Was it getting hot in here? For a simple action like taking off a shirt that most of us performed every day, Meghan knew how to infuse it with extra drama. She dropped her performance persona and beamed at us, “Okay, now it’s your turn. Remember, if you get caught in your shirt, just dance it out. Take your time and go slow. It’s not a race.”
Okay. No racing. Check. How slow could I go? Slow enough that I flashed a little stomach and nothing further? I could work with that. I moved into position on the wall as the music started. Watching Meghan perform had changed the atmosphere in the studio. Discomfort had faded to interest. I let the notes wash over me, conscious of the others around me, even with my eyes softly closed.
I swayed to the beat and made my way through the routine, tugging gently at the bottom of my tank, and dragging it slowly over my heated skin. The soft fabric rubbed against my side as I stretched it taut and scraped it up. Power washed through me. I could reveal as little or as much as I wanted. Tease. Play. Enjoy the fabric against my skin. I dropped the hem back to cover my heated abdomen and went into my hair tosses.
I tried to let go of any self-consciousness but worrying about what I looked like clung like an oily film. I slowly rolled to my left shoulder against the wall, and as I did, I grabbed the bottom of my tank, pulling it up my body and over my head.
Error. Miscalculation.
I was stuck, thanks to my shoulder braced against the wall. My inability to see and the fabric covering my face made it hard to breathe. Remembering Meghan’s words, I inhaled slowly to calm myself and tried again. I gave an extra shimmy of my hips and used it to help me push off the wall, leaving my shirt to trail more-or-less gracefully behind.
Nailed it. If by nailed it, making it all the way out of my shirt counted.
Slinking toward the pole, I executed the first spin as the music was ending. I scuttled back to the wall and my shirt, slipping it on quickly while Meghan congratulated us on our exploration. Oh, I had explored all right. Power. Followed by panic. I’d tried to recover, but probably missed grace by a mile. Then again, I’d finished the combination, and that was something I couldn’t have imagined in my first class.
“What did you think of that exercise?” Meghan asked.
My talent for silence helped me wait my classmates out. A few finally piped up.
“I got caught in my shirt,” Becca said.
“Yeah, I got stuck too,” an older woman added with a laugh.
“Everyone gets caught up sometimes. You have to keep dancing. Dance your way out slowly, and no one will know,” Meghan said. “Even I get stuck sometimes. But if you keep dancing and move through it, no one else will ever know.”
Meghan’s admission bolstered my confidence. No one was an expert. We were all flailing about the best we could, trying not to panic so we could pretend it was part of the dance. Maybe I’d been too hard on myself. It was nice to know I wasn’t the only one struggling. My classmates had gotten stuck too. But we pushed through.
Every time I hadn’t felt good enough, I’d quit. Ballet. Band. Basketball. Failing my organic chemistry mid-term in college had derailed my secret dreams of scientific research. I’d let go. But maybe being stubborn, being willing to be bad and just keep dancing through was the only way to get better. The first time I failed at getting an IV in a patient, I hadn’t given up nursing. I’d practiced. Meghan made everything look so effortless. Hearing her admit that sometimes she flailed and had to talk herself down quieted some of my fears.
Instead of rushing to my car as I’d done after previous sessions, I hung out for a few minutes, chatting with my classmates. We were all a hot, sweaty mess, but no one cared. Becca slipped back into the studio and danced again as another classmate videoed her routine. She rocked it. Tentacles of envy slithered under my skin as I watched her push to her feet, breathing hard. Could I look that confident?
I dug for my phone and held it in my hand, glancing between it and the others still in the studio.
“Do you want a video?” Meghan asked with a knowing smile.
I nodded. With no mirrors in the studio, I was more than a little curious to see what I looked like. Meghan grinned. “I’ll help you get set up.”
I moved into position as she started the music. Just dance through. I held that mantra in mind as I focused on the song and the beat, softly closing my eyes. Each movement flowed, and I made it through the entire routine—spins and floor work—without pause.
