“I have to take five classes, and I don’t care which dances we learn.” He winked. “You can choose.”
This whole situation was getting curiouser and curiouser. And it was also beginning to get her pretty irritated. After reminding herself that she was trying to make money and not new friends, she asked, “I’m sorry, but I’m getting confused. Why five? And why don’t you care what you learn?”
He kicked out a very large, tree-trunk sized leg. “Look, I didn’t want to go here, but you’re leaving me no choice. See, the truth is that I’m not actually here to get ready to dance at a wedding.” Blue eyes zeroed directly on her. “I’m here because I lost a bet.”
“Pardon me?”
“We had a pool with my fantasy football league,” he explained. Sounding completely sincere, he added, “The winner got three hundred dollars but the loser had to do penance.”
“Penance,” she repeated, not even trying to hide her dismay.
“Yeah. Two of my key players choked, and another one got hurt. I couldn’t believe my luck.”
“Your luck?”
He nodded. “I went from eighth place to dead last in two weeks.” Dylan exhaled, just like he was explaining something that was actually important. “I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. I mean, I was sure the Raiders’ defensive line was going to be pretty good this year.”
Shannon stared at him. She was a girly-girl, but she’d grown up with a hunting-and-fishing dad in West Virginia, too. She was used to listening to him talk about all kinds of “typical male” things that he found interesting (and that her mother pretended to care about): Friday night high school games, deer blinds, and even wily trout.
But a bet based on made-up football teams? Well, that took the cake.
Not even trying to hide her irritation, she said, “So, if I understand you right, you’re only here to take classes because it’s your punishment?”
For the first time since he’d walked in, Dylan looked uncomfortable. “That’s putting it a little harsh.”
“But . . .”
“But . . . well, yes.”
She was dumbfounded. Here she was, working seven days a week, stressing about her sisters, stressing about owing so much money to the bank, trying like crazy to get her business up and running—but he was treating it as part of his stupid game. “I can’t believe you are wasting my time like this.”
He held his hands up like he was fending off her attack. “Hey, now. I don’t see how I’m wasting your time.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Yeah, I am. As a heart attack.” He grinned like she was supposed to think his joke was original and cute. “You teach dancing and I have to take lessons. And I’m gonna pay you, don’t worry about that. It’s a win-win situation.”
“Not really. You don’t want to be here, and I have a strange desire to teach dance to people who actually want to learn. I don’t think this is the right studio for you.” She folded her hands over her chest. I think you need to leave.”
He blinked, waited a beat, looked at her intently, and then spoke again. “Listen, I think you are taking everything the wrong way.” He winced. “Or, heck, I think I’ve been explaining everything completely wrong. Maybe I should try this again. You see—”
Oh, no. There was no way she wanted to hear about the rules of his stupid fantasy football game again. “Please stop. I get it.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Real sure. Believe me, it’s clear. Crystal clear.”
“What I’m trying to say is that while I might not have ever considered taking lessons before, I’m still going to do my best. I’m not a jerk.”
He sure seemed like one to her.
But, just as she was about to shake her head and point her finger toward the door, she noticed a muscle jump in his cheek. There was a softening in his eyes, too—almost a vulnerability. He actually wanted her to give him a chance. And, if she wasn’t mistaken, it wasn’t because he just wanted to take care of his penance. There was something more going on. She was sure of it.
Maybe she was being stupid, but something about him made her want to give him a chance, too.
Plus, she could almost hear her sisters remind her that money was money. She had a mortgage to pay, furniture to upgrade, and a reputation to earn. None of that was going to happen if she started judging who wanted to take classes.
She wasn’t changing lives here. She was simply trying to teach people to dance.
Smiling tightly, she decided to get off her high horse and do her job. “You know what, it doesn’t really matter what your reasons are for coming here. I’m sorry I got all defensive.”
“So, we’re good?”
“Yes.”
“Can we get started now? Not to be rude, but I’ve to get home soon.”
“I understand.” Even though it sounded a little cheesy, she held out her hand. “All right, Dylan. Shall we dance?”
Folding his own around hers, he grinned. “Shannon Murphy, I thought you’d never ask.”
CHAPTER 2
“Forget your troubles and dance.”
—Bob Marley
It was Friday night and he was sitting in Kurt Holland’s garage an hour before the rest of the guys started to arrive for the Bridgeport Social Club’s monthly poker game. Kurt was nowhere around—likely spending a few minutes with his wife before joining the guys for the next five hours.
But that didn’t stop the rest of them from enjoying a beer and catching up before the cards and the chips came out.
Of course, if he had realized he was going to be grilled about his first dance lesson, he would’ve arrived just before the tournament began and skipped the interrogation.
“Dude, you were supposed to get pictures together,” Meyer complained after Dylan filled him in on his first dance class. “We need documentation.”
Thinking about how he’d almost gotten himself kicked out of dance school before he’d even taken his first box step, he grimaced. “Yeah, well, I don’t think she was really up for a photo op. Maybe next time.”
