by Julia Kent
“Just because it’s a commercial does not mean it isn’t good.”
I laugh in spite of myself. Will steps closer to me.
“C’mon, Mal. Stay.” His eyes watch me, face filled with expectation and, dare I think it–hope?
“You really want to be in a class with a woman who threw a football trophy at your head today?” I ask him.
Philippe jolts. “You two are married?”
“What? No,” Will says, frowning. “Why would you think that?”
“Only someone with years of great passion for another would fight like that!”
“It wasn’t–”
“That’s not–”
Will looks at me with a seriousness behind his mirth-filled eyes.
Two claps drown out our protests as Philippe turns to everyone else and says, “It is settled. Now we will start!”
“He doesn’t take no for an answer, does he?” I murmur to Will, who keeps looking at me.
“If my sister weren’t already marrying someone, I’d set them up. They'd make the perfect couple.” Finally breaking the gaze, he blinks, giving Philippe his full attention.
Setting my purse down on a chair, in a line with all the other purses, I take a few deep breaths, facing away from the class. Am I crazy? There is no date. David was a sleazy salesman at best, a con man at worst. I have nothing else to do tonight, and I did bash Will’s head in earlier.
Might as well stay and make the best of it.
“YOU! Uh, Mallory!” Philippe calls out. “It is time to DANCE! Find a partner and hold each other’s hands, facing one another.”
Five women start walking toward Will.
“Mal?” Shyness infuses his question, sending chills up and down my arms and legs. They settle at the base of my neck, riding shotgun next to the arousal centers of my nervous system. He’s adorable, one hand out to me, eyebrows slightly up, blue-green eyes asking to dance with me but hinting at more.
Or... am I inventing that part?
“Sure,” I say, instantly regretting my answer. Does it sound grudging? He doesn’t seem to think so as I take his hand and stand before him, tall in my high heels but he’s even taller. Looking at him from this height makes him even more human, more masculine, more real.
My heart skips a beat.
But the music sure doesn't.
“Now, the ‘man,’” Philippe starts, using finger quotes because there are several female-only couples in the class, “puts one hand on the woman’s waist. The right hand.”
Will complies.
It’s like sticking my finger in a light socket and orgasming at the same time.
His left hand takes my right hand and he holds it, strong and firm, smiling at me with a boyish grin that makes me feel instant remorse for hurting him today.
“I’m sorry I bashed your head in,” I whisper, moving near his ear, our mouths inches apart.
“You don’t have to keep apologizing.” His breath warms my cheek.
There is a gap between us. My lungs live there, in that space. They breathe. I don’t make a move. My autonomic nervous system works without intention. If it didn’t, I’d die.
Because I would hold my breath forever in Will’s arms.
Philippe is moving from couple to couple, adjusting positions, commenting and correcting.
“Closer,” Philippe says right behind me, the press of his firm palm against my lower back a shock as he pushes me into Will, closing that gap.
My autonomic nervous system gives up entirely.
“Look into each other’s eyes,” Philippe commands, his accent making this even sexier. “When you dance, you show your love with your hips, your eyes, your languid grace. You are making love in public with your bodies, fully clothed.”
Is Will holding his breath, too?
“Your hand goes here, Mallory,” the teacher says, taking my left hand and putting it on Will’s shoulder. My breasts brush against his chest, our breathing ragged. I try to look away, but we’re too close. All I can do is look at his eyes or his mouth, and right now, both are so, so tempting.
No one else in the room exists. The light that bounces off the polished floors is ours. The murmurs and giggles in the background are ours. The way he breathes my air and I inhale him is ours, too. We’re touching, my thigh against his, and every warm part of Will Lotham’s front half that is decent to display in public is rubbing against me.
Except his lips.
“Now, take one step forward,” Philippe says. “Together.”
Will steps on my foot. Hard.