“Sexy lady!” Becca and Meghan catcalled as I opened my eyes to my audience.
“Very fluid, Tamra. I love watching you dance.”
I flushed and thanked Meghan for her help as I retrieved my phone.
That night after a shower and slipping into pajamas, I reviewed the video. Not half bad. Steps that felt awkward in the moment were smooth on the screen. I looked confident. Powerful. No one would ever see this video, but I’d know. I’d know that I could pull off a performance that centered me. No fading into the background. No invisibility. I wasn’t beige or boring. The Tamra in the video had confidence. Fake confidence, but confidence. Someday it would be real. No one needed to know that I was a hot mess on the inside. Sexy and feminine could be the new me.
My mind shifted suddenly, wondering what Chase would make of the video. Would Chase guess that the vixen from the video masqueraded behind the scrubs and practical shoes that were my day-to-day uniform?
Chapter 13 - Chase
On Sunday I begged Jimmy to come hang out before Tamra was set to arrive. He could distract me from anxiety about all the ways I might piss her off over the course of a dinner and make sure I was ready on time. I planned to use Jimmy as a sounding board for potential conversation topics and a sanity check that my apartment was appropriate for guests.
I spent so much time in my writing cave, with so few visitors or interruptions, it was easy to think that my writer’s detritus was normal. Jimmy cast an assessing eye over the bulletin board near my desk.
He pointed to a few colorful diagrams. “I think you should take those down before she arrives.”
I’d been toying with plot ideas for a murder mystery as a break from writing romance. The first diagram depicted a cadaver, and the second was a poster print of the most common household poisons and their symptoms.
“I thought those were pretty tame. I took down all of the more explicit materials I used in writing the love scenes for my last book,” I defended.
Key words: took down. He didn’t need to know the magazine perfume ads and pages I’d ripped from a sex manual were safely under my bed with my plotting barbies.
Jimmy shook his head and gave me a pitying look. “Chase. Bless your heart. You’re inviting a woman you don’t know well over for dinner. She’s likely worried you’re a serial killer. Don’t advertise your knowledge of poisons when you’re cooking for her. She’s already going to see your messy kitchen.”
I gave him a dirty look. “I know ‘bless your heart’ means some version of go fuck yourself.”
He shook his head at me again. “No, in this case, I meant it as a genuine Southern expression of sympathy for the poor woman you’re having over.”
I snorted. “Jimmy. You’re not Southern. You grew up here with me.”
“Au contraire. I have an Argentine great-grandmother. That’s about as Southern as it gets.”
I groaned, “Okay, okay. Go fuck yourself aside, I see your point on the poisons. I’ll take it down. Anything else that isn’t passing muster?” I asked.
He scrutinized the apartment carefully, taking in my deep green microfiber couch, writing desk and bulletin board, and the TV against the opposite wall. His gaze moved on to the kitchen and table already set for two.
“Everything out here looks fine, if a little messy,” he acknowledged. “What about your bathroom, game room, and bedroom though?”
I shook my head. “She’s not going to see my bedroom. I cleaned the bathroom earlier today. My mom has me well-trained on that one.”
&n
bsp; He grinned. “Yeah, she started you there at a young age. I’ve never met a man with a bathroom as clean as yours. It’s usually in direct contrast to the rest of your apartment. If all else fails, show Tamra your bathroom. She’ll be impressed.”
I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, but I was pretty sure bathroom tours weren’t normal, so I shrugged him off.
He ignored me and moved to inspect the bathroom, then my bedroom and game room. I wished I could give him shit for crap I’d seen at his apartment, but his space was always immaculate. Always. He’d only hosted game night once at his place. One slice of pepperoni hits the carpet, and we’re banished forever. Jimmy’s not-so-secret Martha Stewart tendencies were the reason I asked him to give my place a onceover.
I’d only had a handful of visitors to my apartment. My parents, Matteo, and Jimmy knew me well enough not to mind the mess. I wasn’t ashamed of my space, but I also wanted to make a good impression. For research. Not because Tamra was more beautiful in person than I anticipated. Right.
