s emphatic and passionate, and he clearly believes anyone can dance—that’s the name of the studio he owns and runs. Those words are etched on to the front door in a scripty font, with a silhouette of someone twirling. Man, woman, who knows. Either way, it’s an invitation to all.
“You are doing great,” Chloe adds, sass-free this time, a rarity for her.
I appreciate the compliments, but they’re not necessary. “You don’t need to butter me up.”
“No butter here,” she says. “I mean it. Dancing is hard, and stepping on your partner’s toes is a rite of passage.”
Her dad goes thoughtful, tapping his clean-shaven chin. “Your movements are perhaps a tiny bit rigid. Instead of thinking of it as a waltz, or a swing, think about it like…partner dancing. Dancing with the person you want.”
Well, then.
I sneak a glance at Chloe, admiring the way her black top shows off her arms and offers a peek at the tops of her breasts, feeling only minimally guilty I’m checking her out in front of her dad.
“Can you do that?” he asks me.
My lips twitch as I smother a dirty grin. “I’ll give it a shot,” I say.
“Good. Posture is key. You should be relaxed yet engaged,” her dad says, then forward, backward, and side steps. I watch as he solo dances with an imaginary partner to a sophisticated jazzy standard.
This time, I don’t try to memorize the moves. I try to feel the dance.
“Face each other with both arms connected, a little body contact,” he instructs.
Body contact—the thing I’ve been trying desperately to avoid for the last few weeks. Body contact—the thing I want most in the world with her.
I do as instructed, placing my right hand on her left shoulder blade. There. Right there. Where she loves to be touched. A tiny tremble runs through her, and it lights me up. She drapes her left hand on my right shoulder, and that move sends a wave of heat coursing through me.
“With your left hand, hold her right,” her dad says.
I comply.
Her breath catches, and I want to kiss that sigh away. Swallow it down. Crush my lips to hers once more. Pull her close.
Dangerous thoughts. But then again, those things aren’t the same as dating. Not at all. That’s just science. A simple chemical reaction.
“You’ve got this,” her father says, and as the music builds and he drifts off to help others, I focus less on the footwork and more on the feeling. On moving in opposite directions while holding this position. On keeping my hand on her shoulder blade. On guiding her through the dance steps I hardly know, but feeling them anyway.
“Good job,” she says, her voice soft and private, just for me.
“Yeah?”
“I mean it.”
“We’ll see.”
“I do mean it, Sawyer. I have a good partner.” Gone is the usual teasing from her tone. She’s surprisingly…encouraging, and maybe that’s what I needed. What I hardly ever let myself need.