Page 1 of Lights, Camera, Love

The stranger’s dark, surly gaze traps mine across the dance studio, but it’s not the brashness of his pointblank stare that’s throwing me.

It’s his stillness as he leans in the doorway, one shoulder pressed to the doorframe, arms folded against his hooded jumper, one leg casually crossed in front of the other.

How can anyone expose their ears to old-school Flo Rida and not even tap a foot?

The second chorus of ‘Low’ thumps through the overhead speakers, and I throw up an arm and body-roll into a hip-pop, my regular Tuesday night students following half a second behind me. Heck, yes—this song is my jam!

My smile spreads across my face as I bounce my torso up and down, pivoting my feet right then left.

Stealing a glance back through the mirror at the doorway, I find the stranger still watching, a grouchy little divot between his brows.

Doesn’t he know that observing a dance class without participating is bad form?

‘Keep it going!’ I call out to the class. ‘Two to the right, two to the left, then repeat. That’s it, legends—keep each movement nice and sharp!’

The door-gawker needs to either activate the pair of muscled legs poking out from his grey fleece shorts or take himself outside. A smile wouldn’t go astray either.

I expect one of those when I dance right up to him, but it’s as if his pouty lips are sculpted from stone. And holy moly , he’s tall. I almost break my neck looking up at him.

‘You here to join in?’ I ask with a grin. ‘The party’s just getting started.’

He frowns (harder), his toffee-brown eyes cutting away from me. ‘What?’ Leaning in slightly, he cups his ear as if he can’t quite hear me over the music.

Oh, I get it. I like my music loud—my bestie, Rafael, who’s teaching salsa in the next room, loves to complain about it. I didn’t expect the same judgement from this blow-in, though.

‘I said the dance floor’s that way,’ I reply, jerking my head towards it. ‘You’ll have to step onto it or step on out. We can’t have people watching at the door, sorry.’

I dance–walk back to the front mirror, snatch up my phone, switch the tune to ‘Kehlani’ by Jordan Adetunji, and then tap up the volume a few times for the doorway-lurker’s benefit. When he glances at the speaker with a narrowed gaze, I snicker to myself.

‘It’s time to partner up, gang!’ I announce to the room. ‘Let’s do some paired freestyle moves—let your body lead and go where the music takes you.’

With smooth tilts and rolls of my hips, I make a beeline for one of my regulars, until a large hand lands on my shoulder from behind.

I spin around, my mouth nearly colliding with a white, lush-smelling hoodie.

What the? The brooding guy from the doorway—who I think I’ll nickname ‘Groucho’—doesn’t even manage a hello, let alone ask me to dance.

His warm fingers wrap around my right hand, and he tugs me firmly towards him.

My palms latch onto his back, gripping solid muscle through the velvety cotton of his jumper.

Before I’ve had a chance to register this dizzying turn of events, he leads me into a perfectly executed hip-glide and shoulder-pop. Okay, whoa—Groucho’s good at this.

I glance up, and my gaze tangles with a pair of dark, long-lashed eyes.

‘You here to steal my job?’ I tease.

He makes a ‘hmpf’ sound and pulls me into a flawless side-step.

Was that … was that a grunt?

Instead of asking him if he just swallowed battery acid, I mirror his impressive movements because, somehow, he’s leading, even though I’m the dance teacher.

‘I haven’t seen you in here before,’ I try. ‘Are you a pro? You dance like one.’

Groucho grunts again and makes a single head shake. Dude, lower your weapon. This is a hip-hop class, not a military training camp.

As soon as the song ends, he releases my hand and steps back. ‘You’re not bad,’ he mutters.

Not bad? Surely he doesn’t mean my dancing. I graduated at the top of my class at dance college and spent the first four years of my career on tour with a major recording artist.

But I feign delight at that barely there compliment. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’

I ready myself for a smile—or even a chuckle, if he’s feeling generous—but all I get is a mildly irritated expression.

‘I gotta go,’ Groucho grumbles, glancing at his watch. ‘Take care.’

Take care? The ultimate brush-off. Also, he’s only danced to one song, and my class isn’t even halfway through.

Without a backwards glance, Groucho strolls out the studio door, leaving me staring at the empty frame and wondering what the hell just happened.