I trudged toward my townhome and opened my bag by the light of the front door to dig for my keys.
“Hey.”
My heart took off. I couldn’t contain my yelp, but at least I didn’t drop my bag.
“Eva. You scared me.”
The other woman emerged from the shadows next door. I didn’t think it was possible for her to look worse than before, but dark circles around her eyes gave her a raccoon-ish appearance. I held back the “you look terrible” and substituted it for something less likely to have her hissing and backing away from me.
“Sorry. Just grabbing a minute of quiet,” she said.
“How are you?”
She smiled ruefully. “Ready to admit that Maddy is at least half-monster.”
“I’ve heard it gets better,” I said.
She shrugged and hugged her robe to her shoulders. “When is that, exactly?”
“Ah, about eighteen years, I think?”
“Joy. Anyone ever tell you you’re a ray of sunshine?”
I scratched my head. “More like they tell me I’m top-shelf strange.”
She laughed and wished me a good night as I pushed open the door to my place. I toed off my shoes and crashed on the couch. That could have gone better. I stared at the ceiling. It also could have gone worse. She hadn’t denied I was strange. Then again, Eva lurking in the dark like a vampire didn’t scream normal. Perhaps she was a better fit for my brand of odd than I realized.
I looked around my living room, trying to imagine inviting Eva in for a drink. It was nothing spectacular, mostly Ikea furniture and a few houseplants I tried not to kill too quickly. Maybe that would be my next self-improvement venture, redecorating my apartment. Considering I’d lived there for almost eight years, it should have more personality, but there was nothing on the walls. As a metaphor for my life, it wasn’t half-bad. As for décor, it meant I wasn’t inviting Eva inside anytime soon. Then again, maybe asking her for decorating advice could be my next goal. A source of common ground and a solid reason to spend more time together outside of neighborly ‘hellos.’
I picked up my phone from the coffee table. I’d missed a text after work from Gina.
Gina: Stay classy, sassy, and a bit badassy.
Someone needed to revoke her Pinterest privileges. But not me. Her daily quotes may not be changing my life, but they made me smile.
Virginia Rothman had posted another amazing-looking recipe. This week’s offering was steak sandwiches with horseradish mayo, blue cheese, and caramelized onions in hoagie rolls.
My stomach growled. My salad from lunch was a sad memory by comparison. I clicked to the recipe and noted the ingredients I didn’t have, then set up a grocery delivery for the following day. The loner in me rejoiced. Cooking virtually alongside Virginia felt like a level of friendship I could manage. I didn’t even have to leave the house to have everything ready for tomorrow’s culinary adventure. Cooking was badassy, right? I didn’t need to see Gina’s eyeroll to know she’d disagree.
FRIDAY’S MEAL PUT THE capital F in Failure. Virginia’s posts looked effortless and delicious, and I ... I was not that skilled. “Ya basic,” I muttered to myself as I viewed the results of the last hour in the kitchen.
My onions were less caramelized and more burnt. I tried to reason that the char would add to the flavor, but my optimistic side wasn’t quite buying it. The steak was overcooked and tough. And lastly, the horseradish. Oh, the horseradish. Clear sinuses were my proud reward for the potency of my horseradish cream. Not all horseradish was created equal, or at least that’s what my dripping sinuses screamed.
After a quick photo of my dinner fail, I womanfully took another bite. I was stronger than the horseradish. I was. It wouldn’t defeat me. If tears were streaming down my cheeks by the end of my dinner, there was no one there to witness my eyes and nose dripping.
I took a quick selfie and examined the evidence. Yes, I was riding the hot mess express. I looked like I’d been drug backward through the kitchen. My curly dark hair was sticking up in odd places and frizzy from the humidity. I had a smudge of grease on my cheek. Any makeup had melted off long ago.
Without giving myself too much time to rethink, I navigated to Virginia Rothman’s last recipe post and replied with my selfie. Every post eased my insecurities more, though they still lingered in the background.
@VirginiaRothman you always make this look easy. I cry foul!