I make a very unfeminine sound and start to pitch backwards. Tightening his grip on my waist, his hand sliding, open and splayed across the small of my back, he saves me from a complete wipeout.
But that save has its costs.
In an instant, all traces of that teenage girl in me are gone, disintegrating, turned to stardust that sweeps off me like a fine spring breeze. I am all woman now, mature and wanting.
All I want is this. Now. The man before me, his arms warm and assured, grasp confident and bold.
And very much wanting me back.
His desire is evident, in physical form as my thighs meet his, our eyes locked, the fringe of his dark lashes around those intense eyes making me ache to spend hours cataloguing him. Each detail on his face becomes part of an extraordinary whole, emotion inserting itself into each pore, every curl of muscle, the sleek press of skin on bone as he watches me back.
Breathless.
I’m breathing, my body pulling oxygen in as the rest of me orbits us, gravity turning into lust, pulling us closer.
We can’t break free.
We don’t want to.
“Mallory,” he says, his voice low and serious, the kind of vibration a grown, sophisticated man uses when he’s talking to his equal. Desire pulls me closer, our faces inches apart, the edges of Will disappearing.
Clap clap!
We both jolt, Philippe grinning as he looks around the class. “Change partners! Time to learn from variety!”
As if scalded, I leap out of Will’s arms, his hands holding me for a few seconds longer than propriety would dictate, as if he doesn’t want to let me go.
But he does.
The strong hand that was on the small of my back slides through his thick, dark hair, fingers spread like he’s about to grasp a football. Dipping his chin, he looks up at me and smiles. With his free hand, he gestures, as if to say, by all means.
Meanwhile, my heart is screaming, by all means necessary.
“Oh ho ho! My lucky day!” says an old gentleman who looks like an exact replica of a garden gnome, minus the red hat and suspenders. I look down a good half foot into a radiant face framed with wrinkles, a white beard, and so much good cheer I have to smile back.
Unable to form words quite yet, I just let the man take me in his arms, his feet so graceful that I finally choke out, "You’re a wonderful dancer!” I feel like room-temperature butter in his hands, molded with a fine touch, not too much or I’ll melt, not too little or I’ll go cold and hard.
“Thank you. Dancy’s the name. And you?”
“Mallory.”
“You single, Mallory?” he asks as he passes Will, who makes a sound of amusement. He obviously heard.
“Yes, I am, Dancy,” I say loud enough for Will to hear.
“Too bad you’re not ten years younger,” Dancy says with mock sadness. “You’re a bit ripe for me.” Wink.
“Missed opportunity.” I chuckle as he moves me across the room like a short, bald Gene Kelly impersonating Santa Claus.
“What’s wrong with him?” Dancy thumbs toward Will. “He taken?”
“No.”
“Gay?”
My heart jumps in my throat. “Not that I know of.”
“Then he’s just stupid, eh? Not dating you, I mean.”
I know what he means, all right.
“Are you Canadian, Dancy?”
“Matter of fact I am. Did the ‘eh’
give it away?”
“No. Your common sense did.”
His turn to laugh. “Hmm, how old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Ah. Much too old for me.”
Philippe calls out instructions from the other side of the dance floor but Dancy ignores him. “Wait a minute,” I ask as the world blurs along, like I’m a spinning top in the arms of a toymaster. “Dancy isn’t your real name, is it? Dance lessons, Dancy.”
“It actually is. My parents were cruel people who gave a newborn a name that would get my arse beaten many times in school.”
“British, is it?”
“How’d you guess? Do I look like the queen?”
Clap clap! Philippe moves toward us like he has wheels for toes. “Dancy? Again? If you’re going to pick up women, please go for the ones David the Asshole lied to.”
“That’s me,” I sigh, remembering.
Dancy drops his hand from my waist and makes a deep, solemn bow.
“And while you’re great for business, you never, ever do any of my dance moves,” Philippe chides.
“Because your choreography is a crime.”
