by Lia London
Opposite him, Amaya clasped her hands and sighed. “You know, I’ve never tasted any fine South American cuisine. Why don’t you bring us whatever the most popular dishes are?”
“For the appetizer?” clarified the waiter.
Opening her hands wide, she said, “For everything. Whatever is the most requested appetizer, or entrée, or whatever. Give us your best. That way you don’t have to keep coming back.” Her eyes flitted to Frank’s.
He bit his tongue to keep from grinning like a giddy middleschool boy. Was she trying to minimize their interruptions? Clever woman!
The waiter glanced at Frank, as if for confirmation.
“Whatever the lady says,” confirmed Frank. “If you wish, bring us the top two of each. One for her and one for me. The two of us can share, tasting both. That will give us an even wider array of flavors.”
The waiter rubbed his hands together. “Very good, sir. Any allergies I should worry about?”
Frank quickly contemplated the messier foods. “Perhaps nothing requiring us to break open shells?”
“Of course, sir. And to drink?”
“Virgin strawberry daquiri for me, please,” said Amaya, raising two fingers. “It’ll keep me cool when we leave the dance floor.”
Frank nodded his approval. “An excellent choice.”
“So … no alcohol in either?” The waiter’s doubt cracked his voice.
Reaching a hand to Amaya, Frank shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll need it. Thank you.” Before the waiter could say more, Frank rose and lifted Amaya to her feet. “Ready to rumba?”
Amaya’s hips immediately began swaying with the rhythm, her free arm curving up, down, and out in curling waves, as if her fingers traced magical runes in the air. When they reached the center of the floor, she spun her body closer, facing his, and whispered, “Thanks so much for hiding my shoes during that whole thing.”
Frank’s stomach fell a few inches. She was hiding her shoes, not flirting. How could he have thought otherwise? “Of course.”
He kept waiting for her second hand to settle in his, but she continued with elegant flourishes, arcing in and away from him with each turn. Despite the lack of physical contact, heat rose all the way to his scalp.
“You going to dance, too?” she asked, her voice almost sultry.
Embarrassed to be caught mid-drool, Frank began leading her around the floor, holding her by the fingertips as she floated like ribbons in a soft breeze.
Very few dancers had yet taken to the floor, and he noticed from the corner of his eye that many stepped off to the sides to watch. Even the lead saxophone player smiled as he played, following Amaya’s movements as she passed. Frank thought he saw the pianist, who doubled as the band leader, signal for one more repeat.
When the music finally concluded, a generous smattering of applause startled Amaya out of her trance, and she became aware for the first time that all eyes were on her.
“Oh! I guess I got carried away!” She nuzzled her face against his chest. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said, leaning near enough that their cheeks brushed. “You were the star of the show. That was amazing.”
“And now everybody’s seen my shoes,” she said, pressing him towards their table. “Way to be five-star, huh?”
“Don’t you want to dance some more?” A cha cha started up, and he longed to return to a ballroom pose that would put her in his arms. “You seem to enjoy it so much.”
Amaya hesitated, casting a glance at their table. “Slow service here, too.” She winked. “All right. One more. Run, cheetah, run.”
He swept her into a ballroom stance. “No, no. I’m a boa constrictor, remember?”
Laughing, she freed her hands and wrapped them instead behind his neck, drawing him into the sassy cha cha steps.
His feet went on automatic pilot for a moment as his mouth dropped open with surprise. Letting out a playful hiss, he traced his hands down her back to rest at her waist. He resisted the urge to grip her too tightly, but the feel of her, even the scent of her, was driving him further and further from control. Stuffy old Frank Grumbleygut had stepped aside. This new man felt alive and more than a little reckless.
Her eyes sparkled with an inviting intensity, and he dared to deepen the sway of their steps. Emboldened by the music and Amaya’s penetrating gaze, he lifted and spun her.
As she slid against his body back to the floor, her lips parted in a tempting smile. “Why, Frank Judd. You can dance!”