I set down my phone and worked on cleaning up my kitchen mess before relaxing with a new Nalini Singh book for the rest of the evening. The distraction kept my nerves about any replies to my post and my first dance class Saturday under control. My next achievement to unlock. The reminder email laid out basic studio etiquette and expectations. Class attendees were encouraged to avoid lotions or other things that might make our hands or body slippery. No problem. We were also discouraged from arriving late because, gulp, they locked the door.
I could only hope they locked the door to keep distractions out and not keep the participants in. I had a basic level of fitness from being on my feet so much at work and needing to lift and maneuver patients, but would it be enough to keep up?
My single attempt at a ballet class when I was eight didn’t seem adequate preparation to avoid humiliation now. Much to my mother’s chagrin, I’d quit after the first disastrous class. My love of bean burritos and pliés didn’t mix. I was too embarrassed to go back after adding my own percussion to the classical music.
Maybe I could hide in the back behind other students. Being overlooked was my superpower. I had a lifetime of practice at that.
That night I tossed and turned and eventually fell into a restless sleep. I should have realized I was dreaming, but for some reason spinning around a playground pole instead of one inside a dance studio seemed totally reasonable to dream-me. My breasts overflowed from my best lingerie—not the yoga clothing recommended by the class instructor. I kept tugging at the silky fabric, trying to get it to cover more and hide the flush of mortification washing over me. Kids pointed and stared as their mothers swooped in to cover their eyes. Eva shook her head in dismay from a bench, but her daughter seemed fascinated, blowing bubbles as she watched me.
I shuddered as I woke up. Only a dream. One that didn’t bode well for my plan to hide at the back of class. With luck, there would be no school children to horrify.
Chapter 5 - Chase
I rubbed my eyes as I stumbled into the kitchen to start coffee. It was full light outside, and I realized why as I glanced at the clock. Nearly noon. Look at me, living the glamorous writer’s life. Up until nearly four writing. That was my hot Friday night. The good news was that I’d finished my latest draft of a charity auction romance. I needed to let it soak for a few days before editing further, and in the meantime, I was ready to start my next project.
I stared at the stainless coffee pot, watching the steady drip of sustenance. Cup full of inky goodness, I flipped through my kitchen cabinets for something edible. I needed to get my shit together. I was competent enough to get groceries each week for my culinary adventures but couldn’t manage to have cereal on hand for everyday consumption. If only I were more organized, I’d cook every night. The task was a soothing change of pace when I could manage to pull my head out of work.
I sipped at my liquid breakfast as I scrolled through my social media feeds. The HEA conversation had once again been dredged up on my timeline, and I shook my head. Genre rules, folks. Happily-ever-after/for-now or it’s not a romance. I could never understand why so-called literary professionals criticized romance focusing on predictable endings. What was wrong with being happy? I didn’t get the desire to kill off main characters or abandon them in a bad place. The promise and premise of romance was love and readers deserved the serotonin hit. Romance readers flocked to the genre looking for that hope. Hope that someone could love us, flaws and all.
I laughed when I saw @TamraRN’s selfie in reply to my latest cooking post. She was cute. I could
totally picture her having a calming bedside manner. Her curly hair was a riot around her head, falling gently to her shoulders, and it gave her an angelic air. She had gentle brown eyes and a full and pouty lower lip. It was a sexy lip. Soft. Pink. I could base a book on that lip alone. My regular readers would have heart failure if I delved that far into erotic romance, but it stirred all kinds of images. However, the dried tear tracks visible through her light makeup aroused different emotions. Suddenly, I didn’t feel alone in my ineptness at this whole adult thing. Why had cooking made her cry? Curiosity wouldn’t let go of me. I avoided comments as a rule, but my impulse to know more couldn’t be ignored. I went out of my way to make my readers happy. Seeing her in tears stirred my protective instincts.
@TamraRN What happened? Cooking shouldn’t lead to tears.
I didn’t have long to wait for my reply.
@VirginiaRothman Some horseradish is SO SPICY.
