Hasty (Do-Over Book 4)

by Julia Kent

  And ends with:

  See you there, Mary.

  Mary. I know, right? It’s my real middle name. Using Mary is cheating, a little. But Hastings Monahan is so well known, it'll make guys run away if they know I'm me.

  Mallory and Perky can't be right. My sister might be gullible enough to get taken in by a conversion consultant, but not me.

  In spite of my disbelief, I type Steve a message:

  This is going to sound crazy, but this is a real date, right? Not some come-on to convince me to sign up for dance lessons.

  Instantly, three dots appear:

  Who does that? That's even creepier than guys who send dick pics. He adds an eggplant emoji.

  I laugh.

  Is that a way to soften me up for an incoming photo? I reply.

  No incoming photo from me would involve softening.

  The gasp that comes out of me is a mix of amusement and horror. He's not out of line; it's clever and a little seductive, if crude. I started this, and he finished it.

  LOL is all I can respond with. Being out of the dating pool for ten years means these particular networking skills are rusty. My wedding ring and marital status shielded me in my line of work, offering a thin veneer of protection against overeager guys ready to put my negotiating skills to the test.

  On my knees or on my back.

  Nothing about my pics would make you laugh–if I were the kind of creep to send them. But I'm not. Looking forward to meeting you tonight, Mary. Get ready to tango. :)

  Crazy. Mal and Perky are crazy.

  And Steve is perfect for my first venture back into the meat market from hell we call dating.

  I haven’t been on a date with anyone except Burke in more than ten years.

  There is a portion of the brain that shuts off when you commit to someone. Somewhere deep inside all of us–or at least those of us who are not asexual or aromantic–there’s a section of the brain dedicated wholly to tracking and analyzing attractive people.

  I’m a heterosexual woman, so for me, that means men.

  And a man in a business suit is one of the most attractive creatures on the planet.

  These days, I’ve been combing over my past with Burke, wondering what I found attractive in him. It’s not hard to understand. Plenty of other women competed with me for his attentions, but I won.

  I won.

  Lucky me, right?

  Even worse, I thought I won.

  But I didn't.

  I’m wearing a short skirt with layers that swirl, but I wonder if I should change into jeans. I contemplate the fact that the last time I had a first date, Facebook didn’t run advertisements and Instagram didn’t even exist.

  Swiping left or right was something you did while reading a print magazine or washing a window.

  “Where’re you going?” Dad asks as I walk down the stairs, headed for the door.

  “Out.” I halt, swallowing my pride. “Can I, uh, use your car?”

  “Of course!” he says, pointing to the keys hanging from a rack by the door.

  “You look really nice, honey,” Mom says, popping up behind him. They’re going over cookbooks, trying to decide what to make together tonight. “I guess you won’t be here for dinner?” Mom asks.

  “No. I’m going out on a da—”

  Dad smiles. “A date?”

  “No. A dance lesson.”

  “Dance lesson?” Mom says. “Is it Mallory’s wedding party?”

  “No,” I tell her. “I’m just going for an extra one. I missed some of the classes they went to,” I choke out, relieved Mom gave me an excuse without realizing it.

  Two blank stares greet me.

  “Oh,” Dad says finally, his voice a bit hollow. “Okay.”

  The look they give each other tells me that neither of them believes a word out of my mouth, but we’re going to play this game of pretend.

  By the time I pull into the parking lot at the address Steve gave me, my heart sinks.

  Bailargo. Huh.

  I’m more nervous than I expected. I decided to go on a date because I need my life to be orderly again. The boxes need to be checked off. Events need to fit into categories. Emotions need to line up in straight lines and right angles–not agitated scribbles.

  And this first date needs to be with someone who does not know me. Being Hastings Monahan, that woman from the “guy who ripped off all those people” story, is an identity I want to shed, even if it's just for a few hours.

  I need to find a way through the madness of the last few months.

  Job? Check.

  Money coming in? Check.

