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Chapter Two

Christina

I’ve been off-balance all morning. My meeting with Maria had taken longer than I hoped, so I was late opening the studio.

The group that attends this session are some of my favorites. I know their names, preferred styles, and strengths and weaknesses. They’re part of what I hope will be a relaxing summer before my brother’s latest business venture opens in the fall.

We warm up with some stretches and then I play Bruno Mars’s Just the Way You Are for some slower-paced swing dancing before I take requests. The tempo picks up, and I circle the room, gently adjusting form, suggesting a spin, or clapping for more elaborate steps. In between, I linger near the front and allow them to do their thing or come and ask for assistance as they’d like as I ignore the micro-bent knees and droopy elbows here and there.

The Smythes come over and ask me to refresh their memory on a turn. I talk through the counts as I move, acting first in his part then in hers.

Movement at the door catches my eye and I look over, nearly trampling Mr. Smythe’s toes and stopping mid-count.

Holy smoke . That is the hottest man I’ve ever seen in person.

His t-shirt clings to him, and his nylon track pants encase long, strong legs. An image of them wrapped around me whips through my head before I shake it off.

He’s wearing dance shoes. Yes, please. Dance with me.

But social hour is almost over. Clearing my throat, I step toward him. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so. Christina?” He holds out a bear-paw-sized hand. At my nod, he adds, “I’m Cam.”

I shake his hand, my breath stuttering at the warm dry calloused skin engulfing mine. Tilting my head, I try to place his name, but my thoughts are jumbled and my heart’s beating a mile a minute.

“I, uh, spoke to Maria yesterday, and she said I should come by now for an evaluation.” He shrugs.

Oh, right. Maria had asked me to do a new student review after this social hour. I’d pictured another retiree as most people work during the day. According to the schedule, his name is Cameron Hill.

My gaze drops to his shoulders and the perfectly formed traps, dent, and deltoids are outlined through his shirt. He doesn’t have the basketball “ball” shoulders, but he clearly does more for his workouts than dance. This is way better than a retiree. I bet he could handle my height and weight for tricks better than any of my competition partners. I’ve missed the rush of flying through the air with the help of a partner, and the few extra pounds I’ve added since my days competing wouldn’t matter with those muscles.

“Is that still okay? I can wait over there.” He gestures with his chin toward the chairs on the back wall.

My synapses fire. “Mr. Hill. Yes. Sorry, I had forgotten about you.” Nice, Christina. Way to make a good first impression for the studio.

He turns and strolls over to the row of seats. The rear view is just as biteable as the front one. A student catches me staring. The seventy-year-old winks and wiggles her eyebrows. Huffing a laugh, I check the time.

“Last dance, everyone. What’ll it be?” I always have them pick the last style of the day. Putting on Harry Connick, Jr.’s version of Save the Last Dance for Me , I toss my phone down on the sound system and go perch on a chair next to the newcomer, slipping my hands between my knees to hide their tremors. At least the seats are side by side. I might drool if I look at him head-on.

“Sorry I spaced earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Tell me what you’re looking for and a bit of your dance history?”

“Sure.” He kicks a leg up over his other knee and leans an elbow on it to support his head so he can look at me. “I started in college. I’m a social dancer, no competitions. But I love trying as many dances as we have time for. I’ve dabbled in swing, salsa, tango, a little foxtrot, and rumba.”

I conjure him tangoing, or his hips twisting to the rumba. I blink, unable to form a response, and swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth.

Look away; give a girl a chance, dammit .

Glancing down, I focus on his dance shoes. Black lace ups, they’re soft with wear and have a half-inch heel. They are also significantly larger than my competition partners’.

Oh my. Maria would have a field day checking out his hands and feet and extrapolating all sorts of mouth-watering conjectures.

