Shoot, today after class, they’d started making up their own dances, laughing and squealing and doing what girls do. She’d watched them with affection . . . while sitting on her new favorite couch.
When had she gotten so old?
Feeling a bit melancholy, Shannon closed her eyes and allowed herself to do something she tried very hard to never do. She let her mind drift back to when she was sixteen and practicing twenty to thirty hours a week for competitions.
She’d switched to ballroom after she’d realized that she was never going to be a good enough ballerina to dance in New York.
With that new goal, she’d driven herself even harder and given up so much. Dates. Friends. Even a decent grade point average.
All she’d wanted was to dance and win a slew of ballroom competitions.
And her parents? Her father had worked overtime to pay for the extra lessons, and her mother had practically lived in her car, driving Shannon everywhere. At the time, she’d taken it for granted.
Most of the time, all she’d ever thought about was winning competitions, impressing a bunch of judges, and using those first-place trophies to propel her to bigger and better things.
She’d dreamed big, too. International competitions in Europe. Being paired with a famous partner. Broadway. Everything.
But then, in the preliminary round of one of her most important competitions, she’d been injured. Within seconds, all those years of dreams and goals had vanished. After a painful surgery, all that had been left was for her to go back home, head back to high school on crutches, and face the fact that everything she’d done had been for nothing.
“Hey, sorry I’m a little late,” Dylan called out as he opened the door wide, trailing a burst of frigid air in his wake. “I had some trouble with a guy we brought in.”
Realizing she’d almost been asleep, Shannon popped to her feet and then blurted out, “I’m not sure that being twenty minutes late for an hour-long class is just ‘a little late.’”
He’d just shrugged off his coat but paused before hanging it up. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said with a grimace. “I’m real late. Better?”
She took a moment to appreciate the fact that the dark khakis he was wearing fit like they were tailored for him, and his dark green sweater showed that he obviously worked out. Like, a lot.
Realizing that once again she was thinking inappropriate things about one of her students, she got to her feet. “You know, I should make you reschedule the lesson but charge you for the missed class. Just like I do for everyone else.”
A good bit of the humor that had been in his expression when he entered vanished. “By all means, why don’t you do that?” he said, giving her feet a pointed look. “Since, you know, your napping time is so valuable and all.”
Her toes curled. Yep, she was standing practically barefoot while berating him about how busy she was.
Maybe she was overreacting . . . just a little.
Avoiding his gaze, she sat down quickly on her pretty couch, unbuckled one of her shoes, and did her best to ignore the twinge of pain that reverberated from a fresh blister on her toe.
“Hey, you’re bleeding.”
“Huh?” Looking at the oozing blister on the side of her big toe, she frowned. She fished out an old tissue from the pocket of her dress and tore it in half. “It’s no big deal.”
“You sure about that? Don’t you want a Band-Aid or something?”
She had on nylons. Bandaging a toe meant taking them off, putting on the bandage, and then putting them back on. Which, of course, sounded like torture. “It’s no big deal.”
But he was already sitting next to her and staring at her feet. Her very ugly, very beat-up feet. After wrapping the piece of tissue around her toe, she pushed her foot into the shoe.
After slipping on the other shoe and buckling the strap, she got back on her feet, steadfastly ignoring the sting of discomfort. “Dylan, I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you when you came in. You didn’t deserve it.”
He looked surprised, then those eyes of his lit up. “I’ve been trying to figure out what was different about you tonight. Now I know.” His lips curved into a matching smile. “You’ve got your accent on tonight.”
She pressed a palm over her lips. “Sorry.” Her accent was always worse when she was emotional or tired. On evenings like this, she practically sounded like she’d just sprung from the backwoods.
“Why are you sorry? I like it. It’s cool.”
“I sound like a hick.”
“I didn’t say that. All you sound is different, yeah?”
Now she felt even worse. He was being so nice and all she’d done so far was act high and mighty. Or maybe even worse than that. Clearing her throat, she said, “Are you ready to waltz?”
“You still up for it?”
“Absolutely.” She led the way into the classroom and turned on her Ballroom Beats program on her iPad. Skimming through the choices, she selected “Moon River.” The song was her favorite for beginning waltzing students, thanks to the slower pace and steady beat. She enjoyed thinking about Audrey Hepburn, too.
Turning to him, she smiled. “Shall we dance?”
He nodded and placed one hand on her waist and took her right hand with his left. “Let’s do this,” he said, looking like he was about to go into battle. She bit her lip to stop herself from grinning but he caught it anyway. “What’s so funny? Did I mess up already?”
“Not at all. You just look so serious.”
“I’ve got to be. All this counting means I’ve got to concentrate or I’m going to step on your toes.”
“You let me worry about my toes.”
“You’re already in pain. I don’t want to make things worse.”
Glancing into his eyes, she realized that he was being completely serious. He really was worried about hurting her. “My toes are used to abuse. Now, stop worrying about me and just relax. Once you let your body take control, everything comes easier.” She started guiding him through the basic steps, counting under her breath as he followed her directions.
When the song ended, she stepped backward. “Let me put on another song and we’ll try a turn.”
“I’m game.”
Deciding he didn’t need another classical arrangement, she put on “Come Away with Me” by Norah Jones. As she’d hoped, Dylan first looked taken aback, then slowly smiled.
“I like this better.”
“I thought you might.” When he took her in his arms again, she reminded him to lock his elbows. “No noodle arms, Dylan.”