by Ava Miles
“I love Abba as much as everybody, but their music is hardly Latin.”
Jill bumped her. “Live a little. Who said there had to be rules?”
As an argument, it was compelling. Rules did suck a big one. “I’ll think about it.”
Jill took a spot next to Meredith, who Elizabeth kept a special eye on since she was the only pregnant woman in the class tonight. Putting her smart phone in the docking station, she called up her playlist. Hot salsa music pumped out of the speakers as she took her position facing the mirrored wall, the class lined up behind her.
“Everyone ready?” she asked.
Some of the women were still struggling with the steps, a few didn’t have a lick of rhythm, but the ones who always made her smile were Mr. and Mrs. Larkin, a geriatric couple who never missed a class. Mr. Larkin wiggled his arthritic hips as best as he could to the Merengue. He and his wife were always a couple of beats behind, but they both grinned throughout class, having fun.
When she got to be their age, she wanted to be just like them. Dancing. Not caring what anyone else thought.
Jill was throwing her hair around, working the music. Of all the women she taught, the redhead was one of the most fun to watch. Her rhythm was natural, her timing perfect, and she was very comfortable strutting her stuff. Often, she signaled for Jill to come to the front of the class, and they added a little extra wiggle into their motions, making the other women laugh.
A few men had come at first, thinking it was a hot place to pick up women, but they had easily been weeded out. This was a place where women could be free from having to deal with men—men other than Mr. Larkin, at least.
After sixty minutes, Elizabeth’s body was flushed with sweat, but she felt marvelous. She loved coming up with the choreography for class almost as much as she loved studying poker tape on Rhett’s opponents, something she would be doing tonight.
For so long, her whole identity had revolved around poker and Rhett and Jane. This class was special because she felt like it was a new facet of the emerging Elizabeth Saunders. Her mom might have worked the pole when she was growing up, and it had soured Elizabeth for a while, but her love of dance had never left her. This class allowed her to enjoy something she loved in her own way, without all the baggage.
People mingled after class, sharing information about their kids or community gossip. It was nice to connect with her students, to feel included, like a real part of Dare Valley.
“Nice moves as always, Elizabeth,” Jill said. “Meredith finally admitted she’s glad I talked her into coming.”
Her sister rested her hands on her ever-expanding belly. “I love to swim, but Jill was right for once. It’s fun to mix it up.”
Swinging an arm around her sister, Jill said, “I’m always right. Okay, let’s go and grab a treat at Brasserie Dare. Brian will fix us something special.”
“Tanner is expecting me home,” Meredith said, checking her watch.
“So is my babysitter, but we won’t be too long. Elizabeth, do you want to come? We can talk more about that Abba song you’re going to use.”
Jill was as funny as she was tenacious. It was no wonder Mac said she was a dream to work with at the hotel.
“Sure. Why not?” Her social calendar wasn’t super full these days now that Jane and Rhett were coupled up.
When Elizabeth left the studio with the women, she skidded to a halt. Terrance was leaning against a car—not his own—waiting for her. His stance was casual, but his eyes lasered in on her like she was the prey and he the hunter.
Jill cast a sly glance at Elizabeth before grabbing Meredith’s arm. “Hey, Chef T. You missed the class. Didn’t know this was your thing, or I would have told you about it earlier.”
Those wicked-as-sin lips curved. “There are worse ways to spend your only night off.”
Elizabeth locked the door to the studio to give herself time to regain her composure.
“I’m sure you and Elizabeth have a lot to talk about,” Jill sang out like she was a crazy matchmaker. Of course, no successful matchmaker would have suggested two people meet when one had sweat drying at her temples and in other delicate places.
Of course, Terrance had already seen her sweaty.
Dammit, that wasn’t something she needed to remember just now.
“See you later, Chef T. Elizabeth, feel free to take your time.”
“I’ll catch up to you in a jiffy,” she told Jill with a pointed glance.
“Don’t hurry,” Meredith said with a smile. “We’ll keep your seat warm.”
When they left, Terrance didn’t move. He kept his body angled against the car like he was a model for Bad Boy & Cars magazine.
“I’ll keep your seat warm too,” he said in a husky voice, finally shoving off the car.
Yes, his calloused chef hands could do that and more.
“What do you want, Terrance?”
“Other than the obvious, I want to go out with you. So I guess that means I’ll have to come to your class next time.”
Oh, shit.
He was calling her bluff and winning the hand outright. Rhett would have told her not to box herself into a corner like some first-timer on the poker circuit.
“What changed your mind?” she asked softly.
He stepped forward, and reaching for her hair, he drew out a strand and rubbed it between his fingers. Her breath caught in her throat.
“You.”
Everything inside her clenched. You.
“So, when’s your next class?”
His voice was as dark as the night falling around them, and she had to firm her feet to not lean into him and take what she wanted. A kiss. Right there on Main Street—the kind that would shock the locals.
“I teach on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at six and noon on Saturdays.”
He dropped her hair. “Dammit. I’ll have to wait a week then. This is my only night off until I have the kitchen running like I want.”
