Page 9 of Total Dreamboat

Hope

“Thanks,” Felix says to me. “But you don’t want to do this.”

“On the contrary,” I say.

I love dancing, I’m good at it, and after embarrassing myself in front of him at the pool, I want to prove I am not a fumbling klutz at everything I attempt.

“I can’t dance,” he says.

“I can see that. May I?” I offer him my hand.

He reluctantly takes it. “If you must.”

I weave his fingers between mine and guide him to rest his other hand on my hip.

I’m momentarily distracted by how good it feels to be touched by him.

He glances up into my eyes. I wonder if he feels the spark too.

“My hand is sweating,” he says apologetically. “From stress.”

“First of all,” I say, “stop caring about this. It’s a dance lesson on a cruise ship. The stakes are low.”

“Not if I stomp on your foot and break it.”

“Surely the infirmary has wheelchairs. Now then. I’ll lead.”

“Please do.”

“Every time I tap your left hip”—I demonstrate—“put your left foot back. And every time I squeeze your hand, right leg.”

“Perhaps even I can handle this level of simplicity,” he says, following my instructions.

“Beautiful work,” I say. “You’ll be on Dancing with the Stars in no time.”

“Oh good. That’s my dream.”

“I thought so. Next we do the same thing except side to side. Ready?”

“Ha.”

I count out “one, two, three” and guide him. He gets confused and steps forward instead of sideways, bumping into me.

I laugh. “Your other sideways.”

“You seem to be enjoying this,” he observes.

“I like bossing men around. Okay, now we’ll try the ‘cha cha cha’ step. Are you ready?”

“No. It makes absolutely no sense to me.”

“It’s three steps on two counts,” I explain. “But you don’t actually move your feet. You just balance on the balls of them.” I demonstrate, shuffling my weight. “See?”

“Cha cha cha,” he says darkly. But he dutifully attempts the move, and I nod approvingly.

“Perfect. Now we put it together.”

We practice about fourteen times until, between my taps and squeezes and whispers, he gets it down well enough to complete the full sequence without stumbling.

“Look at you!” I say. “You’re a natural. Now we’re going to put our hips into it and do the dance with the Cuban flair our Slavic teachers are so good at. And let’s be daring and try doing it to the actual beat of the music.”

I hold up my hand, listening for the rhythm. When the right note sounds, I nod at him, tap his hip, and step to the side.

Miraculously, he does the whole thing correctly.

He grins.

We’re kind of getting into it, hips brushing near each other’s quite pleasantly, when the music stops. Felix looks a little disappointed.

I hope it’s because it means he is going to have to stop touching me.

“Thanks,” he says. “That was almost…”

“Enjoyable?” I provide.

“Yes, weirdly.”

“We’ll have to come back for ballroom. I’ll teach you to waltz.”

“Oof,” he says. “Hard pass.”

“Break my heart.”

We’re still holding hands.

From across the room, Lauren catches my eye and nods approvingly.

I’m beginning to agree with her: maybe I do want to have an affair on a cruise ship.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Felix to go with me to the ice cream parlor. This is something the old, charming, confident Hope would do: ask a boy on a date.

But just then Felix’s sisters come up, chattering about which one of them is a better dancer, and he gets pulled into the conversation, asserting that he is in fact the best dancer.

I feel self-conscious asking him out in front of an audience, so I wave goodbye and invite Lauren to ice cream instead.

I order vanilla soft serve in a cone with rainbow sprinkles—my go-to since childhood—but Lauren takes her time sampling dark chocolate huckleberry crunch, coconut key lime swirl, and crème fraiche with salted caramel.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” says an Irish voice from behind us. We turn around to see a grinning man built like a bullfighter. He looks to be in his forties, and has dark, silver-flecked hair, playful arched eyebrows, and the twinkliest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Please,” Lauren breathes, instantly going into ingenue mode at the sight of a handsome stranger.

“The pistachio Stracciatella is the best I’ve ever had,” he says.

“Oh, amazing,” she coos. “I’ll have a cup of that,” she tells the clerk.

“Best get two scoops,” says the man.

“So we can share?” she asks innocently.

He laughs from deep in his barrel chest. “I’m afraid I’ll be needing my own.”

We take our ice cream and sit down at a table by the open windows to catch a breeze.

“That man is giving me Tom Selleck and I’m obsessed,” Lauren whispers.

“He is kind of hot,” I agree.

“I’m going to invite him over here,” she says.

“I had no doubt.”

As soon as he accepts his ice cream from the clerk, she waves him down.

“You were right,” she calls out. “This is transcendent.”

He grins. “I aim to please.”

“Come join us,”

He ambles over, openly delighted by the invitation. I notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring.

“Colin,” he says.

“Lauren. And this is Hope.

“I like your accent, Lauren,” he says.

“Oh, no, I speak like a yokel,” she says with a laugh, even though she’s well aware that her drawl is part of her charm. “You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can’t take the damn Lone Star twang out of the girl.”

“Texas, you say,” he says. “Whereabouts?”

“Outside of Waco. But Hope and I live in New York now. What about you? Is that an Irish brogue I detect?”

“’Tis that. I’m from a little town near Cork you wouldn’t have heard of.”

“And what do you do in a little town near Cork?” she asks.

“I make whiskey.”

“I love Irish whiskey!” she exclaims. “I prefer it to Scotch. Too peaty. What’s it called?”

“Killcurragh,” he says.

“Well, color me purple. It just so happens that’s my favorite.”

He laughs. “Is it?”

“It is now,” she says.

He cracks an infectious grin. “I’d forgive you if you’ve never heard of it. I’ve only been at it six years or so. I sold my company, left Dublin to look after my mam, and needed something to do to keep from going mental.”

“You’ll have to give me a tour next time I’m across the pond.”

“You often find yourself passing through County Cork, do you?”

“Constantly,” she says. She licks her ice cream off the back of her spoon like a cat.

She’s clearly enjoying herself, and he is clearly eating it up.

“Well now, Lauren and Hope, I’m late to meet the lads for a game of snooker. I don’t suppose you’d like to join a group of sad Irish corkers for supper this evening?”

“I’m afraid we’re spoken for tonight,” she says, very obviously regretting accepting an invitation from her cha-cha partner. “But perhaps you and the sad Irish corkers could teach us snooker some other time?”

“I don’t suppose you’d want to give me your number to arrange that?” he asks.

She holds out her hand for his phone. “It would be my pleasure.”

Once he’s excused himself, she locks eyes with me and waggles her eyebrows. “That was promising,” she says.

And for the first time in ages, I detect genuine excitement in her voice at the idea of a potential date.

She doesn’t even get out her phone to post about it.