We met as competitive dancers, and she’s the wildest and most outspoken of my friends. When I dropped out of competing to attend college, she continued, but we stayed in touch. I used a small portion of my trust fund to invest in Maria’s studio as a silent partner with an agreement that I’d have studio space for my dream, a nonprofit offering dance lessons to kids who can’t afford it, once I get it up and running. As she ramps up the studio this year and continues to train for competitions, she asked me to teach a few classes. For now, she needs to continue working part-time elsewhere to pay the rent on her apartment and the studio.

The music winds down and I mumble an excuse. If my hips sway a little more than usual in my saunter— walk —to the stereo, it’s purely coincidental. Clapping, I call out, “Thank you everyone. I’ll see you later this week, I hope.”

Out of the corner of my eye I catch Cam doing side lunges so low his magnificent ass is on his heel for a second before he effortlessly lifts and sinks to the other heel. His range of motion and flexibility rivals any dancer’s. The gym can produce muscles like his, but not that level of elasticity. I’m curious to find out how such a large man, both height and muscle-wise, stays so flexible.

I gulp.

One of my students comes over to say goodbye and nudges me. With a snicker, she says, “More interesting view than we were, eh?”

Heat climbs my throat and face.

As the last students meander out, still chatting, I gesture him over.

“Rather than walking through the steps you’ve learned, I like to start with a dance when a student feels comfortable.” At his nod, I ask, “Shall we start with a basic swing?”

“I prefer the rumba if that’s okay.” His voice is a rumble echoing the beat of that music.

My eyes and memory flash to his hips. Watching them shimmy in the Latin dance will be amazing, and the rumba has a more open stance with less touching, so I have a chance of controlling my libido and not climbing him like a monkey on a tree.

“Right. How about…” I scroll through my phone for an appropriate song.

“That one.” He’s suddenly right behind me, his body heat a visceral touch, his big hand coming around me to point to Maroon 5’s Moves Like Jagger .

I bite my lip to stifle a gasp as my butt strains to lean back against him for a second. A beat later, his choice registers and I snicker. “Confident, are we?”

He laughs. "I just like it, and it’s the right speed. You can decide after if the choice was ironic or not.”

The rumba is a one-handed connection for most of the steps, and he’ll need to be a strong lead to manage it well with a new partner, but I withhold judgment. He chose it and this song, and frankly if his dance moves are half as well-formed as his body, he has reason to be self-confident.

As the music starts, he takes my hand and leads me to the center of the room, already using the four-count basic step of the dance.

I’m using my peripheral vision so hard I’m going to give myself a headache, but it’ll be worth it. His exaggerated hip rolls in the classic figure eight motion are drool-worthy.

We dance through the steps: the New York turning at a right angle and stepping forward, a fan, and even an Alemana which is basically a twirl for the follower in Latin dances. A small secret smile blooms on his lips, and he takes me through another fan, then pulls me past him into a Hockey Stick step.

I check his form as I step past and feel the expected tug on my hand over my head, to bring it down and around my body and pivot me to face him. Near perfect.

I relax into the rest of the dance, no longer concerned about his skill level. The sublime pleasure of dancing with a partner several inches taller than me is worth relishing. So often my partners are close to my height or even a bit shorter. This is a treat I mean to enjoy, even though I’ll hand him off to Maria for his lessons so I can refocus on setting up my nonprofit.

Cam seems to gain confidence once he becomes accustomed to my style and stride. I step up my game, adding a touch more flare to my own steps, my wrap skirt flapping.

He pulls my arm, stepping into a close hold and circling us in a tight rotation.

I lose my breath at the sensation of his length against me. And I do mean his length.

New dancers are often shocked at the lack of personal space in ballroom dancing. Hips often brush, thighs pivot to end between each other’s legs, and hands skim breasts on close turns. And that’s without lifts.

He seems annoyingly unaffected by our physical contact. Meanwhile, I worry I’ll stumble and embarrass myself. After all these years, intertwined legs shouldn’t even be a blip on my radar, but my blood surges at every sweep of nylon track pant and each push and pull of his arm frame.