“But how are we going to be able to be sure you were there?”
“Because I’m not going to lie about it. I agreed to take five lessons and I am. I took one, and now I’ve got four more to go. End of story.”
“I saw his Jeep outside the place,” Ace Vance said. “It was there when I got to Meredith’s studio for lunch, and it was still parked there when I went back to work.”
“See?” Dylan said to Meyer. “You now have confirmation.”
“Maybe.”
“No, definitely. Stop giving me crap.”
“Now that we have that settled, how did it go?” Ace asked.
How did it go? Yeah, that was the question, he supposed. Thinking about Shannon, thinking about that old building with the gleaming white woodwork and the smooth wooden floors— and how he’d had to do some fancy verbal footwork in order to get her to still accept him as a student—he wasn’t sure he had words. So he settled for a reply that was the universal guy-speak for when there wasn’t much to say. Or for when he wasn’t sure what to say.
“It was all right.”
“All right?” Meyer rolled his eyes. “No go, buddy. If we don’t get pictures, you’re gonna have to give us more info.”
“What are you after?”
“Details. What was your dance instructor like?” He wagged his eyebrows and grinned. “Just how old was she? Old enough to be my grandmother or yours?”
Though it was tempting to hide Shannon’s youthful good looks from Meyer—which made no sense, except maybe opening the door for more teasing—he said, “Neither. She was in her late twenties, I think.”
Ace sat up. “Really? I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Yeah. Me, neither.” He hadn’t been expecting anything about Sha
nnon—he hadn’t expected such thick, long brown hair, or big brown eyes framed by thick eyelashes . . . or that fabulous figure set off by a pair of killer legs in nylons. Or that she would be wearing a pair of three-inch heels that put her almost to his chin.
Or that, even though there was so much about her that he found attractive, not a bit of it compared to the way he’d admired her spunk.
And none of that could compare to the way he’d felt when he put one hand on her waist and attempted to move around the room per her directions. For a few moments there, he hadn’t thought about anything else. Not the case he was working on, not his sister, not anything but holding her a little closer, if only for a little while.
“So, did you actually dance?”
He blinked. Returned to the conversation at hand. “We did.”
“Well, what was it? Swing? Fox-trot? Samba . . . ?”
Ace laughed as he continued to shuffle a deck of cards. “Meyer, how the hell do you know those things?”
“Annie loves Dancing with the Stars.”
Ace grinned. “I get that. But are you saying that you sit around and watch it with her?”
For the first time in memory, Meyer looked uncomfortable. “Not every week, but sometimes, yeah.”
Dylan was tempted to give him crap for that, but then he realized that he didn’t have a single thing to give the guy a hard time about. Meyer was going on thirteen years of marriage and had two kids. He loved his wife enough to watch reality dancing programs on TV.
He, on the other hand, had yet to keep a decent long-term relationship going for more than a year.
Thinking about his sister, he realized that if Jennifer ever dated a guy who cared enough about her to watch one of those singing reality shows she loved so much, he’d buy the guy a beer. Shoot, he’d do more than that. His little sister needed a hero in a bad way.
“We waltzed today.” Thinking about how most eighth-grade boys at their first school dance probably looked better, he amended his report. “I mean, Shannon attempted to teach me how to count and guide her around a dance floor without knocking her down or stepping on her feet.”
Ace raised his eyebrows. “Her name’s Shannon?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll have to ask Meredith if she knows her.”
“I don’t know if she would. Shannon just moved here from West Virginia.”
Ace leaned forward. “She’s from West Virginia, too? No way. What part?”
“Some little town.” Dylan tried to remember. “I don’t know. Something with an S.” He thought some more. “Sperry . . . ? No, Spartan! Does that ring a bell?”
“Uh, yeah. I’m from Spartan.”
“That’s crazy!” Meyer exclaimed.
Ace nodded. “Really crazy. Spartan’s barely got two stoplights Hey, Dylan . . . wait a minute. What’s her last name?”
“Murphy.”
Ace gaped at him for a full thirty seconds before whistling low. “Your dance teacher is Shannon Murphy from Spartan? No way!”
Meyer raised his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me she’s part of y’all’s group, too. I’ve never met so many people from someplace so small.”
Dylan knew what Meyer was talking about. A couple of years back, several guys from the same Podunk West Virginia town moved to Bridgeport. Later, even more came, each for a variety of reasons. Dylan didn’t blame the guys for coming—Bridgeport was a really great place to live, and all of the guys were good people.
But it really was becoming a case of small world.
“I wouldn’t call her a good friend. Not really. She’s a couple of years younger than me,” Ace said to Meyer. “But I know her. Shoot, probably everyone in Spartan does.”
“Because it’s such a small town, right?”
“Well, yeah. But that’s not the only reason,” Ace said, still musing. “Shannon Murphy was a pretty popular girl. And her parents were always running her around for all kinds of dance competitions. Everyone followed her progress.”
