by Lia London
The girl’s mother entered a second later, still watching the departing man. “Mm-mm. Is he your boyfriend, Teacher Amaya?”
Amaya dropped her elbows onto the barre and buried her face in her hands. “No. Not in a million years.”
The mom nudged her with a knowing nod. “Well, if he’s single, I want his phone number. My divorce finally went through, and it’s time to celebrate!”
Amaya clicked her heels together. “Wahoo!” she cheered without much enthusiasm. A vision of Frank’s business card resting on the desk flashed into her mind, but she waved it away. No, she wouldn’t inflict that man on anyone.
Frank sat in his car, grinding his knuckles into his temples and replaying the catastrophic first impression he had given. How could he try so hard and yet be so consistently repulsive to every woman he ever met? It especially hurt when the woman was particularly attractive, and this Amaya Jefferson person had taken his breath away even before she’d knocked the wind from him when he fell over that idiotic metal bar. What was that thing, anyway? Why didn’t it have wheels?
With a heavy sigh, he extracted his phone from the pocket of his folded suit coat and called his cousin.
“Jenelle?”
“Frank? How’d it go?
“What was the name of the girl you said I should ask?” His cousin’s name had come to mind as he made the drive to Portland. Now he questioned his judgement. She was the director of Northwest Dance Project, so he figured she would know some dancers who needed cash on the side. After that rocky encounter, he wasn’t sure this was the right avenue for finding a dance partner, after all.
“Amaya Jefferson.”
Frank cringed. “Okay.”
“Did you meet her?”
Frank sighed heavily and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Oh, we met all right. Hit it off right away. Literally.”
A moment of silence followed, then Jenelle’s voice came cautiously. “Literally? Are you sure you’re using that correctly?”
“I graduated with highest honors in English. Of course, I know what literally means.”
“You literally hit my dancer?” She sounded angry.
“No! She accosted me with a metal door before I even entered the place, and then flipped me over some stupid metal bar for—”
The eruption of raucous laughter on the other line did nothing to improve his mood.
“Look.” Jenelle’s mirth faded into something more serious. “Frank, this girl needs some help. You need some help. Make it work. Trust me, she’s the one you want.”
“I don’t know. Is she going to cut it with the elite set?”
“Frank, if I was standing there, I’d smack your stupid face. Quit being a snot.”
She might as well have slapped him because he felt the sting of her words. Even his female relatives hated him. “That’s entirely uncalled for.”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and pondered his predicament. With the line-up of restaurants, he needed to review, he simply couldn’t go stag, but neither could he grab a random barfly and hope she would present well in an upscale establishment. Besides, whomever he chose had to be able to dance well enough to follow his lead.
“Frank?” Jenelle’s impatience called him back to the moment. “This is one of my best dancers, and she needs money right now. Help her or else.”
Alarmed, Frank shifted the phone to his other ear. “Or else what?”
“Or I’ll never speak to you again.”
Frank felt his throat constrict. He could never tell when Jenelle was teasing, or when she was serious. What might sound like a petulant threat to others was a reality in his family. Even his parents had stopped talking to him after he failed to pursue the kind of work they thought he should. Their final argument had been ugly.
He closed his eyes. When would he ever have someone in his life who didn’t try to control him and his future? He felt so alone.
“Why would you do such a thing?” asked Frank with a crack in his voice. He felt his pulse rising.
“Because this is for your own good, Frank. She’ll make you look good. You’ll love her. Everyone on the planet loves Amaya. Nicest person I know. What’s freaking wrong with you? You can’t tell me you don’t think she’s beautiful. I know your type.”
Heat rose up the back of his neck. “I’ll grant that she’s very … pretty.”
“Just hire her.”
“I’ll think about it,” he snapped, disconnecting. He wiped cold sweat from his brow. Would Jenelle really abandon him, too?
He watched the steady stream of students and their parents entering the building. When the flow dwindled, Frank glanced at his watch. How long would the class run? He wiped his face with his palm and debated going back inside to watch Amaya in action, a silent audition.
But no. She would perceive him watching a room full of children and assume the worst of him. He would either have to wait, or move on to plan B.
Frank tugged on his lip. He didn’t have a plan B.
Reminding himself that his career needed a boost, he began an online search of other possible resources for sophisticated escorts who could dance and didn’t charge more than $20 an hour plus food.
“You’re still here?” Amaya flushed at the sight of Frank Grumbleygut leaning against a smoky blue Lexus sedan that matched his stern eyes. While her class had run warm-ups, she had glanced at the business card and discovered he was a food critic. She had spent the next two hours reliving the embarrassment of their clumsy introduction and wishing she hadn’t made such a cruel snap judgment of his character.
All the same, seeing him there in his sleek, stuffy splendor rankled her. “I’m sorry I knocked you over, and I’m sorry I called you a pedophile, but I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a train to catch.” She shrugged, aware of how grungy she appeared in her sweats and sneakers next to his three-piece suit.
He seemed to relax for half a second before puffing up again. With the hint of a smile, he nodded. “And I’m sorry if I…” He stumbled into silence.
“Well, if we’re all done insulting each other, I need to get going,” she said.