My gaze latches on to his flexing biceps as he leads us around the wooden floor. When we twirl, my hair slithers along his arm, and I catch a whiff of soap and laundry detergent. The scent gets interrupted by the hint of a fragrance when he turns his head, making me want to sniff his shampoo bottle. Or conditioner, given the lustre of those thick golden waves.

He brings us back to center and spins me out then back in, then out. I only realize the song is drawing to a close when he releases me to bow.

I draw a cleansing, Cam-free breath and his gaze drops for a millisecond. I pace over to fiddle with the music, willing my nipples into submission. Leotards are great for range of motion, but they hide nothing. It’s gonna be a long hour.

For the rest of the evaluation, I test him in several dances. As we get more comfortable, he adds confidence into his directions with his arm pushes and pulls becoming smoother as he trusts I’ll go where he leads me, and I’m left in no doubt where he wants me next. But in the last dance, when he brings me into a close hold and twirls us again, which means stepping between each others’ legs to circle multiple times, I struggle to spot. That’s definitely the reason I end the song dizzy. Never mind the Cam-shaped brand along my whole right side. My hip still holds the imprint of the bulge in his pants and my skin won’t stop tingling.

Cam returns to the front to change his shoes, giving me a chance to recover. I quickly turn the equipment and the lights off, trying to regain the mantle of professionalism and calm my breath. I’m starting to understand those bodice rippers’ references to heaving bosoms. Snorting at myself, I join him.

A bead of sweat rolls down my sternum and is caught by my leotard, but his only sign of exertion is sweat-darkened hair at his temples. Any doubt as to his fitness level is obliterated. I stifle resentment. Now I’m not only self-conscious of my visible perspiration, but I’d have liked to see his shirt cling to those pecs. Forcing myself not to stare, I say, “I’ll tell Maria your level of experience and she’ll call you to set up a schedule of lessons.”

“With her?” At my nod, he asks, “How tall is she?”

“5’3”.” His face falls. “Maria is a pro. She’ll make it work.”

“It’s just a lot less fun. I feel like I’m prancing. Also, I need someone available in the mornings, and given that you’re here and she’s not, I’m wondering if she can do that. I have some flexibility this month, but I won’t after Labor Day.”

Dang it. I don’t want this distraction. After graduating from UT, I became certified as a CFA, a Chartered Financial Analyst, to manage my family’s considerable wealth. Most of the time, that consists of a few hours every day checking our investments and answering questions or authorizing spend requests from our three accountants. My plan was to use the rest of my days to get my dance program off the ground. However, my brother immediately roped me into his dog and pony show to get investors to back his newest business project. Between that and Maria needing help to get the studio up and running, I haven’t had the time I want for my own dream…admittedly my fault for saying yes to things. But I want to support the people I love and I have the time and means to do so.

The financial markets open early given Austin’s time zone, and I should be monitoring them, although most of my trades are scheduled ahead based on a stock hitting a certain value. “You can’t do afternoons?”

He shakes his head.

I admit, “She has a second job to help fund her competitions and the studio, as it’s still in its infancy. And she’s the only instructor for now.”

“What about you?”

“I’m just helping her get started.”

“Wouldn’t more private lessons do that?”

“I’m not always available in the mornings, either.”

“I’ll take what I can get. Please?”

I waffle. Maria will kill me if I decline this. It’ll be the additional funds she needs to enter an upcoming competition, which would be a credit to the studio.

“I’ll pay a premium.”

I blink. Apparently, waffling is good. What on earth does this gorgeous creature do that he can offer more money for lessons during hours when the rest of the world works? I scan him again. Perhaps he’s a model, but Austin seems like an odd place for that.

I guess my brother could do that, too, so maybe family money, like ours. It’s none of my business, anyway. But the studio definitely is. And I don’t like the idea of disappointing Maria.

My libido is dancing inside as I anticipate the press of that cock against my hip for weeks, while my brain wonders where my professionalism has hidden.

“Fine. We can try it for the month.”