The Dancing Groom: Royal Palm Resort (Brady Brother Romances Book 3)

by Taylor Hart

  “But don’t worry. I found rice, and right now my phone is submerged—in rice, not water—so it’ll probably be okay. I mean, I doubt it took me longer than …” His head tossed back and forth. “… four minutes to run up that beach and into there. If I wouldn’t have wasted time running into you and helping you up, I would have gotten the phone in the rice faster. But there was that and then the kitchen staff couldn’t find just the plain rice and then a bowl with a lid.” He threw his hand up again, giving them both a crazy look. “You’d think in a kitchen that size they wouldn’t have a hard time finding a bowl and lid, right?” He slammed a hand down on the table, laughing. “Am I right?”

  The man was clearly hyped up and delirious, lost in his own head. Anger surged inside of her. She knew his type—privileged, entitled. She hated guys like him. “All that talking, and yet I missed the apology somewhere in there.”

  Jax grunted at the guy. “Oh, right. He didn’t apologize.”

  Grateful for Jax’s support, she glared at the guy and stood. “You could have really hurt me back there, and I was starving, and I—” She tapped her chest. “—unlike you, have to work in eight minutes.”

  “Oh, wow.” The guy raked a hand through his hair and then seemed to halfway wake up to his surroundings. “What restaurant is this?”

  She moved away from the table. “Thanks, Jax.”

  “It’s the staff cafeteria, man,” Jax said casually to the jerk, but he turned to her. “You gotta go already?”

  “I do.” She threw the jerk another glare, then smiled at Jax. “Thank goodness there are still a few gentlemen in the world.”

  As she moved through the tables, she heard the guy say, “Dang, that girl has fangs.”

  Chapter 5

  Monday morning, Ty and Boston rushed toward the building where the dance lessons were taught. The Palm was spread out and had little paths that pointed the way toward different tiki huts. Little signs marked the way to areas like surf lessons and tennis lessons, and right now they were on the dance lessons path. Mambo music blared out.

  Boston scowled; he was not in the mood for dance lessons. But Ty was, and Boston had promised.

  Ty was delighted by the line of older people walking into the dance studio, and he began to introduce himself and Boston to all of them.

  “Oh my, the Brady brothers.” An older woman in tights and a black leotard with red lipstick shook their hands. “My name is Mabel, and I just love you two. This is Hank, my husband. We’re the Baxters.”

  “And we’re the Hamiltons. I’m Elise, and that’s Bill.” A different couple pushed their way forward and shook Ty’s hand. She winked at him and then glanced at Boston. “I’ve read all about you two and I know you’re both single, but I can help you change that while you’re here if you want.”

  Boston frowned.

  Bill nudged him. “Don’t worry. She’s harmless.”

  A loud woman’s laugh sounded, and another older lady with a red leotard and grey tights moved from behind Boston. “Elise will try to match you up to everyone.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m Cynthia Olsen, and I make the best meat loaf. You’re coming over.”

  “Who’s coming over?” a loud, raspy voice boomed, and a man walked up to Cynthia’s side.

  Cynthia took the man’s arm. “This is Clyde. He’s my husband and the man who pays for all the meat loaf dinners.”

  Clyde had an unlit cigar in his mouth. He put his hand out to Boston, and they shook. “Nice to meet you.” He looked him up and down. “Glad to see you’re keeping in shape. The Surf need you this year. No skipping out on them.”

  Boston wished the Surf would let his personal life go and base his playing time and upcoming contract on his on-field performance. Speaking of his personal life, Lana had been busy roasting him, and he’d been too busy to fight back.

  Ty was already chatting with the ladies and pointing at someone.

  Boston spoke Surf football with Clyde and filed in, taking note that the class had a lot of people in it, but it felt like it was mostly old people and teenagers. That figured. That’s who stayed at resorts all summer, right?

  “Isn’t this great?” Ty asked him, shaking out his arms like he was about to run a race.

