Dancing with the Single Dad (The Single Dads of Seattle Book 2)

by Whitley Cox

  11

  “Goodnight, Aunt Violet,” Jayda said, stretching her arms above her head and opening her mouth in a big yawn.

  Violet smiled at her niece and bent over the little girl to kiss her forehead. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

  Jayda pulled the covers up to her chin and flipped over on to her side. “Can we have Mira and her daddy over for dinner for his birthday like they did for yours?” She blinked long lashes over impossibly large blue eyes.

  Whether conscious of it or not, this child had perfected the innocent look. She could wrap even the hardest of hard-asses around her pinky finger with just a blink of her baby blues.

  “Do you know when his birthday is?” Was it soon? Should she get him something? Were they there yet? Were they anywhere?

  Jayda made a face that said she had no clue. “I dunno.”

  “Well, you find out when his birthday is, and we’ll see what we can do.”

  She smiled, switching gears, as children were known to do. “Mira and I are best friends.”

  Violet ran her hand over the little girl’s long, soft blonde hair. It looked like spun gold fanned out over her Disney’s Frozen pillowcase. “You’ve only known each other for a few weeks, and you’re already best friends?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes you just know. When the person is that great, you just know.”

  Out of the mouths of babes.

  Pot/kettle. You’ve only known Adam for a few weeks, and you slept with him. Her calling Mira her best friend is pretty minor in comparison.

  Violet kissed Jayda one more time and then flicked off her bedside lamp. “I guess sometimes you just do. Night, night, sweetie.”

  Jayda yawned again and shut her eyes. “Night.”

  Shaking her head and smiling at how children saw the world in black and white, she closed the door to Jayda’s room and made her way downstairs. Mitch was at his poker night with his new single dad club. With Adam. So she was alone. Just Violet and her wine and cheese.

  She poured herself a healthy glass of a luscious, full-bodied cabernet her monthly wine lovers newsletter recommended, then hacked off an embarrassingly large piece of Beecher’s Marco Polo Reserve she’d bought on her lunch break that day. They’d let her sample more than a few cheeses when she walked into the shop, and her eyes had practically rolled into the back of her head when the salty, aged decadence hit her tongue. Combined with the black and green peppercorns, it was drool-worthy and all she’d been able to think about for the rest of her day.

  Who needed men—who needed sex—when you had good cheese?

  Who was she kidding?

  Sure, Violet had thought about the cheese all day, but she’d also thought about Adam. After their intense night together on Wednesday, she’d been so utterly confused, happy and ashamed, she hadn’t slept a wink. And then on Thursday, when he brought Mira to class, they arrived just on time, not early, so she didn’t have a chance to talk to him, and then he ushered Mira out the door within seconds of class ending.

  Was he avoiding her?

  It certainly felt like it.

  And that hadn’t done anything to help her anxiety and thinking that Wednesday had been a huge mistake. Did he think it was a big mistake too? Was that why he was avoiding her?

  She practically fell into the plush, dark gray, soft cotton couch, cheese in one hand, wine in the other. Life was so confusing.

  She brought up the recordings of her DVR and hit play on Dancing with the Stars. Perhaps a bit of dancing, wine and cheese would clear her mind. Or at the very least distract it, because she certainly needed a distraction.

  How was Adam doing? Was he thinking of her?

  They hadn’t exchanged phone numbers, so he had no way of texting her. She could bring up his information on Mira’s contact form, but that was encroaching on stalker territory, and she was not a stalker. She was just a confused woman who found herself attracted to her pupil’s father but also happened to still be grieving the untimely death of her dance partner and boyfriend.

  You know, everyday problems.

  “Fuck,” she grumbled, taking a long, healthy sip of her wine. “Why the hell is this so hard?” She bit into her cheese. Goddamn it, that shit was good. Like spontaneous mouth-gasm good.