When he drew out another hundred from his wallet and stuffed it into his pocket, she almost laughed. Every time he was around her, he seemed to lose money. But laughter was the furthest thing from her mind.
“I’ll see you in a week then.” The urge to shiver was strong.
“If not before,” he said. “You could always change your mind and just have dinner with me. I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of a bunch of women to be with you again.”
And yet it was sweet and dear and oh so surprising.
“Not in your wildest dreams.”
He skimmed a hand down her arm, like he used to, igniting nerve endings all the way to her toes. “Trust me, my dreams have been pretty wild lately.”
This time her mouth curved, and she felt like a goddess again—like Vixen—the most desirable woman in the world. “I hope you’re enjoying them.”
The sound he made was part laugh, part groan. “Of course, being with you in the flesh was always better than my dreams, so I’ll just have to remember that.”
She almost gulped.
“I’ll see you later, Terrance.”
As she took off toward Brasserie Dare, he called out, “You’d better make it an easy class.”
Not on your life. And an idea bloomed as she passed Dare Valley’s well-lit shops on Main Street. What if she added non-Latin music for a few classes? Rubbing her hands together, other tunes popped into her head. Shania Twain’s “Man, I Feel Like a Woman” and Beyonce’s “All The Single Ladies,” rounded out by “It’s Raining Men.” Oh, this was good.
Her ladies would love it, and if Terrance did show up next Monday, he would probably storm out before class was over. Then she wouldn’t have to go out with him.
She slowed to a halt as her giddiness faded.
The truth was she wanted to go out with him, and oh, how the truth hurt.
Chapter 11
Jill Hale might be a wild card, but Terrance knew she was the key to not embarrassing himself in Elizabeth’s class. As a bribe, he�
��d baked one of her favorite desserts, according to her Facebook page, which was filled with photos of her adorable twin girls, Brian’s culinary efforts, and anything coffee-related. He was heading to her office with a still-warm chocolate lava cake, complete with table service.
Mac’s executive suite was on the second floor of the hotel in the west wing. The Grand Mountain Hotel might be smaller than The Peacock, but the lushness of the design appealed to him. Some of his chef friends had thought he was crazy for taking this job, so far away from New York’s bright lights. Well, he was going to turn this restaurant and Mac’s others into James Beard award winners. Of that he had no doubt.
Jill had been helping him understand the balance the hotel needed to strike between appealing to its high-roller clients while maintaining its attraction to Dare Valley locals. She was a fun and vivacious co-worker, with a passion for life he admired. She was the perfect person to help him.
Now all he needed was for her to keep his request secret.
When he reached the suite, Mac’s receptionist, Casey, grinned at him. He’d already called her to make sure Jill was in her office. Lava cakes were notorious for being either under-cooked or over-cooked if you served them at the wrong time. This one was perfect.
“Chef T. Good to see you.”
“One of my guys is sending up a special basket of pastries for you as a thank you.” Greasing the palms of the staff through cooking was something he’d done at The Peacock too. People liked people who fed them. And when people liked you, they looked out for you. It was a rule of the universe.
“That’s sweet,” she said, and in her eyes, he could see the admiration he saw from most women.
The street kid still thought it was too weird for words, but the man in him didn’t mind the attention.
“Thanks again. Hey, Jill,” he called out from her doorway.
Her office made him wish he were color blind. Every wall was bold red, and the one behind her desk had a turquoise streak across the center. And the purple ceiling? Dear God. He almost felt bad for her husband. Had she painted the ceiling above their bed lime green or something? He could easily imagine it.
“Terrance!” she cried out, shooting out of her chair. “Is that for me?”
Her eyes zeroed in on the cake in his hands, and she looked like the cranes hanging from her crazy chandelier—ready to swoop down to fill their bellies.
“After our talk about the new menu, I wanted to see what you thought of this. It’s—”
“Chocolate, and that’s all that counts. Gimme.”
Sexist cliché or not, women and chocolate could be a fearsome combination. He once cooked dark chocolate soufflés for a private bachelorette party at The Peacock. The women had actually shoved him aside to get to the white ramekins.
“How about I set it down at your nice table over there?” Like Mac, she had a meeting table to the right of her desk. If he was going to ask her for help, he wanted her cozy.
And in a chocolate stupor.
“I can’t wait,” she said, dragging the napkin and silverware out of his hand. Pulling the fork out, she stabbed it into the center of the cake, which he was still holding. The lava flowed out, and she moaned.
He’d heard a lot of women moan, but somehow it felt weird with her. They worked together and…
“Oh my God,” she breathed as she took the first bite, eyes closing in sheer ecstasy.
The cake was perfect, of course. “You should try some of the passion fruit sauce and the clove glaze on the sides.”
Terrance didn’t believe in over-saucing anything, but the delicate touch of a few different flavors added nuance to a dish.
She did as he’d suggested. Her moan was louder this time. Maybe it was a good thing they weren’t sitting on her hideous purple Italian sofa.
“Yes. This. Menu.”