“Wait.” He caught her arm, but quickly let go. “Please.”
“What do you need?”
“Jenelle Berk gave me your name as someone I might …” He hesitated, his eyes skipping above her head. “I need to review some five-star restaurants with dance floors, and since I’m from out of town, I don’t have anyone to accompany me. Ms. Berk suggested I could hire you to dine and dance with me, so I can properly take advantage of the amenities.”
“Amenities.” Amaya frowned.
“The dance floors, in particular.” His lips pressed into a thin line.
“You need a date?” She repositioned her backpack and thrust out a hip as she folded her arms. “You’re hiring a date?”
Frank cleared his throat. “A date who can dance and behave herself appropriately in a five-star dining establishment.”
The corner of Amaya’s mouth curled. “Uh-huh. And what in my earlier display of coordination convinced you I was the right one to ask? Aren’t you afraid I’ll knock you over and start a bar brawl?”
He pinched a smile shut behind two fingers. “Jenelle recommended you highly.”
“Jenelle.” Amaya raised an eyebrow. “Jenelle Berk, my boss, Jenelle Berk? That Jenelle Berk?”
“Are there several Jenelle Berks in town?” His eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. “Do you know how to ballroom dance?”
“You mean with the sequins and fringe? Sure.”
His nostrils flared. “No, nothing so lavish. Just a few waltzes, a fox trot, a simple tango?”
She stared as if he’d asked her to recite the ABC’s. “Yes, I can handle that in my sleep.”
“Good. Good.” He lowered his head in a slight bow.
Amaya chewed on the inside of her cheeks, trying to keep a straight face. “I’m afraid I’m not very posh right now, but I suppose I can dress the part.”
“Jenelle said you were the fastest learner she’d ever seen. She assured me you’d be able to follow my lead on the dance floor.”
Amaya smirked, both pleased at Jenelle’s compliment and amused by the arrogance of this man who thought he might be too good a dancer for her to keep up. “Are you into all the tricky twirls and dips?”
“Not so much. Just straightforward, old-fashioned, ballroom dancing.”
“Okay, but I’m supposed to be going to rehearsals with the company. I don’t have a bunch of free nights.”
“Jenelle said you were the understudy, and she could spare you a couple of nights a week.”
Amaya frowned at this. He had said the word understudy as if it meant she were inferior, but it potentially constituted her big break. She needed the rehearsal time. Glancing at a passing Tri-Met bus, she swallowed her pride.
“They impounded my car last week, and I don’t have the cash to get it out. How much are you paying, and are these restaurants on the public transport lines?”
“I don’t know about the latter question, but it’s twenty dollars an hour plus the dinner itself.”
Amaya stood taller. “Twenty bucks an hour to eat and dance?”
“In a high-end—”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll put on my best dress. But seriously? You aren’t expecting anything … else?”
“Absolutely not.” The awkwardness of his denial communicated sincerity.
Amaya relaxed. “This is strictly business, then?”
“I assure you I’ll keep my hands to myself except as required to lead on the dance floor.”
She narrowed her eyes in thought. “How long is each assignment?”
“About two hours a night, I suppose.”
“Yes, but how many times?”
“Oh.” Frank stuffed his hands into his pockets, a surprisingly casual gesture. “There are five dance places I need to review. There are other eateries I’m assigned to cover as well, but I need the escort for the establishments with dance floors.”
Amaya scrutinized his countenance. Stoic but handsome, with even features and a sort of sadness etched in the lines of his face. Nothing in his dark blue eyes sent warning signals to her brain about lecherous or violent intentions. She had misjudged him the first time, so maybe she should give him a second chance. He might be an arrogant pig, but she could handle a cumulative ten hours of him.
“Pay me in advance, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“In advance?”
“I need to get my car out of jail,” she said, holding out her hand. “Actually, never mind. It isn’t going to be enough, anyway.”
“How much do you owe?”
“The car pound charges $250 a night, and it’s been a week. Do the math.”
“A week at that rate?” His voice cracked, and his brows shot up. “That’s …”
“No words, huh?” Amaya’s shoulders slumped. Eventually the cost to retrieve the car would exceed its value. She had no idea what would happen then.
The man’s eyes narrowed as if running calculations.
Amaya turned to leave, but he caught her arm.
“I can give you fifteen hundred up front.”
“What?” She jerked away, staring at him. “I’m not a hooker.”
“I know that. I …” He faltered. “I want to help.”
Amaya studied him. “You don’t look like the philanthropic sort.”
“Can’t a gentleman assist a young lady in need?”
“That’s like six times as much as I’d earn for the dinner and dance things. I am not doing any special after-hours work to make up the difference.”
He seemed to grow taller before her eyes, iron-spined and stone-faced. “I don’t know why on earth you insist on assuming I am trying to bed you or anyone else, but I assure you my intentions are honorable and completely designed for our mutual benefit—yours financial, and mine for career advancement.”
Amaya couldn’t believe her ears. But if Jenelle had sent him her way, he couldn’t be a psychopath, could he? “You’ll pay up front?”
“I’ll pay up front, and I’ll never lay a finger on you except as required to conduct our dances.”