Something was happening, and Amaya hoped it wasn’t an act. She didn’t want another failed cast romance, but she could feel sparks flying between them, and if the music didn’t stop soon, she feared she’d pull some crazy move and—
The trumpet notes soared up into infinite space, leaving them in breathless silence.
Amaya couldn’t tear her gaze from Frank’s. Everything in his eyes expressed the same desire she felt pounding in her chest. Could it be that he wanted her? She’d made such a fuss about their professional arrangement, but right now, her pulse set the beat for a very different tune.
She licked her lips. “I think the band is taking a break,” she whispered.
“Oh. Right.” He didn’t move.
They stood, inches apart, their hands hanging at their sides with their fingertips interlaced. The simplicity of the stance thrilled her as they breathed in unison, and she closed her eyes. His thumb gently caressed the side of her face, tucking invisible strands of hair behind her ears. The sensation ignited a fire within her, and she looked deep into his eyes.
His voice came husky and sweet. “Thank you for that dance, Miss Amaya.”
He stood so close. Did she dare tilt her head back to receive a kiss, or would she make a fool of herself? With a shy smile, she willed him not to move his hands from her cheeks.
Frank’s brow lifted so slightly she might not have noticed if the nature of his expression had not shifted with it. Uncertainty faded, and he dipped so their cheeks almost touched, and she could smell his minty breath. She let her lips part ever so slightly, reaching—
“Oh my gosh, is that Amaya Jefferson?”
Shaken from the moment by the shrill, female voice, Amaya turned to see a middle-aged woman in a blue leisure suit waving at her while her younger companion snapped a photo of Frank and Amaya with her phone.
“Mrs. Moore?” Her high school geometry teacher?
The woman squeaked and patted the teen on the back. “See? I told you I knew her—oh, don’t take a picture of her without her permission!” Beckoning Amaya closer, she gushed, “Can we take a picture with you, Amaya? My daughter saw you on Who Wants to Be a Soap Star and was blown away by your dance. I told her you were my student, but she wouldn’t believe me, but there you are, and here we are. This is so exciting!” Mrs. Moore used her high-speed ramble to pull Amaya into an embrace and then reposition them all for a selfie, which the daughter snapped.
“Siena, isn’t this amazing?” Mrs. Moore elbowed her daughter. “What a happy birthday surprise, huh?”
Amaya finally recovered her composure. “It’s your birthday?”
“I’m eighteen. Mom said I could go to any restaurant I wanted to, so I chose this place.” She grinned. “I had no idea this was a celebrity hang-out.”
Amaya rocked back, her body coming to rest against Frank.
Frank. Right behind her. The chemistry of their dance made her heart race again.
Swallowing, she turned to introduce him. “You get two celebrities for the price of one, I guess. Frank, this is Mrs. Moore, my math teacher from way back when. This is the renowned restaurant critic, Frank Grumbleygut. We’re here doing a review.” She tucked her arm through his, tickled by how he immediately puffed out his chest and adopted his gentlemanly persona.
Frank gave the tiniest bow. “It’s a delight to make your acquaintance. Amaya has spoken very highly of her time in school and mentioned you were particularly helpful to her.”
“Oh!”
Mrs. Moore clapped her hands to her cheeks with a joyous expression, and then patted her daughter’s back. “That’s so nice of you to say. Amaya was always a good girl.” Ushering Siena away, she waved good-bye. “So good to see you again. Your dance was lovely. Have a good night!”
Frank and Amaya collapsed into their seats at the tiny table, laughing.
“Okay, that was the biggest lie ever,” said Amaya. “I never once mentioned Mrs. Moore to you.”
Frank’s eyes twinkled, and his shy smile sent a breath-stopping shiver through her. “I thought it might brighten her evening—and her daughter’s. They were both so smitten with you.”
She leaned her elbows on the table. “Well, it was very nice of you, Frank Grumbleygut.”