Philippe sniffs and looks the old man up and down. This is clearly an old conversation on an infinite jest loop. “Your suit is a crime.”
“You know what’s really a crime?” Dancy says as Will wanders over, closely followed by two chattering old women. I hear the words granddaughter and crossfit and good cook.
“What?” Philippe asks, playing along.
He points at Will and narrows his eyes. “That he,” Dancy says with a flourish, finger now pointing skyward as if getting God Almighty’s attention, “hasn’t asked the beautiful Mallory out on a date.”
I die.
I die right there.
13
My legs work unbelievably well for someone who is dead.
I flee. This day is too much.
Even I have a limit.
My purse is conveniently on a chair by the door, and in a gazelle-like feat of grace, I loop my arm through the handle and crash through the doors to the outside, hearing Dancy shout, “Was it something I said?” in the distance.
The parking lot is a blur. My electronic key won’t work. I stare at it, dumb, with a head full of buzzing bees all trying to find their way out through my corneas, until I realize I’ve unlocked the trunk twenty times. I walk to the back, slam it shut, and successfully press the right button to open the driver's door.
“Mallory.” Will’s at my side as the lock clicks open, his hand on my shoulder, his scent unmistakable.
“Yes?” I can’t look up. Looking into his eyes means he’ll see my need. It’s like the parking lot at the high school ten years ago. I can’t relieve that.
Especially not now.
“Don’t go home. Not yet. Come with me.”
“To the office? For that meeting? You want me to work now?”
“No, not there.”
“I already ate dinner before the dance lesson, Will, and I’m feeling really embarrassed, truth be told. Being stood up on a date is bad enough. Being used as a conversion target to meet someone’s sales metrics feels even dirtier.” I’m about to add all the Dancy stuff when he interrupts me.
“You don’t deserve to feel dirty.” His voice drops. “Unless you want to.”
My eyebrows shoot up and I can’t stop myself from turning around and looking up at him. “What do you want, Will?” I ask, the words inadequate but better than waffling on the inside, over-interpreting and analyzing every word out of his mouth.
His warm, sensual, alluring mouth.
“Something sweet.” Grasping my hand, he pulls me back to the sidewalk. In order to get my attention, that simple tug would be enough. From a utilitarian standpoint, he should let go of my hand now.
Now.
Definitely now.
He doesn't let go.
We’re walking hand in hand down the sidewalk, in public, downtown, on our way to–
“Where are we going?” I ask, my hand starting to sweat, every bit of skin on fire.
He makes a left turn toward a little nook of shops, squeezing once.
“You’ll see.”
Lovers entwine their fingers. We’re palm in palm, which means nothing, right? Like kids, like siblings. He’s just holding my hand so he can guide me down the remarkably well-lit streets of this neighboring town, streets and sidewalks I know like the back of my hand.
A hand that Will Lotham has commandeered.
Stop it, Mal! I shout in my head, willing my inner fourteen-year-old to shut up. If I could give her a box of Oreos, that would do the trick.
We stop in front of a small hipster restaurant known for avocados and saffron and maple, sometimes in the same dish. It’s the kind of place filled with exposed brick walls, painted ductwork, and an open kitchen where you can sit at a counter and watch your food being made.
Will leads me in.
Within a minute, we’re seated at a table and I look at him, deeply confused.
“What are we doing here?”
A very chipper waitress comes over, hands us menus, and begins listing what sounds like every food banned by paleo diets around the world. I’m pretty sure half the internet diet forums view this place as Ground Zero in the PUFA Wars.
“And we have espresso-based drinks with any liquor you want. Can I get you a macchiato?” she asks me. “Decaf?”
“A triple. I’ll take a triple regular macchiato made with heavy cream.”
Her satisfied grin says she upsold me nicely. “And the regular for you?” she asks Will, who just nods.
“Bring us a sampler,” he adds as she leaves. She flashes him a saucy grin that is either flirting or teasing him for being here on a date.