  She brought up the form Sarah had emailed her. The parents of the Thursday beginner ballet class consented to the children performing, as did her adult beginner contemporary students on Wednesday nights. Now all she had to do was find either a solo performance or a partner performance, and then she was off the hook.

  Dance for the arts council. I’ll be your partner.

  It hadn’t been a question. He told her to do it and told her he was going to dance with her. She should be mad at how demanding Adam was, bossing her around, telling her what to do when he hardly knew her, when she was a grown-ass woman and the owner and operator of the dance school. But she wasn’t. She was turned on.

  So. Damned. Turned. On.

  I’ll be your partner.

  She’d only had a single sip of her wine, so it wasn’t the alcohol making her overheat. Nope. She slouched out of her cardigan and pulled off her socks. She needed to cool off. Thoughts of Adam, of Wednesday night and the way she fit so perfectly into his arms, the way he spun her and guided her around the dance floor, cupped her ass and slid effortlessly inside her … everything just felt so right, happened so seamlessly. Would things with Adam always be that easy?

  She hardly knew a thing about the man. Didn’t know where his ex-wife was, if their divorce had been ugly or amicable. Had it ended because he was a low-down dirty rat and cheated on her? Why did he have primary custody of Mira? Had his wife cheated? Had she skipped town? She had no clue.

  But the things she did know made her all the more attracted to him. He was an amazing, devoted father, an incredible dancer, great cook, wonderful friend, dynamite in the sex department and a dominant personality, all traits she was drawn to, all traits she looked for in a partner. It would be tough to believe he was also a total jackass and a cheat. That just did not compute. He had to be a good guy through and through.

  A good guy who could dance like a badass.

  A good guy who could fuck like a bad boy.

  A good guy who wanted to be with her. Dance with her. Perform with her.

  She took another sip of her wine. And then another. Then she said fuck it, and drained the glass. With liquid courage swirling around in her head and coursing through her veins, her finger hovered over the sign-up form on her phone where the last slot of names for the solo or couple’s performance needed to be entered.

  I’ll be your partner.

  Could she have more than one dance partner in her lifetime? Could she have more than one man who led her through the moves, held her in his arms, tossed her into the air and caught her? Always caught her.

  Slowly, cautiously, she entered her name into the sign-up form. Then, with even more hesitation and even more caution, she scrolled down to where the partner name needed to be entered.

  Swallowing, she typed out his name. ADAM EASTWOOD.

  Then, stuffing the rest of her cheese into her mouth, before she could rethink and overthink it, she hit submit.

  Violet let out a shaky breath. Her eyes fell to her empty glass on the coffee table.

  She needed more wine.

  Asleep on the couch, wine, cheese and Dancing with the Stars long gone, Violet was startled awake by the sound of keys jangling near the front door.

  Wiping her eyes, she sat up and pushed the blanket off her legs. She was warm again, and this time from a dirty dream. A dirty dancing dream.

  “You still up?” Her brother followed his voice, turning the corner into the living room. He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost midnight. I thought you’d be long gone to bed by now.”

  Violet yawned and stretched before she stood up. “I fell asleep on the couch. How was poker?” Which was actually a code question for How was Adam? Did you see him? Did he mention me? Did his h
air do that sexy swoopy thing at the front?

  Mitch eyed her suspiciously. His mouth slipped into a knowing smirk. “It was good.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Came out ahead forty bucks this time. Liam was off his game.”

  “So the house doesn’t always win, then?”

  “Apparently not. Saw Adam.”

  She must have perked up, or her eyes must have done something telling, because Mitch started to laugh. “Man, the two of you have got it bad.”

  The two?

  Did that mean Adam had said something about her?

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  Mitch rolled his eyes and wandered into the kitchen. She followed him. He opened up the fridge and pulled out a container with last night’s lasagna in it. He cut a slice and slipped the plate into the microwave. “I told him if he breaks your heart, I’ll break his neck.”

  Heat flooded Violet’s chest and arms. Butterflies took flight in her belly, though their flight path was a little off, as they were all still a touch impaired.