His eyes flickered to her lips. “And thank you for making me look good, too.”
Amaya’s breath hitched. “I guess we’re all a little smitten.”
“We have to move to Brazil. This food is incredible!” Amaya’s exuberance charmed him, as did her lips as they closed over a forkful of picanha.
“We?”
“You know what I mean.” She giggled. “This is the best top sirloin I’ve ever tasted.”
“It’s the churrasco style cooking,” he said, nodding wisely.
“And what does that entail?” asked Amaya with exaggerated formality.
Frank switched his nod to a shake of the head in one, continuous motion. “I have no idea. I read that bit in the menu online when I set up the reservations.”
“Aren’t you a clever boy?” Amaya stretched back, and her legs interlocked with his under the table again. It took a great deal of effort not to register his pleased surprise at the contact.
“Are you going to save me any?” he teased. “We’re supposed to be sharing, so I can review more dishes.”
“Nuh-uh. You’ll have to take my word for it. It’s heavenly.” She pointed her fork at the bowl before him. “You eat your bean stew stuff.”
Ignoring his dish, he kept his eyes on hers. “It’s fogo feijoada.”
“Gesundheit,” she quipped. “Are you sure you’re pronouncing that right?”
“I brushed up on my Portuguese before coming.”
“Really?” Her mouth pursed with an adorable expression of surprise. “You speak Portuguese?”
“Not at all.” He grinned, totally beguiled and distracted by her every expression. “But if I say something from my freshman Spanish class in a fake French accent, it almost sounds Portuguese.”
Amaya set her fork down and placed her hands in her lap, posing with rapt attention. “I have to hear this.”
With an over-the-top French accent, he declared, “Tus ojos son bellos. Quieres bailar conmigo?”
“Ooh, how romantic sounding!” She toggled her palm in the air in a so-so motion. “A little more Italian than French. Did you tell me my car is blue or something?”
Frank’s cheeks warmed, and he leaned forward to whisper, “I said, ‘Your eyes are beautiful. Would you like to dance with me?’”
He could see her silent gasp of delight, and it took his breath away.
“That is so romantic.”
“It’s true, too.” Had he said that aloud?
“You want to dance more?” She glanced down at their plates, her demeanor changing to coquettish. “Oh, no, Frank. This will all get cold, and I don’t want you sneaking back in between laps and stealing anything off my plate.”
He felt her foot smooth up and down the back of his calf as she took another bite of picanha. With a soft chuckle, he spooned some of the sausage and black bean stew into his mouth. “Mmmm.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “I’m willing to wait until after dessert.”
The coy slant of her eyes sent his blood churning. “The last dance will be the dessert,” she whispered.
Frank quickly stuffed another bite of fogo feijoada into his mouth to mask the whimper of anticipation. Could it be he would get to taste those beautiful, full lips?
As the slow music for the bolero began, Amaya pulled in close enough to smell the sweet, caramelized banana on Frank’s breath. The dessert had been delicious, and she’d eaten more than her fill, but it wasn’t a heavy stomach that kept her from weaving back and forth in the traditional spins and leans of the dance. She didn’t want to leave the circle of his arms for anything as trivial as a flashy move. When she wasn’t returning his searching gaze, she rested her cheek on his shoulder and soaked in his presence.
“We really do need to move to Brazil,” he whispered. His breath tickled behind her ear, sending tingles up and down her spine. “We seem to excel at the Latin-style ballroom dances.”
“Don’t we, though?” Her voice sounded far away and dreamy, even to her own ears. Had she fallen into the danger zone of a cast romance? She didn’t care. “We should go on tour,” she suggested.
“Hit every club in the country?” He tugged her into a half turn, pressing them together. “That would be …”
When his words faded, Amaya raised her brow. “No adjectives handy, Mr. Writer?”
“You’ve stopped moving, Miss Dancer,” he replied with a smile.
Forgetting to breathe, she rested her palms on his chest. “You keep doing that to me.”