Since he was used to people speaking in monosyllables when they tried his food, he didn’t say anything. Just stood there and held the plate while she polished off the cake in record time.
When she finally dabbed at her mouth, she asked, “Do you have another?”
“I can easily call down and have another made,” he said.
“I was up with Violet for three hours last night. I needed that more than you can imagine.”
“I’m glad.”
She sighed and then walked over to the purple couch, flopping onto it like she’d just experienced a Chocolate O, which of course, she had.
He believed in the Chocolate O. Might have even had one himself over a prize blend of dark chocolate in a chalet on the outskirts of Brussels.
But chocolate wasn’t his perfect ingredient.
It was too easy.
For a minute, he thought she was taking a nap. He set the plate on the only clear space on her desk—the corner—and walked over to the couch.
When her eyes popped open, the chocolate glassiness was gone.
“You had me at chocolate,” Jill breathed out. “I know you want something.”
“I need your help.”
“This is about Elizabeth, isn’t it?” she asked as she sat up straighter.
Her directness was a relief. “In a roundabout way. I need you to teach me your Latin dance routines before Monday.”
Silence hung between them for a second as she stared at him with wide eyes. Finally she said, “I’m sorry. That chocolate must have made me deaf. Did you say teach you my Latin moves?”
He’d never blushed, not once in his whole life. When he was eight and riding the metro by himself, he used to boldly tell older girls he liked anything from their shoes to their lip gloss.
Yet now there was an odd burning sensation on his face. He cursed softly, “Shit.”
He dug out a hundred and another for earlier.
“I heard you were trying to quit swearing. I told Brian we need to start charging ourselves too. Mia and Violet have been great deterrents, but at work…”
“Restaurant people have filthy mouths,” he finished. Of course, he’d been using every single swear word well before he got his first job as a dishwasher.
Manny Caruthers had given Terrance that first job after catching him in the kitchen of his restaurant. The biker-looking dude with a half-moon knife scar carved into his right cheek, who looked like he could break a man in two, had been one of the first adults in Terrance’s life to show him compassion. To give the thirteen-year-old a chance rather than judging him for his failures.
From there, it had only been onward and upward. At sixteen, he’d become a busboy. At seventeen, Manny had let him make some dishes one slow Sunday afternoon, and discovering he had a knack for combining ingredients without using a recipe, gave him a job as a line cook. With Manny’s help and recommendation, Terrance had applied for a scholarship at The Culinary Institute of America.
The rest was, as they say, history.
“Back to Elizabeth’s class,” Jill said, clapping her hands to regain his attention. “Why do you want to go?”
His face was heating like a stove set to broil. Jill struck him as a romantic, so he went with the truth. “I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of Elizabeth, and she said it was the only way she would go out with me.”
“That’s so sweet,” she said softly, pressing her hand to her heart.
“Shit.”
He drew out another hundred.
“Ah, you’re embarrassed,” she cooed like he was one of her baby twins.
That caused him to curse more fluently under his breath. He drew out a few more bills.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt your masculine pride or cost you a bundle.”
Her knowing glance said different. “Sure you did.”
She leaped off the couch and sashayed over to him like a giddy schoolgirl. If she agreed to teach him, it was going to be pure torture.
“So Elizabeth agreed to go on a date with you if you went to her dance class?” Laughter bubbled out of her mouth, a force that grew stronger until she was guffaw
ing so hard she had to hold her stomach. “I love that girl. She makes you work for it.”
Funny, but she hadn’t before. Everything had been straight-forward and consensual.
“I bet you never have to work to get a woman to go out with you.”
He met her gaze, and his blush faded, thank God.
“Okay, I’ll help you. I just can’t resist. I’m actually a good choice. I taught Brian how to dance.”
“This has to be a secret between us,” he told her. “She can never know how I learned the moves.”
“That’s going to cost you extra,” she said, crossing her arms.
Terrance leaned against her desk. “Mac said you were a fierce negotiator. Fine. What do you want?”
Her finger rubbed her lips for exactly thirty seconds, according to the frightening monkey clock on the back desk.
“I want lunch brought to my office every day for a month. Chef’s choice. And a chocolate lava cake at four o’clock when all I want to do is take a nap.”
Talk about negotiating. “I’m only asking for a few lessons. Two weeks.”
“Done. And I want you to promise me that you won’t quit our training, no matter what.”
Now that surprised him. “What do you mean?”
Her face went all wistful and soft. “Brian hated learning how to dance at first. All he did was complain and want to give up. You have to promise you won’t, or I’ll tell everyone I know. I may even tweet about it.”
His stomach curdled at the thought.
The women in her class might tweet about it anyway. And wouldn’t that go over like a fart in church. Chef T, the badass, dancing Latin. The kids in his old neighborhood would laugh their asses off—not that he hung around that crowd anymore.
“Fine.”
“Good,” she said, bouncing up and down. “Now how do you feel about Abba?”
“Why?”
“Because I suggested Elizabeth use it for a new routine, and she’s thinking about it.”
Did he even want to ask which song she’d suggested for Elizabeth to include?
