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 Shannon—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.”