@TamraRN I don’t suppose you know a medical professional for that?
@VirginiaRothman that WAS my professional opinion.
Jackpot. I switched to direct messaging.
VirginiaRothman: So, are you a nurse then? Is that what the RN stands for?
TamraRN: Yes. Labor and delivery.
I couldn’t believe my luck. Any nursing experience would have been useful, but her field was spot on for the help I needed plotting my next book.
VirginiaRothman: Any chance you’d be up for helping me with some book research? My next book features a nurse, and I want to get the details right.
TamraRN: Let me think about that ... YES!
VirginiaRothman: LOL. Sounds good. Let me put together my questions and an outline for my next project, then I’d love to reach out.
I bit my lip. It didn’t sound dirty. She didn’t know my real identity or how true those words were. Yes, I’d love to reach out ... because, those lips—but I wouldn’t.
TamraRN: Would love to help.
VirginiaRothman: You say that now, but I can be a terror.
TamraRN: Nurses can stay calm under the wildest conditions.
I smiled at her response. I needed that kind of calm in my life. Maybe she wouldn’t flinch when I inevitably stuck my foot in it.
VirginiaRothman: I’m going to hold you to that.
I closed the app with a happy sigh and another sip of coffee. That hadn’t been so hard. Conceivably I could pull this off. My only dilemma was whether I’d send Tamra my questions in writing or try for something more synchronous and personal. I liked her sense of humor. It didn’t hurt that she was sexy. Though, in terms of meeting via video chat or talking on the phone, it might. My track record with attractive women was poor. Possibly ranking as dismal. And there was the whole pseudonym issue. No way I had enough charm to convince her to keep my secrets.
My stomach sank. Few people were in my circle of trust. The thought of adding anyone new filled my gut with plumes of sawdust as buzzsaws took aim at my self-confidence, carving it to kindling. Being myself with Tamra could be dangerous to my poise, not just problematic for my career. For a man with all the words, sharing them in real-time usually left me wishing for an edit button.
Chapter 6 - Tamra
I grinned non-stop after my latest exchange with Virginia. If I played my cards right, would she name a character after me? Helping to create something I loved was a dream come true. Following the confidence of that contact high, I was ready to take on the world of dance. Revel in my body and build confidence that I could be as sultry as the women I admired in Virginia’s books. To be safe, I hadn’t had any flatulence producing foods in days. No one needed a repeat of the sugar plum farter.
I dressed carefully for my intro to pole dancing class, smiling as I thought of Gina’s quote for the day. “Be a stiletto in a room full of flats.” Hah. I loved Gina, but I was not stiletto material. Yet.
The studio welcome email had suggested comfortable yoga gear and bare feet. I was grateful it wasn’t a bra and stilettos, like YouTube videos had led me to believe. My nursing footwear ran toward comfortable shoes with good traction. Open-toed shoes in labor and delivery rooms with the ever-present possibility of leaking body fluids were not a winning combination.
I left for the studio with plenty of time to spare. Knowing they would lock out any latecomers, had made me paranoid that I’d miss my class. I pulled up to the strip mall where the studio was located. It was subtly signed, with instructions to go to the entrance in the back of the building. The studio shared space with a dog grooming business and a vacuum supply store. Luckily, neither were hopping on a Saturday evening.
I parked and walked around back to try the door. Locked. They weren’t kidding. My Fitbit confirmed I was early, so I settled in to wait for the current class to end and tried to look inconspicuous instead of like a creeper lurking in yoga pants.
To activate my blending superpower, I had to dress the part. The Athena Pole and Dance website was a little vague, but gave off strong self-love vibes, which I figured was positive. Affirming quotes like “don’t judge your beginning by someone else’s middle” were prominently displayed on different pages of their website. They emphasized the “personal pole journey” that was unique “for every body.” I hoped the motto was true. I was picturing a class full of bikini baristas with a level of confidence I couldn’t come close to. The practical nurse in me believed any profession that involved mixing steaming hot liquids and bare skin was a bad combo, but apparently it sold coffee. I theoretically could understand the appeal even though I had yet to find the hot, shirtless male version of that business model, which was a damn shame.
