by Scott, Lisa
However, the women were wearing front-of-the-closet-stuff. She frowned at her bottom-of-the-dresser-drawer wardrobe. Then she shrugged it off. What did it matter what she looked like? This was the kind of thinking she was trying to change.
She was laying out her tools when the chatter stopped, and the women focused their attention to the front of the room, where a man was setting down his things at the first table. Giddy whispers passed between the women, and Lori took a second look at the him. Robert Redford meets Kevin Costner, she thought to herself. She’d assumed the guy teaching the class would be older and unattractive, not a movie star stunt double.
That explained why the women looked like they were off to happy hour instead of an adult education class. For a moment, her imagination went wild, picturing a lewd moment with the man on an unfinished couch. She closed her eyes and shook it off. I’m here for the furniture, not teacher-eye-candy.
The instructor introduced himself. “I’m Tom Murphy from the Take Cover upholstery shop in town. And tonight we’re going to strip.”
That got some laughter and hoots. “I recognize some familiar faces. I’m glad to see so many of you taking the class again. Let’s review the steps for reupholstering a piece of furniture, then you can get to work removing the old fabric, and I’ll come around and take a look at what you’re all working on.” His grin was mesmerizing, even when she was sitting at the back of the room. Well, she was not going to be taken in by him. She had to build up her immunity to uber-hotties. She focused on her chair and removing the old brocade fabric.
Nervous giggles and chatter followed Tom as he made the rounds. Lori rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness, as she struggled to remove the faded material. She was swearing to herself when Tom approached her table. She didn’t stop working.
“Nice piece,” he said.
She looked up and got lost for a moment in his amber eyes. Apparently, giving up guys would be a baby-step process. She blew out a deep breath and looked back at her chair. “Thanks. Family heirloom. No pressure, right?”
He laughed and smoothed his hands along the legs—the chair’s, not hers. But she wouldn’t have minded. He was nearing forty, with sandy blond hair dashed with a bit of gray; one of those guys who gets cuter with time, and older than anyone she’d ever dated. Didn’t matter though. She wouldn’t be dating him.
“These legs should be refinished before you start.” Somehow, his voice made him even more handsome.
Lori groaned. “I don’t know how to do that. Is it hard?”
He handed her a card. “Stop by my workshop with the chair before next week’s class and I’ll show you.”
She grinned. “Thanks.” And that was not a date; it was a business appointment. Look at me—totally following my resolution.
***
Harper tried once more to move her hips to the left, and then reverse them to the right, but she kept stumbling, while the dozen or so women around her were getting the hang of it immediately, moving like Egyptian goddesses.
Vivienne, the tiny sixty-something instructor, smiled kindly at her, coming over and setting her hands on Harper’s hips, gently guiding her movements. “Relax, let it come to you. You’ll get the hang of it.” She patted Harper’s hip.
“Thanks.” Harper tried to let her body move with the mesmerizing music, but it wasn’t cooperating. It was ridiculous. She should be able to move in time with the music, and follow the beat. There’s math involved, just count out the beats! It’s like a moving math problem. She wondered if it too late to join Claire for scuba lessons. Jutting her hip to the left and stumbling a bit, she realized everyone else had stopped dancing. Am I that bad?
But everyone in the room was staring towards the door. A tall, dark-haired guy stood there, rubbing the back of his head while he studied his feet.
Vivienne smiled at him. “Are you Patrick?”
He looked up at her and forced a smile. “Yes, I am.”
“Excellent. You’re my first male student. I thought maybe your registration was a joke.”
He laughed. “More like a lost bet.”
“Well, we’re happy to have you here. Join us and come back here. I’ll show you what you’ve missed.”
Patrick walked to the back of the room and took the spot next to Harper. He smiled at her, and she gave him a quick grin, before looking down. She was certain she was blushing like an eleven-year-old caught gawking at her lab partner.
“Alright, let’s begin again. Roll your hips like a figure eight. Patrick, follow my moves.” Vivienne stood in front of him and rolled her hips.
Patrick took a deep breath, set his hands on his hips and jerked through the movements. Harper fought back a grin. It was nice no longer being the worst student in class. Patrick grimaced and looked over at her. He laughed and shook his head.
Vivienne walked behind him and guided his hips just like she had with Harper. Unlike Harper, though, he was actually getting the hang of it once Vivienne showed him the way. Harper stopped dancing and crossed her arms, watching him.
He looked over and shrugged. “Lord of the Dance. Who knew?”
Vivienne went back to the front of the room and told the group to stop for a water break. “Thank god,” Harper whispered.
“What, did you lose a bet, too?” Patrick asked her.