  Mitch reached back into the fridge and pulled out a beer, popping the cap. “You sure you’re ready to date again?” He leaned against the counter and leveled his eyes on her, squinting just slightly. “I won’t judge if you say yes. Nobody can tell you how to grieve or for how long.”

  Violet’s pulse raced. She needed more wine.

  There was a bottle of white in the fridge she primarily used for cooking. It would have to do. She grabbed the chablis and poured herself more than a splash, not even bothering to set the glass down on the counter before taking a sip.

  “That bad, huh?” Mitch chuckled. “I’d say he’s the same.”

  “Is it too soon?” she finally asked, leaning against the kitchen island.

  The microwave beeped, and he pulled out the lasagna, blowing on it. “I can’t decide that for you. That’s entirely up to you.”

  “Melissa and Jean-Phillipe passed away within a few months of each other. Are you ready to start dating?”

  Mitch used his fork to break off a piece and took a bite. “Ah, fuck!” He immediately spit it back out onto the plate. “Hot.”

  Violet waited.

  Mitch glanced up at her, tears in his eyes from having just burned the roof of his mouth. “I don’t think I’m ready yet. But then, I haven’t met somebody who sparks my interest. Perhaps it takes the right person to enter your life for you to know you’re ready to move on.”

  That made sense.

  “Sometimes you can be wise,” she said with a half-smile.

  “It’s usually when I’ve been drinking.” He tried to take another bite of his lasagna, this time blowing on the steaming forkful for a solid twenty seconds.

  “I signed up to dance for the arts council exhibit.” Finally saying it out loud, telling someone, even just her brother, made the second-guess gremlins come out of hiding in her mind. Had it been a mistake? Was she ready to perform again? Was she ready to perform with a partner again?

  He paused his second forkful midair. “You did? That’s great.”

  “And I put Adam as my partner.”

  Mitch’s eyes went wide. “Does he know that?”

  “He told me to.”

  “Told you?”

  She nodded. “Wednesday night.”

  “Wait, you didn’t tell me you saw him Wednesday. Like for a date?”

  Could she call it a date? No. It’d been filthy dancing followed by intensely hot sex in a room full of mirrors.

  Mitch’s mouthful of food scrunched into a knowing smile. “Ah. Not a date.”

  “He came by after work, after my adult contemporary class to say hi. To try to convince me to dance for Art in the Park, and we ended up dancing again.”

  “Just dancing?”

  She and Mitch were close, and although she knew he had her back no matter what, he wasn’t the kind of big brother who was a he-man Neanderthal threatening any man who put hands on his baby sister. He was a realist, and she appreciated that about him and their relationship.

  He snickered as he blew on another bite of lasagna. “You don’t have to say a fucking word. It’s painted all over your face.”

  Violet felt her cheeks with her palms. She was on fire.

  “If he makes you happy, then I say go for it. You deserve to be happy, Vi.”

  She swirled her wine around in the glass before looking back up at him. “So do you.”

  Mitch put his empty plate down on the counter and stepped toward Violet, standing next to her and looping his arm around her shoulder. “I am happy. I have you. I have Jayda.”

  Violet’s heart ached for her brother. Melissa had been his other half. His soulmate. And to lose her the way they did, in a car accident on her way home from work, had devastated the entire Benson family. “You know what I mean,” she said, unable to bear the sadness in his eyes.

  He squeezed her tight. “I’m as happy as I can be right now. One day, maybe, I’ll find someone who makes me stop and take notice. Makes me think that maybe I can find love again. But I’m not looking right now. I’m not ready to look.”

  She got that. She hadn’t thought she was ready either, not until Adam walked into the studio, into her life. She still wasn’t completely sure she was ready, but she knew she liked him and didn’t want to stop seeing him.

  He kissed the top of her head. “One day at a time, right?”

  A tear slipped down her cheek at how much she knew her brother was still hurting, but she nodded. “One day at a time.”