Fifteen minutes before class was scheduled to start, the door unlocked, and a few sweaty women trickled out. I surreptitiously checked my outfit against theirs and was relieved that most had also followed the yoga gear advice. A few were wearing short-shorts, and I admired their moxie. I needed a few thousand squats and some extra courage to rock that look. “Bait in the bucket,” I murmured to myself.
I got a sideways glance from an Amazon in black Lycra and shuffled my feet as my face suffused with color. I forced a smile. “Going fishing tomorrow,” I muttered.
As the outgoing traffic tapered off, I wandered inside. The vestibule had a tufted bench and cubbies for our stuff. I stowed my purse and shoes, then wandered into the main studio. The light was low thanks to large curtains covering the storefront windows, and five poles were strategically attached to the ceiling and floor around the room. Yoga mats had been laid out in a rough circle, and the instructor welcomed me and invited me to claim a spot. Her tank top and yoga pants stretched to encompass an athletic figure with the full hips and curves of middle age. Her long blond hair was streaked with pink and her friendly smile made me feel less intimidated. I settled in and waited for my classmates to arrive, trying not to feel too awkward in the growing silence. Nerves kept me from relaxing, but I could at least pretend to stretch.
The instructor messed with a couple of lamps and queued up a slow playlist as others dancers arrived. I was relieved to see that it was a mixed group of women with a range of body types.
“Hello, Athenas. I’m Meghan, and I’ll be your instructor for this series. Here at Athena Pole and Dance, we want you to find time for yourself and learn to sink into the movement. This class isn’t about anyone else, it’s about you. Everyone learns at their own pace. I started classes as a gift to myself. After three kids, I didn’t feel like my body was mine anymore. Dancing has helped me reconnect and have something that’s just for me.” She looked around the room, smiling softly. “Okay, it’s your turn. Why did you choose this class?”
I listened intently to the women around our circle. They were in class for a variety of reasons: to workout, to reconnect with their bodies, and because they loved to dance.
When it was my turn, I tried to speak confidently. “Hi, my name is Tamra. I’m here as a thirtieth birthday present to myself.”
Others wished me happy birthday, and the last few introduc
ed themselves before Meghan moved into the warm-up.
“Softly close your eyes and let your body sink into the music,” Meghan said.
I tried to honor the eyes-closed advice but had to peek more than a few times to see what Meghan was doing. Especially when we got to the hip circles on the mat, I wanted to check out what we were supposed to look like. Meghan was on her back, knees bent, and elevated to a bridge before she thrust her hips in a torturously slow circle, letting her knees fall slightly open. Her motions fluid yet strong. Me? Not so much. Any dreams of being a secret siren died a swift death, but I kept trying, slowing my movements to match my breath.
After a few more minutes warming up on our mats, it was time to move to the poles. I wiped my damp hands down my thighs, visions of sweat causing me to slip to the ground instead of sliding smoothly echoing in my head. Meghan demonstrated a deceptively easy looking step-spin. Then she had us try it. There was a spate of giggling around the room as we found our groove, but I felt proud of my first attempt. With my inside arm high on the pole and my left wrapped across the front of my body gripping the pole, I stepped with my inside foot and swung my outside leg out and forward, toe pointed, as I spun around and met back with my first foot. I felt like a kid on a playground, so maybe my dream had been more in touch with reality than I thought. It was both fun and flirty.
Next, we moved on to the fireman spin. I watched Meghan grip a leg around the pole, tip her head to the side, then wind down, crossing her legs at the ankles, until she was crouched at the base of the pole and slithered up to standing. Again, wow. That was more complicated than what we’d just learned, but she broke it down for us.
Meghan moved around the room providing advice, and she stopped to watch me as I tried. My hands were sweaty against the pole, and I slid down much faster than expected, ending in an awkward tangle of feet. I held back my groan. Of course, my teacher had to see that attempt.
Mister Romance Page 3