  “Just chill, dude.” Boston would rather be back at his place, doing more exercises. Ty had been like a toddler hyped up on too much sugar, dragging Boston from one activity to the next. He’d insisted on doing all the resort stuff on Saturday—surfing, parasailing, and jet-skiing—and on Sunday he’d insisted on church. Church! Seriously, it was like he was visiting his mother!

  Everyone lined up around the edges of the studio. A tall guy next to the audio equipment who had his back to them said, “Just a sec, folks. Please line up, and we’ll get started in five.”

  Ty decided this was a great time to go around the room and meet everyone individually.

  Boston decided this was the time to awkwardly stand against the wall and check his phone. The constant barrage of trash-talking tweets and Instagram posts from his ex needed to be dealt with. This battle had gotten fiercer than most, and the screen time Boston had in which to defend himself had been extremely limited. He was losing ground fast.

  The most recent picture was of them walking down the street in Miami, his arm around her with a line through his face. “#loserBrady wasted all my time.”

  He took the chance to reply scathingly, then scrolled down to the next post, trying to decide between a snarky response or an unflattering picture of his own.

  He regretted ever dating Lana. She was a supermodel, or making a go of it, anyway. They’d met at a party for the Surf players, and they’d ended up being on again, off again ever since. The thing he liked about her was that she was ambitious and she really pushed him. She was the one who’d helped him see that the Surf didn’t value him, that the coaches were always jerking him around. Now, the uncertainty of his contract negotiations hung over him like a dark cloud. His agent told him the Surf still wanted him, but he wanted to be on a team where he would start. Boston got carries every game—he was too valuable to leave on the bench—but on the Miami Surf, politics decided who got the ball more often than skill.

  So much of the contract talks with his agent had centered on his image, particularly getting his head out of social media and into the game. As if all that affected how he ran the ball or laid down blocks for the QB. Boston suspected they only brought up the social media stuff because they thought it gave them leverage over him.

  The Los Angeles Wave, where his brother Ocean played, was starting to look mighty attractive. But who knew if it would work out. The Wave hadn’t said they wanted him or not. Frustration coursed through him, and he wanted to do something about his career, about Ty … but he was stuck at a beach resort in a “dancing for the very young and very old” class. Talk about having your head in the clouds.

  Ocean had claimed the Wave were concerned about Boston’s baggage. His brother recommended he stay out of the public eye for a while until the contract negotiations were complete. Boston had told him to butt out, and that he was already paying an agent fifteen percent of his income and wasn’t about to overpay anyone else for unwanted advice. He’d keep working on strength and conditioning and prove physically what he was worth.

  Good thing he’d already done a five-mile beach run this morning, following that up with other speed and agility drills on the beach. He thought about more drills he could do when he and Ty were done with the dance class.

  “Okay, time to start.”

  The hum of chatter settled down, and Ty returned to Boston’s side.

  The tall guy smiled at them. “I’m Christian Lopez, and this is Addison Adair.”

  The redhead from the cafeteria incident stepped into the center of the circle of people.

  Boston cursed beneath his breath and stood straighter. From the way her eyes never met his, she knew he was there and was avoiding eye contact on purpose.

  Christian began giving them a r
undown of the dances they would learn and the little “recital” they would have for the resort at the end of two weeks of classes. “Since most of you are staying two weeks, we thought that would be a fun way to showcase your new talents. You don’t have to be in the show, but it will be in the grand ballroom.”

  The redhead’s sharp blue eyes met his, and for a brief second, he felt fire. She turned to Christian and put on what he knew was a fake smile.

  There was something to this woman, something beyond the fire in her eyes, the poise with which she held herself, and the overall near-perfection of her body. Attraction stirred through him, and he found himself feeling like a big, stupid idiot for how he’d behaved the other day, ramming into her and then blabbering on and on and being a total idiot. His brothers would have bludgeoned him for his behavior.

  “What is going on?” Ty whispered, leaning into him.