  Safe place to live? Check.

  Touching a man not named Ian McCrory?

  Working on it now.

  Call it whatever you wish. A booty call. A friend with benefits. A boyfriend. You pick the term–any term but husband. Not going anywhere near that one, ever again.

  This time, I need to pick the right guy.

  This time, I won’t make the same mistake I made with Burke.

  This time, I will have con men on my radar.

  No one is going to put one over on me, ever again.

  The parking lot is surprisingly full, about fifteen cars parked randomly. For a dance studio, I assume that’s a lot.

  I walk up the stairs of the old Victorian house painted in bright red, white, and black. In San Francisco, where the Victorians are so carefully preserved, something like this would be considered a monstrosity.

  Here, though, it’s quaint.

  The smell of linseed oil and lemon assaults me the second I open the door, and as I go down the hallway, wondering exactly where I sign in, I hear people laughing joyfully. It’s contagious.

  I smile.

  This is the life people were living while I was working so hard, 24/7. Meanwhile, these people were coming to dance lessons after finishing a day at the office, standing in groups, munching on cookies, drinking lemonade, waiting to spend an hour just moving their bodies and learning how to do it better.

  This is what I was missing when Burke sneered at the idea of doing anything other than networking, keeping his body in peak shape with gym routines–a body he slowly stopped sharing with me.

  I’ve been here before with Mallory, but it was brief and I didn’t stay for the dance lesson, so I’m not sure how this all works. I walk into the ballroom. There’s a small table to the left.

  “Hello, hello!” says a man with black, slicked-back hair and a Spanish accent. “Are you here for the DANCE?” he shouts, as if the word dance is in all capital letters.

  “I’m here for the dance lesson, but I’m waiting for my date.”

  A mask of neutrality falls across the man’s otherwise expressive face. “Your date?”

  “Yes. His name is Steve.”

  “Steve.” Again, that weird change in tone. “Is this by any chance your first date with him?”

  I look at the man’s name tag. It says Philippe, and then just the word Owner underneath his name. “Yes, Philippe. It is my first date with Steve.”

  A woman behind me taps me on the shoulder. “I’m here for a first date with Steve, too.”

  “What a coincidence,” I say coolly, uncertain why she would care to share that with me, a spike of competition making my blood prickly.

  Another woman is on the periphery, to my right. She leans forward and says to Philippe, “She’s another one, isn’t she?”

  “What are you all talking about?”

  Philippe’s shoulders droop as he stands smoothly, with the muscles of a dancer, preparing for a verbal declaration.

  “What is your name, dear? Did you register in advance?” he asks, picking up a clipboard.

  “Yes. I registered as Mary Monahan.”

  “I am sorry, Ms. Monahan. Monahan? Are you related to Mallory Monahan?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I do not remember you.”

  “I’m her sister.”

  “Oh! You are the bitch!” He cl
aps his hand over his own mouth. “Excuse me, my accent. I meant to say, the beach, the beach. You know, the sand? Ocean? The–”

  I stop him before he embarrasses himself even further.

  “It’s fine. I don’t consider that word an insult. But what’s going on with Steve? Why are three of us on dates with a guy named Steve?” An alarm bell starts in my mind, pinging back to when Perky and Mallory tried to warn me about the conversion consultant.

  “There is a man who works for our corporate office. His name is David.”

  The alarm bell turns into a gong.

  “David?” I ask.

  “Yes, David, and he uses dating apps to lure innocent women such as yourself—”

  I snort.

  He corrects himself. “–sophisticated women such as yourself to come here for first dates. He thinks that it will increase the number of women who will sign up for paid lessons.”

  “And does it work?” I ask.

  “It does,” he admits, studying me nervously, clearly expecting me to fall apart. I'm absolutely mortified, more that Mallory and Perky were right than that I've been taken in by a guy who flirted with me using an eggplant emoji.

  Steve is nothing more than a salesperson. I'm a number to hit quota.