“Doing what?”
“Messing up the connection between my brain and my feet.”
“Really?” His voice came husky and sweet. “I’m having the same trouble, so it must be your fault.” His head dropped lower, sliding his temple gently down her cheek, and the gesture made her heart skip in frantic circles like a child about to open a giant birthday present. She raised her chin to savor the feel of his skin. All at once, his lips hovered above hers … waiting, calling to her with silent urgency. Knowing she was crazy to fall, she tucked her fingers up into his hair and breathed him in.
Their mouths met in a uniquely tender dance as they took turns leading the way, and Amaya tasted a new and exhilarating emotion she couldn’t name. As the music faded, she allowed herself to think it might be love.
Chapter 8 ~ “High Standards. Hard Work.”
“You’re supposed to be reviewing the food, Frank. Not making out on the dance floor. My sources tell me you didn’t even taste the wine.”
“Sources?” Frank rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Becki’s call had blasted him awake, tearing him from an especially delicious dream about Amaya, and he wanted to drift back off and determine how much of it could come true.
“The head waiter in the club you went to last night is a friend of mine. He says the elite restaurants have figured out how to work you. ‘Be nice to his date, and he’ll be nice to you,’ they say. Frank, you’re losing your edge.”
“Wait, what?” He sat up in bed. “Are you having me followed or something?”
“Frank, it wouldn’t take a genius to see you’re off your game. Have you read your review?”
He rolled his eyes. “I wrote it, didn’t I?”
“I doubt it. It’s all sugar and no spice.”
Frank yawned. Trust Becki to ruin the morning after a perfect night. “The food was tremendous; the music was great. Why would I write a bad review?”
“Because you’re Frank Grumbleygut, you twit.” Becki heaved a staticky sigh. “You have a persona to uphold, Frank. A part to play. You’re out of character.”
Frank groaned and tossed back the covers, letting his feet fall to the floor. “So, we’re not going for journalistic integrity here? We don’t want truth?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Frank. Truth doesn’t sell unless it’s salacious.”
“Oh, for crying—”
“Speaking of which, have you seen the photo circulating?”
“Becki, I just woke up. I haven’t even seen my reflection yet.” Or the bathroom. He needed to see that soon.
“Someone snapped a shot of you and your little hottie writhing out a rumba. How’d you snag yourself a local celebrity?”
“What?” Pressure pulsed at his temple. “You mean Amaya?”
Frank wished Becki would get to the point. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again, but he wanted to escape this growing torture. Amaya smooching someone else? Why was Becki telling him this? He drew a deep breath and summoned his most subservient tone. “What would you like me to do, Becki?”
“Knock out the rest of your lunch reviews and find a different date for those dance clubs. Or better yet, go stag. I need you in your customary grouch mode. This nice guy crap isn’t working for me.”
“But—”
“I have my reputation to consider, you know. I’m the one who recommended you. It’s one thing for you to ruin my page 47. It’s another for me to come across as an idiot in front of the Tribune top brass for promising acerbic wit on a silver platter when you deliver coconut crème pie.
She disconnected before he could respond. What could he have said, anyway?
She wanted him to ditch Amaya? Not after that kiss. Not after the way they’d practically danced back to the car. Not after the way she’d hummed with such warmth while he nuzzled his lips against her neck and held her in a strong embrace. His heart swelled at the memory of their goodnight kiss and the lingering affection in her eyes as she drove away.
No way was he dropping her. He could make it work, still deliver his customary Grumbleygut lines. Amaya could come. He’d just have to remember to keep his game face on.
He let himself flop back, arms outstretched. It felt so good to loosen up. Something about Amaya simultaneously put his senses on high alert and relaxed his inner core. With her, he could experience each moment, unconcerned with judging or being judged.
The phone buzzed again, no distinctive ring this time. Glancing at the number, he let out a whoop and answered, “Good morning, Miss Amaya.”