  “What?” Boston met his eyes, annoyed at how perceptive his brother was.

  Ty nodded to the redhead.

  “Nothing,” he said, a bit forcefully. The last thing he needed was Ty doing something stupid to interfere.

  “Time to partner up. If you don’t have a partner, I brought in extra staff to help fill in the gaps.” Christian whipped his hands together. “Quickly, please.”

  The room started to pair off, and most everyone had a partner. Ty partnered up with an older woman who had a neon pink scarf on her head; he’d been talking to her earlier.

  Boston sighed and looked around the room, staying close to the wall. He checked his phone again, seeing if Lana had responded to his last tweet. Darn, maybe he’d have to sit out dance lessons.

  “My brother needs a partner,” he heard Ty call out.

  Even more irritated, Boston put his phone in his pocket and turned to Ty.

  The head guy, Christian, headed over to them. “Oh, we’re out of matchups. Addison, would you please step in and be this man’s partner?”

  Boston watched the redhead with perfect porcelain skin and the tight spandex move toward him. Her eyes met Boston’s, and a look of reluctance hardened her face. She tugged off her shirt, revealing her tight spandex top.

  He tried not to notice, but it was obvious she had the body of a dancer—lean and athletic with generous curves in all the right places. Her smile was confident and bright, and he’d never seen blue eyes look so fiery.

  She stopped right in front of him, then turned back to face Christian.

  Christian grinned. “Okay, today we are starting with the cha-cha. It’s a classic Cuban dance. Lots of hip action.” He pushed a clicker, and music blared overhead. He started into the move, signaling to Addison. “Let’s give them a sneak peak, and then we’ll break it down.”

  Fluidly, she cha-cha’d over to Christian, and they were both shuffling their feet to “One, Two, Cha Cha Cha.” At first Christian called out the motions, and then they did it without explaining. With a mere hand to her hip, she exploded in twirls, and Christian followed with ease. It was like her hips had come unhinged as they swayed back and forth in time with the beat. They danced for a full minute before he stopped, smiling at her.

  The room clapped, jolting Boston from a trance. The woman, Addison, was an artist. The music and her body were her paint and easel, and Boston had just seen an effortless masterpiece.

  She curtsied, and Christian cut the music.

  Boston didn’t understand why he felt jealous of these two. He wondered if they were together. For all intents and purposes, they seemed to enjoy each other’s company.

  Christian nodded. “Let’s get on with it. Please face the mirror, everyone. First: men, follow me.” With the clicker in his hand, he turned the music back on.

  Addison came back to Boston’s side and started into the dance moves.

  He stared at Christian and followed along.

  “Not bad,” she said, not looking directly at him.

  His eyes met hers in the mirror. He shrugged. At least she wasn’t as cross with him now as she had been two days earlier.

  Christian kept doing the move. “When you’re comfortable doing the basic step, you can practice with your partner.” He signaled to the audio equipment. “Shelly, do you want to join me so they can watch us?”

  A brunette girl moved to Christian and started dancing with him.

  Before Boston knew what had happened, Addison took his hands and faced him, perfunctorily going into the cha-cha in front of him. He looked down at her hands. She had grabbed his so effortlessly, confidently. After days of battling in a virtual arena, he found that this woman felt so … real.

  She glared at him. “Darn, no wet clothes today?” Her tone was clipped and her lips pinched into a line.

  This whole dancing thing had just gotten a whole lot more interesting, and Boston was up for a challenge. His lip twitched up into a slight smile. “Look, I’m sorry about that.”

  “Nope,” she said quickly, looking away from him. “Please don’t apologize when you don’t mean it.”

  He let out a light laugh, partly because this woman was so brutal and partly because she was right. The search for rice had been a true emergency, and she seemed to be purposefully trying to not sympathize with that.

  She tugged his hand, and he found himself following her into more difficult steps of the cha-cha. Unsure if she only wanted to embarrass him or what, Boston went along. She seemed genuinely surprised when he could follow her perfectly.