  But I'm too proud to let my emotional reaction show. The guy who runs this dance studio does not get to pity me, too.

  “That’s genius!” I say brightly, meaning it, too.

  Philippe clearly does not expect that response from me, his hand going to the base of his throat, splayed flat, as if he’s protecting his heart.

  “Excuse me?” he says. “Most women are in tears when they find out.”

  “I’m not most women, Philippe. I know a good strategic business mind when I see one.”

  “Of course you do,” says a deep voice behind me.

  I turn around to stare into the deep brown eyes of Ian McCrory.

  “That’s what you’re known for, Hastings,” he adds.

  “I am known for a hell of a lot more than that these days. What are you doing here?” I ask him, secretly thrilled but trying hard not to show it. If he seemed like a creepy stalker before, when he was trying to get me to work for him, that perspective has shifted in me.

  I'm deeply curious about how and why he keeps finding me all over town, but it's exciting, too.

  “Why are you here?” he counters.

  I pause. If I tell him the truth, then he knows that I’m dating, but even worse than that, he knows that I fell for the con.

  Again.

  I fell for the con.

  My blood starts to pound, a ringing in my ears that I know all too well. If I wait much longer, I’m going to faint, so I take a few steps to the refreshment table and pretend that I’m pouring myself a glass of lemonade. I perform the actual action. I just have no intention of drinking it.

  A quick sip does the trick in terms of keeping my mouth busy.

  “She’s taking a DANCE lesson, of course,” Philippe says, jumping to my rescue. “Her sister is getting married soon, and Mary is coming here to learn.”

  And then, damned if Philippe doesn’t turn and wink at me. Does he know? Can he tell I’m attracted to Ian? What the hell is going on?

  “Mary?”

  “My middle name. Hastings Mary Monahan.”

  “Your initials are 'hmm'?”

  Oh, the rumbling sound he makes when he says it that way.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Ian's eyes twinkle with amusement. His beard has about two days' growth, dark and thick, giving his mouth a luscious, rugged look.

  “What is your point, Ian?”

  “That’s why you’re here? For a dance lesson?” Ian asks, giving me an annoying yet adorable grin.

  “Of course,” I say, grateful for Philippe’s intervention.

  “I thought you were here because Steve lured you, just like the rest of us who got suckered into this ridiculous first-date dance-lesson crap,” says the woman to my right.

  Ian looks like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “Steve did a number on you, too?”

  I narrow my eyes. “How do you know about Steve?”

  “Because he works for me.”

  “He works for you?”

  “My company owns Nationwide Dance Studios. Bailargo is part of it.”

  Philippe’s whole demeanor changes. “Ian... Ian McCrory? Oh, Mr. McCrory, it is an honor to have you here!”

  Philippe can’t see Ian’s face from where he’s standing, but I can, and Ian rolls his eyes.

  “Why don’t you stay for my DANCE lesson? You can see exactly what we do here in our beautiful Bailargo.”

  Ian’s eyes don’t move. They’re focused entirely on me. “Great idea, Philippe. Give me a chance to understand one of my holdings on a deeper level. I’d like to get to know all of my employees much better.”

  His words aren’t for Philippe.

  “I thought you were out of the country,” I venture, still trying to comprehend the sudden appearance of Ian McCrory at Bailargo, of all places.

  “I was. But now I’m here.”

  Clap, clap!

  Philippe calls the class to order. A young woman in an A-line skirt chats with the two other women who were brought here by Steve. I grab Ian’s bicep. It’s like holding onto a piece of iron.

  “You really employ conversion consultants who go on dating apps and lure women into free trials at companies that you own?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re not even trying to deny it?”

  “No.”

  Could he be any hotter?

  “Have you ever thought of doing it with the opposite gender?”

  “What?”

  “Have women do it?”

  “Women setting up fake first dates to lure a guy to a dance studio? That would never work.”

  “No, Ian. Gyms. Dates at the fitness center. Free weights. Spin centers. Don’t you own a chain of gyms?”