The follow-up questions I wanted to ask Tamra about labor and delivery weren’t appropriate for a restaurant where someone could overhear. Some of those details might put someone off their dinner. Digging into her funniest and most awkward stories was on my agenda. Amniotic fluid, stitches, and Foley catheter fails—all were fair game. I was pretty sure that as a nurse Tamra would be immune, but I didn’t want her to hold back, worried about other diners.
Jimmy gave my apartment the go ahead and satisfied I wouldn’t traumatize Tamra with anything odd, I got started on dinner. Jimmy settled in at the kitchen island with a beer, watching me chop.
“What are you making?” he asked.
“Arroz con pollo,” I said with a dip of my chin, my gaze intent on the celery in front of me.
Jimmy side-eyed the pile of vegetables in front of me. “Arroz con pollo, huh? Isn’t that the one you only make for special occasions? So, this Tamra is special?”
I felt a light wash of color creeping up from my collar. “Hey, can you get the cilantro from the fridge?”
Jimmy was not put off by my subject change. “So, tell me more about Tamra.”
I focused on my chopping. “Nothing much to tell. She’s a labor and delivery nurse at the hospital. She’s helping me with research for my next novel.”
“Is she single?” he asked pointedly.
I nodded but kept my eyes on my knife. “I think so, but I honestly haven’t asked. We’ve mostly talked about her work.”
“I assume she’s roughly our age?” he asked.
I nodded again. “It’s a little tough to tell, but she’s somewhere near.”
He gave me a big grin. “Well, I hope you have a wonderful time with Tamra.” The don’t fuck it up was implied.
I smiled tentatively back. “Me too. She seems nice.”
Nice. The word was too tame. Smart. Funny. Sexy. Those were better descriptors, but with my dating record, friends and co-conspirators was more realistic. Sooner or later, the real me would leak out behind my carefully constructed mask and ruin her good will. With luck, I’d make it through dinner before I did or said something unforgiveable. I shook myself and glanced up at Jimmy. His raised brows signaled his disbelief in my insipid response.
“Well, you’ve got things in hand here. I’m going to take off. I have a date of my own tonight.”
It was my turn to give him the third degree. “Tell me more ...”
He smiled. “I met Janine a few days ago. We’ve been texting since, and this was the first time our schedules meshed. I’m taking her out for dinner.”
“How did you meet?”
“Her car was broken down on the side of the highway, and I stopped to help her out.”
“You wooed her with roadside service?” I asked with a smirk. He had no idea how much I envied his easy charm. In his position, I’d have made a horror movie joke and been surprised when Janine locked herself in the car to call the cops.
He shrugged. “Maybe she likes a man in uniform? We hit it off, and she appreciated my help with her tire. We exchanged numbers.”
If only it were that easy. “Well, good luck tonight. Don’t forget your jack and tire iron.”
“We’re taking my car, smartass.”
I chuckled, and he let himself out the front door, shutting it behind him. Some friends gave dating advice. True friends inspect your apartment for serial killer vibes.
I double-checked that I had put the wine in the fridge to chill and kept working on dinner as Tom Petty crooned in the background. Focusing on my meal prep kept my mind from wandering to what Tamra would think of dinner. Jimmy had good-natured allure when it came to wooing women, but I had cooking skills. However, kissing her silky skin was not on the menu. Learning about nursing was. I could still feel my blood rushing faster in anticipation of Tamra’s arrival in ... twenty short minutes. Crap.
Dinner was nowhere near ready, and I’d run out of time to clean the kitchen. I wiped my hands on a towel and moved quickly to the stove. Luckily, I’d already browned the chicken, so I only needed to take care of the rice and let it simmer.
Having home court advantage seemed like a good idea when I had invited Tamra over. I’d pulled off a short coffee meeting, but tonight would be a much longer endeavor. Eons longer to control my mouth. I glanced to my desk as I stirred the pot, comforted that my interview notes and questions were waiting for me. My little Moleskine was reassuringly solid, like an old friend. Even if I stroked it more like a security blanket. My precious.
