Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she manages. She sniffs bravely and blinks fast, forcing the tears down. “I’m happy with you. It’s hard to wrap my head around it.”
I nearly sag with relief. “That’s good news,” I say.
“This is supposed to be the worst time of my life since my mom died—my dad being so deep in debt I was scared that the Mob would kill him before I could find a way to pay it off. Here I am. In your car beside you, on the way to some surprise. With this charming, handsome man telling me that he’s in love with me. This stuff doesn’t happen to girls like me, girls with bad luck and wasted potential.”
“Really? What’s supposed to happen to girls like you?”
“Nothing good,” she says. “Not some crazy adventure like something I watched on Young & Restless as a kid.”
“Who was letting you watch that?” I blurt.
“My mom. She liked to watch it while she folded laundry, which I think means she saved all the folding till it was time for her show and then used it as an excuse to sit down,” she smiles fondly at the memory. “So where are we going?’
“Right here,” I say as I park the car.
We’re in front of a converted brownstone with a tasteful bronze plaque reading “Mrs. Tatum’s School of Classical Dance.” Serena looks at me, questions in her eyes.
“We have that charity thing in a few days. You told me you didn’t think you wanted to go,” I explain.
“Because I don’t know how to dance,” she says when it dawns on her. “So, you brought me for lessons?”
“I want you to feel good about yourself and enjoy the dancing.”
“I’m going to learn, like the waltz and stuff?” she says.
“No,” I say, “we are.”
“You’re kidding. The big, tough Mob boss—” she begins and I clear my throat. “Okay, businessman,” she corrects, “is going to keep his heels down and frame locked while some lady tells us to stop counting out loud?’
“Did you think I was going to make you do this alone? Or that I want you dancing with some other guy?” I say archly. She shakes her head, a pleased smile curving her lips.
“I never thought I was lucky. Then you came into my life and now—now you leave work early to help me learn how to dance.” She shakes her head like she stumbled on a pirate’s treasure.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“I need different shoes,” she says, looking down at her flip flops.
“Already taken care of.” I say proudly.
Inside the studio, which is booked for a private session, Mrs. Tatum, the proprietress and instructor, gives Serena a garment bag and directs her to a place where she can change. A few minutes later, her silver spike heels click across the gleaming wood floors and I see the swish of her purple skirt both moving toward me and in the reflection of the wall sized mirror.
The professional dancer, an older woman with her hair in a sleek bun who wants to be addressed as ‘madame’, leads us through some stretches and pokes me between the shoulders so I stand up straighter. She places Serena’s long, elegant fingers on my shoulder and directs me to hold her at the waist. Then she adjusts my hand which is too low for a proper ballroom. Serena’s eyes sparkle with laughter she holds back. “You got in trouble,” she whispers gleefully.
The music begins, and we follow directions. I try to concentrate on the eight-count, on which foot is my left since I seem to forget that when I’m holding Serena. We start over about sixteen times and end up separated so she can work with us one at a time. My mouth goes dry watching Serena in her leotard and filmy skirt work on her posture and the extension of her arms. When Madame holds Serena’s hips to instruct her on not sticking out her butt, my hands bunch into fists.
I don’t like anyone—not even an old woman—touching Serena. I have to laugh at myself there, silently, and make myself pay attention when my turn comes. I have to dance the instructor around the studio a few times, and she says I’m a natural and am a very strong lead. I’m pretty sure the woman is flirting with me.
At last, she puts Serena’s hand in mine and makes a twirling motion with her finger. Off we go, and it feels natural, like we’re floating, like our feet don’t touch the floor. We move together, with so much space between us because the dance calls for it. We are not, as Madame corrected sharply, ‘grinding in a club’. We are dancing as kings and queens once danced, decorous and elegant and letting the infuriating inches between our bodies fill with the tension and heat of our attraction.