  He clinked her wineglass with his beer bottle and pulled her tighter against his side, letting out a satisfied ah after swallowing his beer. “Life fucking sucks sometimes.”

  It sure did.

  12

  Violet was just pulling up the covers and shutting her eyes when her phone on the nightstand buzzed.

  Should she check or wait until morning?

  Who would be texting her at the ungodly hour of one in the morning?

  She’d never fall asleep until the mystery was solved. Her brain would remain on and on repeat until she grabbed her phone and uncovered the identity of whoever thought a late-night text was appropriate.

  Groaning, she shifted onto her side and grabbed her phone. The backlight nearly blinded her. It was a text.

  Hey it’s Adam. Mitch gave me your number. Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Felt like an ass I didn’t talk to you Thursday. Work was nuts, have a grant proposal due. No excuse though, I should have checked in.

  Sober and settled into their tiny beds for the night, the butterflies in her stomach tossed off their covers, flicked on the light and started dancing like they were at a freaking rave.

  Should she text him back now? Or wait until the morning?

  She wouldn’t be able to sleep until she replied. She’d be replying in her head all damn night if she waited until morning.

  She texted him back.

  Hey. No worries. I knew you were probably busy. You’re not an ass. It’s all good.

  But was it all good? She’d been hurt he hadn’t so much as said a proper hello to her when he dropped off and picked up Mira on Thursday. He’d been glued to his phone. Either on his ear or in his hand. The polite thing to do, after sex, was say hello, wasn’t it? Acknowledge the person you’d been intimate with so they knew they weren’t just a notch on your bedpost, a warm body without a face or name?

  She sent another text, this time her fingers trembling just slightly as she typed.

  Actually, no. I take that back. I was hurt, and you were an ass. Busy or not, I deserved a hello. You’re right, there was no excuse. I deserve a proper apology.

  Her chest rose and fell as if she’d just sprinted up the stairs. She’d never put a man in his place like that before, particularly one as authoritative as Adam. She swallowed. What would he think of her response?

  A minute passed, then another. Then another. Her hands grew sweaty, and her phone slipped and slid in her fingers as she lay there staring a
t the screen, waiting for his reply to pop up.

  It was torture.

  Finally, her phone vibrated and another text popped up.

  Come over so I can apologize properly.

  Moisture flooded her mouth.

  Now?

  Tonight?

  She’d had a fair bit to drink. She wasn’t really in any state to drive.

  His next text was to the point and demanding as hell.

  Now.

  Her nipples pearled beneath her tank top and her core clenched in anticipation.

  But she couldn’t drive over there. She texted him back.

  I’ve been drinking.

  His response was immediate.

  I’m sending a cab. Be ready in ten.

  Violet stared at her phone. He was sending a cab to come get her, take her to his house, in the middle of the goddamn night, so that he could apologize properly for ignoring her.

  Holy shit.

  Her eyes flicked to the clock on her phone. Two minutes had already passed.

  Shit!

  She needed to get dressed. She needed to do her hair. She needed to shave her legs.

  Twenty minutes later the cab pulled up to Adam’s dark red brick house. The whole neighborhood was dead calm, and Violet could swear the squealing brakes on the cab were loud enough to wake the dead.

  She grabbed her purse and went to pay the driver, but he waved her off. “Already been covered, ma’am,” he said jovially. “Have a good night.”

  She opened the door and walked up to the front of Adam’s house, her whole body vibrating with anticipation, curiosity and nerves.

  What was she doing here?

  This was the ultimate booty call.

  It was worse than a booty call. It was a booty order.

  He’d ordered her to come over for sex.

  And she’d done it.

  She’d climbed out of bed, gotten dressed in a sexy pair of black skinny jeans, thrown on a tight red tank top and a gray cardigan, fixed her hair into a half-decent ponytail and was out the door and sliding her butt across the cool leather seat of the taxi.