Dylan scrawled his name at the bottom, not even pretending to look at her carefully written warning at the top of the page. “Is that it?”
Suddenly her hot client didn’t seem all that attractive anymore. “Almost. The last thing that we need to do is determine your goals.”
He leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. “What goals do I need to have? I already told you that I wanted to learn to dance.”
“Yes, I know, but most people have a reason for taking classes, such as a couple might sign up for classes so they can dance at a wedding or something,” she replied in her most reasonable tone. “These private classes are expensive, and I don’t want to waste your money.”
He rolled his eyes. Rolled his eyes! “Honey, why don’t you let me worry about how I spend my money?”
Never had being called “honey” irked her so much. “I’ll gladly let you manage your finances on your own—after you let me know how many classes you’d like to take and what particular dance you’d like to learn.”
“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.