  Her eyebrows lifted. “You dance?”

  He grunted, keeping pace with her as she tugged him gently away from the group and began raising the level of difficulty in the dance. It had been a while since he’d taken advanced ballroom in college. His football coach had recommended attention to footwork, and dancing had been the recommendation, which worked for him because his mother had loved dancing. So, he’d enjoyed it.

  “Yes, I dance, but I’m a football player. Professional,” he made sure to add. “Freight Train is my handle on most social media, if you want to look me up.” Couldn’t waste this opportunity for her to run back to the staff quarters and google him. So what if he liked to see the number of Twitter followers rise? People who had met him in real life commented and retweeted more than strangers.

  She outright laughed. “Oh man, it’s deep in here.” She shook her head. “Just so you know, I don’t watch football. Oh, and I’m not on social media. So I don’t care about your handle.”

  Her outright hatred perplexed him. “It usually takes a couple of dates for the woman to hate me. So, if don’t mind my asking, what exactly have I done to you?”

  The music was finishing, and she did a dramatic twirl and he caught her by the hip as she threw out a hand in a finishing flourish. Her glare deepened.

  The room burst out in applause, startling him. Honestly, he’d forgotten that anyone else was there.

  As he brought her around, squaring her up again, he felt the heel of her foot jam into his toe. “Ow,” he said, releasing her.

  Dramatically, she flashed a smile to him and put her hands up together, motioning to him. “He’s amazing. It’s all him.”

  The class clapped louder.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” announced Christian, “if you didn’t just see the awesome display, we’re graced for the next three weeks to have Addison Adair as a guest instructor at the resort. As most of you will remember, she was on Dancing with the Stars for three years. She’s an expert dancer and she can make anyone look good.”

  Boston swiveled to face Christian. She had not made him “look” anything; he was good!

  Christian put his arm around Addison. “I’m happy to announce I’ll be her partner for her tryout with Jive, an international dance company.” He pulled her in, and Boston again felt jealous. “Let’s keep going. Back to your partners.”

  The rest of the class got back into position. Addison sauntered back over to him.

  The cha-cha music came back on, and Christian called out instructions to the class.

  They start
ed dancing again. Unfortunately, the cha-cha wasn’t a close, intimate dance. Still going hand to hand with Addison and moving in sync with her made this morning better than he ever expected.

  “My foot is fine, thanks for asking.”

  She was quiet for a moment, then met his eyes and laughed. “Seems like a pro football player could take a lot more than a little foot stomp.”

  Chapter 6

  Addison stood in the dance studio, sweat dripping off of her. It was almost midnight.

  “Should we call it a night?” Christian asked, wiping his brow and sucking down water.

  They’d been practicing since seven. Addison felt like the tryout dance was coming along. It was good, but she needed it to be more than good—she needed it to be superb. “Uh, probably.” She was grateful to have such a devoted partner. She’d only been out of the world of professional dancing for two years, but in dance speak, it might as well have been forever.

  Christian grinned. “Ads, you’re doing good. You’re going to nail this tryout, and you’re going to be traveling around the world again.”

  When she thought of being back on the dance company and doing what she loved, she was excited but also worried, because part of her couldn’t believe she was back at the beginning. Early in her career, it had been different. It went beyond her physical fitness, which required more work now than ever. The fire—or juice, as she liked to think of it—was stronger back then. It was hard to put a finger on, but it was more magical the first time around, and who couldn’t use a little magic in something like dance?

  She shut off the stereo and shut it off, then unplugged her charging cord and slipped it and her phone into her dance backpack.

  Christian walked with her toward the door.

  “Thanks again for doing this.”

  Christian waved a dismissive hand. “You’re welcome. I didn’t realize how out of shape I’d gotten working here.”

  “You?” Addison could see how easy it would be, not to get out of shape, but to relax. “I seriously love all these people.” Her mind flashed to the dance lesson early in the day. All of them were easy to love—except one.