  “Yeah, but—” The lightbulb goes on in his expression. “Hastings, that’s an amazing idea!”

  “Of course it is. I came up with it.”

  His eyes drift to my hand on his arm.

  “There’s just one problem.” I continue, pulling back, folding my arms, and staring at him.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s slimy. You’re trifling with people’s emotions.”

  His mouth drops open just slightly, lips parting. He pokes his tongue between them and licks. A flame rises up between my legs, traveling to my eyelids.

  “Trifling with people’s emotions,” he says, echoing my words. “Since when did Hastings Monahan care about emotions?”

  “Since I was a sucker in one of the biggest cons in U.S. history. Now apparently I’m a sucker in your tiny little con.”

  “It’s not a con.”

  “Yes, it is, Ian.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it’s—”

  Clap, clap!

  The dance lesson is about to begin.

  “Partner up!” Philippe says, looking straight at Ian and smiling at me. “You two have already found each other. Good, good. It’s very clear that there’s a spark between you.”

  I laugh, but Ian doesn’t, instead giving me a smoldering look. One hand reaches out, expecting me to clasp it.

  “I guess we’re partners, then,” he says softly, seriously, broad shoulders creating shadows as the setting sun glints through one of the tall windows.

  “I guess we are.”

  The moment he touches me, everything around us fades. His palm rests lightly on my waist, sending electric shocks all the way into my soul. His hand slides to the small of my back and pulls me in, and my own hands don’t know quite what to do.

  Obviously, I’ve danced with men before. I’ve danced with Burke for countless hours at networking events, weddings, cocktail parties, where the socially appropriate thing to do is to couple off, move onto the dance floor, and prete
nd that you know what you’re doing.

  Burke used dancing to read a room.

  Ian is reading me.

  “Have you never danced before, Hastings?” Ian asks, an amused smile tickling his lips. He’s taller than me, even when I’m wearing these heels, and it’s nice.

  So nice. Burke was about my height.

  Awkward, I reach out, my right hand brushing against his hip, resting tentatively above his belt, the weight of his thick muscles pressed against my palm. His hand reaches for mine, and my left hand goes up to his shoulder. There, the connection is done, the circle of our arms making our bodies an endless loop.

  I swallow hard, suddenly nervous, as if I’m at an eighth-grade dance again and I don’t know what to do with myself. Maybe that’s who I am now, someone awkward, someone in transition, desperately hoping that the world really can give me everything I want.

  The music starts, and Ian begins to move. The gentle glide of my body being led is a relief. He knows how to do this, his grace so arousing that I have to look away, staring at a distant spot over his shoulder, before my face betrays me.

  “Excellent!” Philippe calls out, the only word that I catch because the pounding of my blood in my ears is like the waves of the ocean just after a storm.

  “You’re good,” Ian says. “You know what to do with your body when I touch you.”

  “Switch partners!” Philippe shouts. But Ian doesn’t move, his hands still on me, eyes boring into mine. If we weren’t in public, I swear he would lean down and try to kiss me.

  Instead, I step back, breaking the connection. A little old man with slumped shoulders and a white beard that reminds me of Santa Claus taps Ian on the shoulder. He moves his hands and turns, staring down at the diminutive gentleman.

  “Hey, buddy,” the man says in an accent I can’t quite pinpoint. “She’s my girl now.”

  Ian laughs, a sound of joy, his hands on his hips as four women all cluster around him, each vying to be the next partner. A soft, dry hand takes mine as I find myself staring directly into the bright blue eyes of—

  “Dancy. My name’s Dancy,” the old man says. “And you are?”

  “Hastings.”

  “Hastings? Anyone ever call you Hasty?” he asks.

  “No, never.”

  Laughter bursts out of him as his palm goes to my back, the other takes my hand, and I do the same. It’s jolting, really, to go from Ian to this guy. But as he moves me across the floor, I’m stunned by Dancy’s elegance.