Talk less. Listen more. Use notes. No deviations.
Easy. Not.
I wondered if reading the questions straight from my notebook at the dinner table would be gauche. Pretty sure Jimmy would tell me a resounding “yes” to that one. I could never remember what topics were forbidden during a meal. I needed to reign in the natural curiosity that always wanted me to dive straight into the nitty-gritty. Work was allowed; politics was not. I was more than a little confused about the weather. Was that too boring to bring up, or too political now that climate change was becoming more apparent every day? If all else failed, I knew she loved romance novels. So long as we weren’t dissecting the steamier scenes over chicken and rice, that was allowed, right?
My musing was interrupted by a buzz at the door. I glanced at the clock—Tamra was right on time. I wiped my hands and checked that the rice wouldn’t burn while I stepped away, then answered the door.
As I pulled it open, I got a waft of Tamra’s subtle scent. Jasmine and ... grapefruit? She smelled citrusy and decadent at the same time. I inhaled deeply and smiled as she stood fidgeting on my mat. I opened the door wide in invitation. “Thank you for coming, Tamra. It’s good to see you again.”
She smiled tightly at me. “Me too. I wasn’t sure what to expect.” She stepped inside, glancing quickly around at my writing nook and living room. “This is all very normal. I’ll be sure to share that in my report.”
Huh. I was usually the one saying the mildly uncomfortable things. “I’m glad you think so. Writing is a job like any other. Dare I ask who you’re reporting to?”
I tried to smile reassuringly, but Tamra’s body language remained stiff. She gave me a quick glance before continuing her perusal of the apartment, avoiding my gaze. “My friend Gina. She knows where I’m at tonight.”
I nodded. Good. I was glad she’d told someone where she was. And doubly glad Jimmy had encouraged me to take down the poison poster. Tamra was dressed casually in body skimming jeans and a simple V-neck blue top that gave a hint of cleavage. Her brown curls coiled in loose waves around her head. Unfortunately, they were the loosest thing about her at the moment. My hug had done more damage than I thought. Maybe some wine would help her unwind. I gestured for her to follow me into the kitchen, careful to keep a respectable distance between us.
“Would you like a glass of wine? I have a white blend in the fridge, or a pinot noir I can open if you’re a snob. Would you like a glass?”
“I hope you’re okay with chicken, chorizo, and rice tonight. I’m making arroz con pollo. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”
She shook her head. If she didn’t say something soon, I was going to develop a complex. Lost, I decided to lean into my one strength. “If you want to have a seat at the island, I’m going to make the salsa verde. Have you ever made arroz con pollo?”
She shook her head again but took a seat at the island with her glass of wine, watching me intently. I chattered about the recipe as I seeded and minced a jalapeño and pulled out my food processor.
The wine or my cooking chatter must have loosened her tongue. She finally asked, “Will it be spicy?”
I held back my wince. I didn’t think to ask if that would be a problem when planning tonight’s menu. I swallowed and nodded. “A little. I hope that’s okay. I’ll keep the salsa verde pretty mild. The chorizo might have a little heat to it, but you can always skip that if you prefer.”
Her eyes lit for the first time. My recipe talk was working. “I like it hot. Is this a hard recipe to make?”
Hot. Hard. Ay, dios mio.
She didn’t mean it like that. Beating down the twelve-year-old snickering inside, I walked her through the stages of the meal while she sipped her wine and asked questions about my cooking techniques.
Talking about the recipe gave us both something neutral to focus on. I tried not to get so distracted by her keen eyes that I cut off something important. A trip to the ER would ruin the mood, and for once, I was impressing a woman, just by being myself. Her body language became progressively more relaxed. She lost the tightness in her spine and sank onto the stool. Success. Of course, that could also have been the wine. Whatever. I poured her the wine, so I still won.
Mister Romance Page 9