“Fair enough.” After turning on the music she’d chosen, this time some of her favorites, she lifted her arms to him. “Ready?”
This time, when he placed his hand on her waist, it was a little bit closer. His hand seemed a little more gentle. When she looked up at him, he wasn’t smiling. Instead, he was staring down at her. His expression intent.
Before she realized what she was doing, she relaxed into him and let him lead.
And he did just fine.
It was as if something had clicked in his brain and he no longer needed her to remind him to do a thing. Almost as if they were meant to be dancing together.
It sounded cheesy even to her, but she knew if she were describing how they moved, she would have said that they were floating around the room. In sync. It was beautiful and made all the practice and focus on wins and trophies seem so empty.
Actually, maybe dancing only for points was wrong.
Dancing wasn’t supposed to be about carefully controlled head tilts and extended legs and perfect posture. No, it was about moving with the music and being with a partner.
It was about simply enjoying being with someone that you cared about. And how one could convey feelings without words.
When the third song ended, Shannon realized she was slightly out of breath. Stepping back and dropping his hand, she said, “Boy. We were, um, on a roll there. Do you want a sip of water? I have an extra bottle.”
“Sure.” He took it from her, twisted off the cap, and drank half of it. “Thanks.”
Glancing at the clock, she noticed that somehow thirty minutes had already passed. “Are you ready to rumba now?”
He grinned. “For a moment there, I thought you asked if I was ready to rumble.”
“No rumbling today,” she retorted, realizing that she was both joking and referencing their earlier disagreement.
“Then I’m ready, Shannon.”
There it was again. That electricity between them that she’d first thought was wrong, then one-sided, then simply confusing. Now she was thankful for it—she just wasn’t sure what to do about it.
He held out his hand. She took it. Gave herself a good talking to, and then Michael Bublé’s “Save the Last Dance for Me” came on, and she quietly reminded Dylan of the beat.
Their pace wasn’t quite so fluid, which she was grateful for. The slight awkwardness made her remember that she was the teacher and he was the student. That he was paying her for her time. That, as of right now, that was all they really had.
As Michael began singing the chorus, Dylan looked down at her face. “So, Traci told me something interesting the other day.”
“What was that?”
“That you got asked out by a hot guy wearing tats.”
Oh! “I didn’t realize y’all talked about things like that.”
“You wouldn’t believe what we end up talking about. Some days when we’re cruising the streets of Bridgeport, we talk about everything under the sun. And then some.”
“I’m starting to get worried. Hopefully Traci isn’t talking too much about what happens around here.” She’d die if Traci ever shared the way they sometimes fought over the bathroom like they were teenagers instead of grown women.
“Not too much. But the news about your date was notable.” She gaped at him as he guided her through a turn. When they moved forward, he murmured, “So, how was it?”
“The date? Oh, um, it hasn’t happened yet.”
“Yet?”
“Yes, well, Emerson had a work conflict. We’re going to reschedule.”
His expression was almost smug. “Is that right?”
“Yes. I mean, I think so.” When he continued to look at her intently, she said, “The truth is, I might not go out with him.”
“How come?”
“Because, well . . . it’s a conflict of interest,” she said suddenly.
“Because you’re his teacher?”
She nodded. Then, for good measure, she said, “Slow down, now. The rumba has a smoother pace.”
When he followed her lead, he spoke again. “Is that a thing? Are ballroom teachers not supposed to date their students?”
“I don’t know if it’s written down anywhere. But, it doesn’t seem like a good idea.”
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
“Well, we got upset with each other. It did make things difficult.”
She grabbed hold of that like she had a bull by the horns. “Right. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Of course, I only have one more class. So . . .” His voice drifted off.
And she felt that the tension between them was starting to go far beyond mere attraction and into something bordering on lust. She shook her head. “Well, our situation is kind of a moot point, you know.”
“Because?”
“Because we aren’t dating.” Namely, he hadn’t asked her out.
“What would you say if I asked you?”
Michael Bublé’s song ended. On its heels was “All of Me” by John Legend. Darn it. “I don’t know if I need to answer that question. It’s rhetorical, after all.”
“Shannon Murphy, would you go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“Yes.”
His eyes warmed. “I’ve never been so happy to only have one more class left.”
She was starting to feel that way, too. “Dylan, I’m not really sure what we’re doing.”
“That’s why we’re going to go out to dinner,” he said. “I’m going to pick you up, hold your hand when you walk down your front steps and help you into my car. And then I’m going to drive you someplace quiet and dark and expensive.”
“And then?”
“And then I’m going to help you into your chair, encourage you to order whatever you want, and maybe even get us a bottle of wine.” He paused. “How am I doing so far?”
She had to find her voice. “Pretty good.”
Looking pleased, he continued. “While we’re sipping wine and eating dinner I’m going to tell you about me, and you’re going to talk about whatever you want.” He pulled her closer. “And then . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to ask if you want dessert.”