Which this isn’t.
Which means she’s flirting.
Which suddenly pisses me off.
“Sampler?” I ask.
“It’s a small plate of every dessert on the menu.”
Could he be any more perfect? What man orders that?
“Why dessert?” I snap at him, torn between being pissed and falling deeper in love.
“You told me you never make it to dessert on your dates. I wanted to change your luck.”
Silence fills the space between us, heavy like air before a rainstorm, what happened back at Bailargo hovering like dark clouds.
“Here you go!” The server–whose name tag I refuse to read because in my mind that makes her important and gives her energy to flirt more with Will and I’m not handing out my energy like that, thank you very much–sets my triple macchiato next to me, and a caramel-colored soda with two slices of lime on the rim in front of Will. She returns quickly with a small platter of pastries and chocolate that looks so delicious. I need to find the chef and offer up an ovary or something.
She leaves.
I moan.
Chocolate ganache in little cups made of solid dark chocolate with burnt marshmallows on top, tiny sailboats made of graham cracker poking out of the center. Tiramisu bites. Miniature pistachio cannoli. Rock candy in jewel tones stacked across burnt-sugar canoes filled with some kind of extraordinary candy-cane-speckled ice cream.
“You act like you’ve never seen dessert before,” he says, laughing.
“I haven’t. Remember?” I swallow the words Not on a date, at least, before they escape.
I choose this moment to sip half my macchiato. Why I’m drinking three shots of coffee at nine p.m. is beyond me. Must be channeling Perky.
He picks up his Coke and squeezes the lime, then drinks a few swallows, closing his eyes. I sneak a long peek at him.
Dancy’s words ring in my ears.
The press of Will’s hand around mine burns my skin.
I put out the fire with the coldest thing in reach: peppermint ice cream.
He smiles and reaches for a chocolate ganache cup.
“This is amazing,” I say through a mouthful of yum. “How have I not discovered this pl
ace before?” I evaluate the platter, picking up an individual dessert with my fork.
“New management. And it’s for an older crowd. Lots of grey hairs here.”
I look around. He’s right. This is exactly the kind of place my parents would adore, though if you call my mom a grey hair, she’ll beat you to death with her box of Madison Reed Amaretto Red.
“It’s a great place to bring a date,” he adds.
There it is.
I pause, fork with salted-caramel macadamia nut cheesecake bite in midair, and make eye contact. “Is that what this is? A date?”
Before Will can answer, someone behind him cries out, “Mallory! What a coincidence!”
It’s my mother.
Small towns. What can I say?
“Are you two here on a date?” Mom adds, pushing the envelope, hope spilling across her face like nighttime moisturizer. I can smell the jojoba and lavender from here.
Dad takes a seat as if we invited him, reaching to shake Will’s hand with two manly pumps and a grip competition. Roy Monahan is proving he can open more pickle jars than any other guy on the planet.
Mom stands there for a few awkward seconds until Will’s manners kick in and he jumps to his feet, pulling out the chair next to him.
I died once tonight already, back at Bailargo.
Too bad it didn’t take.
Will and my dad raise their hands at the exact same time, exact same head twist, exact same movement to get the server’s attention. It simultaneously thrills me and makes me a little sick to my stomach. Dad laughs and claps Will on the shoulder as he says to the woman, “A bottle of Rosso di Montalcino.” She nods and this time skitters away without flirting.
Funny how that works.
Mom resumes her topic. “So, you two kids are having a–”
“Business meeting,” I say firmly as the server returns with wine glasses and a green bottle, the label a blur in the dim light.
Will’s mouth twitches with amusement. Dad pours the wine, waving the server off. Mom shakes her head no. Three glasses appear before Dad, Will, and me. I drink it.
I'd suck it out of the bottle directly if I thought I could get away with that.
“Coffee and wine at the same time?” Mom asks, eyebrows up.
“Life is a merry-go-round of moods, Mom.”