With a sly smile, she challenged, “Are you planning on being an obnoxious jerk the whole time?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard, but he extended his hand and took hers. “I’ll try not to be.”
“All right. Let’s give it a try. Where do we meet for the first date?”
Chapter 3 ~ “It’s a Job, Not a Date”
“Crimeny, Frank! I didn’t say you had to be that nice to her!” Jenelle dropped a folded blanket and pillow onto the couch and shook her head at him.
Frank made no effort to hide his frustration. “You’re the one who implied I should bend over backwards for this girl.”
Jenelle rolled her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”
“You should know. You’re the one who was allowed to major in the Fine Arts.” Frank glared at his cousin. Ten years his senior, she had spent decades wearing tight buns and tight pointe shoes, and the severity of her demeanor reflected it. Their mothers had often compared Frank and Jenelle aloud during family gatherings, declaring them to be cut from the same genetic cloth.
“If it gets cold, don’t turn up the heat or you’ll bake me upstairs,” she said “There are more blankets in that closet.
Frank ran his fingers through his hair and began peeling off layers of clothing. With each button he unfastened, he silently debated in point and counterpoint the choice to hire Amaya for all five dates at once.
“She’s untested, Jenelle. What if she proves to be a terrible escort. We’ve made a contract of sorts now. What am I to do?”
Jenelle’s stoic face showed no hint of sympathy. “Frank, I’ll tell you straight up that I like Amaya better than I do you. She’ll be a lovely date—”
“Dance escort,” corrected Frank.
“Date,” insisted Jenelle. “You’ll thank me for it later.”
Frank tried not to think about the money, telling himself it was an investment in his future and insurance against anything Jenelle might threaten. She had offered the couch in her basement den for the times he had to do breakfast reviews, and the gesture was not lost on him. Even his parents would not likely have opened their doors to him with such hospitality.
“Thanks for letting me stay.” He nodded at her. “You’ve saved me from having to rise at three in the morning just to get up here in time for an omelet.”
“I’m not completely heartless.” She winked. “Feel at home, Frank. The fridge is stocked. If you go hungry, it’s your own dumb fault.”
Frank knew it was customary to say, “I owe you one” at this point, but he’d just spent so much money on this woman Amaya that he felt no obligation. “You really think she’ll be okay? My future prospects may depend on these reviews going well.”
Jenelle gave him an enigmatic smile. “Oh, she’ll change your future, if you’re lucky.”
He paused, unsure of what she meant. “You’re really overplaying this, Jenelle.”
“Oh, come on, Frank.” Jenelle counted on her pointing finger. “Number one, she’s absolutely the most beautiful woman you’ve ever dated, and number two, she can dance your shiny shoes off with her eyes closed while wearing a full body cast.”
“Give me a break. I may not be a professional dancer like your glorious self, but you know I can hold my own on a ballroom floor.
Jenelle gave a grudging shrug. “In Latin music, maybe. But I’m telling you. You’re lucky to get her. In more ways than one.” She turned to march up the stairs. “Trust me on this one, Frank. And try with all your might not to be a jerk.”
Watching her go, Frank wilted. He had no choice but to trust her. Who else could he take?
Still, Amaya was beguilingly lovely. Her features held a certain inviting warmth. Even the hint of her smile had flustered him out of character briefly.
An inexpl
icable tickle from within dulled the bite of constant loneliness. Their meeting had been a uniquely palatable appetizer, though the flavors were unfamiliar. What would it be like to get to know her better?
His eyes rested on the laptop he would use to write the reviews. Words had gotten him everywhere in life, from scholarships to a career that allowed him to dine in restaurants every week at no expense to himself. The only thing they’d never earned him was love. Face-to-face, he fumbled and disgraced himself with women time after time. Some said he was arrogant. Some called him an incomparable jerk. It seemed the harder he tried, the more repulsive women found him. But he couldn’t go back to being a regular Joe. Who would take him seriously? Trapped in a vicious cycle of ambition and loneliness, he wasn’t sure how to get out.
Slipping into slacks and a polo, he slumped back on the creaky sofa and flipped on the television with the remote. The Snickers bar and 7-up from the corner market would hold him for tonight, and Pop-Tarts in the morning would tie him over until he could grab lunch at one of the review assignments. No way would he owe Jenelle anything for food.
The TV screen flashed through various shots of Prime-Time crime scenes or couples locked in steamy embraces. He settled on the local news. For a moment, he pitied the young woman talking enthusiastically about sunbreaks between upcoming showers, but then he remembered his own pathetic assignments of the last two years. A man with his journalistic potential shouldn’t be stuck writing a foodie column, but that was the opening available and the persona he’d been forced to adopt. Living with it gave him indigestion more often than hope for the future.
The weather report cut to a commercial with a newlywed couple talking about home loans. Happy couples irritated him.
Stuffing the last of the Snickers bar in his mouth, he watched Chieko Makiguchi’s feature report on Portland’s “Dining Month”, an annual tradition in March during which restaurants served three-course meals at a discount all over town. It explained the many vouchers he’d received and why the paper wanted a good food critic right away.