Though he was trying to act cool, Dylan was intrigued. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Her picture was always in our town’s paper, winning this award or getting some kind of big trophy.” Ace leaned back. “Dancing wasn’t really my thing, but I do remember that some of them were a pretty big deal.”
“Huh.” Which pretty much summed up the extent of how much he was thinking.
Meyer grinned at him. “Maybe we should put the word out that these dance lessons aren’t going to be the punishment all of us were expecting.”
Dylan shook his head. “Don’t even think about that, man. Besides, the bet had to do with dance lessons. I’m doing them.”
“Yeah, but nobody thought you’d find a young, hot dance teacher.”
Ace grinned. “You would’ve done the same thing, Meyer. We all would have.”
* * *
Dylan was still grinning about the conversation he’d had with the guys when he got home late that night after the game. He hadn’t seen that coming, but he couldn’t deny that he was happy about the way things were turning out. Ace’s information about Shannon had been illuminating, to say the least.
Now, he realized that of course Shannon had been a professional dancer in the past. No one opened a dance studio without some kind of success as a dancer.
But he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. How did a girl like her end up giving dance lessons in an old, remodeled building in Bridgeport, Ohio? There had to be a story there.
“What has you grinning like that?” Jennifer asked as she walked into the kitchen.
He noticed that she had her hair up in a messy knot that shouldn’t stay on top of her head but somehow did. She also wore her glasses and one of his old sweatshirts from college. More importantly, she looked like she was in pretty good spirits.
He breathed a sigh of relief. His little sister had had another good day.
Returning his head to the subject at hand, he replied, “Oh, I was just thinking about some of my buddies. They were all interested in my first dance lesson, and it turns out that Ace Vance is from the same town as my teacher. Small world.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Boy, that is pretty amazing. What were the chances?”
“I’m starting to think pretty good now. Spartan, West Virginia, needs to keep hold of more of its citizens or they’re all going to move here.”
“At least they’re all nice, right? I mean, you said the guys you know from there are nice.”
“They are. Stand-up guys. Shannon seems real sweet, too.” He sat down on a barstool. “I think you’d like them all, Jen. Maybe you should think about letting me introduce you to some of them. Who knows? Maybe they’d turn out to be a good friend.”
Her open expression turned guarded. “Dylan, you know I’m not ready to start meeting strangers.”
He was tempted to remind her that everyone was going to be a stranger until she was willing to talk to them, but he didn’t dare. He knew she was trying.
And every time he thought about how far she’d come, about the way she’d been two years ago, it felt like someone had just knocked him in the gut. Every time he thought about what had happened to her, either he felt like he’d been punched . . . or he had the overwhelming desire to punch his own fist through a wall.
“Let me know when you are, okay?” he asked lightly.
“I will.” She smiled.
He smiled back, liking that, for once, she wasn’t as self-conscious about the scar on her face that prevented half of her mouth from curving.
“So, what do you want to do about dinner? Any ideas?”
Looking pleased, she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a casserole dish. “I made a casserole.”
His little sister, all of twenty-one, cooked like she was Betty Crocker circa 1952. It was awesome. “What is it today?”<
br />
“King Ranch Chicken Casserole.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Chicken, green chilies, cheddar jack cheese. All kinds of good stuff.” Turning on the oven, she said, “It’ll be ready in forty minutes.”
“Perfect. I’m going to take a shower.”
“We can eat when you get out. I made a salad, too. Oh, and I got bored, so I made you some brownies!”
“Did we have brownie mix? I could’ve sworn we used the last box a week ago.” Chocolate was his weakness. Actually cookies and brownies and any kind of dessert was.
“I made them from scratch.”
“Of course you did.”
“It wasn’t a big deal. Don’t make it one.”
“I won’t, then.” He pushed everything he was thinking about how a girl like her shouldn’t be playing happy homemaker to an older brother. Her counselor had cautioned him about doing things like that. “How about this? Thank you for supper, Jen. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s nothing. You know that. Not compared to what you did for me.”
She walked out of the room too soon to see him wince.
Since he was alone, he closed his eyes and said a little prayer for small favors. Life wasn’t fair, but every once in a while things got easier.
At least there was that.
CHAPTER 3
“Every day brings a chance for you to draw in a breath, kick off your shoes, and dance.”
—Oprah Winfrey
“Did anybody cook tonight?” Traci asked as she walked in the door.
Shannon looked up from her dinner of bagged salad, crackers, and a slice of leftover pizza from two nights ago. “Nope.”
“I was afraid of that.” After taking off her badge and locking up her holster in the cabinet she had installed in the corner of the living room, Traci walked over to the kitchen. She was wearing dark fitted jeans, and a fitted oxford shirt with the Bridgeport Police Department logo embroidered on the chest pocket. As usual, she looked like the woman she was—someone organized, neat, and devoid of a lot of frills.
Shall We Dance? Page 2