She laughed. “No, this was all my idea. My girlfriend’s and I decided to…” Nibbling her lip, she was reluctant to admit she’d had such bad luck with men that she was giving them up for a while. She felt like a tipsy college student taking a break from all-night keggers. “We all decided to try something new for our New Year’s resolution. And I picked belly dancing lessons.” She sighed. “Let’s just say I’m not a natural.”
“Wow, so you did this on purpose.” He shook his head. “I lost a bet on New Year’s, and here I am. Apparently, I can’t drink like I could back in my college days.” He held out his hand. “Patrick Dunn.”
“Harper Reese.” Her fingertips tingled as she shook his hand. “So, are you taking all six weeks of classes?”
He shrugged, looking her up and down. “It’s not as bad as I thought. I’ll be back next week. I’m pretty sure the guys at the office have a bet on how long I’ll last. What about you?”
She twisted her fingers behind her back. “I figure my friends will be expecting a belly dancing recital or something. I’ve got to come back.”
He grinned. “Glad to hear it.”
Feeling a flush creep up her neck, Harper snapped her head away and Vivienne called the class back to order. When the music started again, she peeked at Patrick; then stumbled to the side, right into him.
He steadied her with big hands wrapped around her waist. If this were Dirty Dancing, he’d pick her up and spin her around over his head. She stepped back from him at that thought; it certainly wouldn’t end well. She was a feet-on-the-floor kind of girl. But still, being in his arms was nice. She sucked in a breath and resumed her pathetic flailing about.
It seemed that belly dancing class had just gotten ten times harder with Patrick around.
And just as exciting.
***
Claire admired her new one-piece bathing suit in the locker room mirror before she headed out to the pool area. Jumping into the pool with a bikini could lead to a wardrobe malfunction, and you never knew who was lurking around with a cell phone camera, looking to upload the next viral YouTube video.
She hadn’t worn a one-piece since she spent her childhood summers in her friend Ginny’s backyard pool playing Marco Polo. Then she tried to remember the last time she’d actually gone swimming at the beach, and her memories were reaching back to the pre-teen years. No matter. She could totally do this.
Walking out into the pool area, she was pleased to see no hot men had registered for the course. There was a husband and wife, preparing for a Caribbean vacation, two women in their fifties, and a couple of geeky college guys eyeing her up. Another good reason to have opted for the one-piece.
> The course was highly rated online, and she was eager to meet their instructor, a retired Navy SEAL in his sixties; no threat to the resolution, there. Stan Worthington introduced himself to the group, showed them the equipment they’d be using and would have to buy or rent before the third lesson, and then lined them up for the required swimming skills test.
“I need to see that you can tread water for ten minutes, swim two-hundred yards—your choice of stroke—and swim the length of the pool underwater without coming up for air.
Claire’s hand shot in the air and wiggled her fingers. “Excuse me?”
“Yes?” Stan didn’t sound pleased to have been interrupted.
“I didn’t see that mentioned in the course description. Are you sure that’s a requirement? Underwater all the way?”
“It’s a requirement in my class. If you can’t swim underwater the length of the pool, you have no business being scuba diving in the ocean.”
Claire gulped and nodded. When she and Ginny had hold-your-breath-underwater contests, Ginny had always won. And Ginny was two years younger! Suddenly, she realized a wardrobe malfunction was the least of her worries.
Claire stood at the end of the line, watching each student dive in and swim to the other length of the pool, no sweat. Her heart sped up as her turn approached. She took swimming lessons a few times at the rec. center one summer. You can do this, you can do this.
Finally, it was her turn. Standing in front of the pool with her toes curling over the edge, she took a deep breath and dove in, although it felt more like a belly flop. Her chest was tight as she pulled herself through the water with some sort of underwater breast-stroke. She didn’t know how far she’d gotten before her lungs felt like they would burst, but she knew she wasn’t at the end. Her head popped up out of the water and she heard a whistle blow as she gasped for air.
“You’re going to have to try that again next week,” the teacher shouted.
She was distracted for the rest of the class, not paying close attention to the safety protocols he was reviewing. As the students filed toward the locker room, the teacher stopped her. “Listen, if you can’t pass that swim test, I can’t certify you. And there will be a quiz on the safety steps I went through today. I can see you’ve got yourself a pretty new bathing suit, but this isn’t a pool party. You need to pay attention.”
Claire felt her cheeks redden. “Okay, sir. Yes, sir.” Feeling like a delinquent high-school teen, she scuttled off to the locker room. She changed, blow dried her hair until it was just damp, and decided she needed a drink.
She stopped off at the club where they’d spent New Year’s Eve. The same bartender was there, and she hoped he didn’t remember her; they’d been a tad obnoxious that night, as far as she could recall.
She sat down at the bar and he slid a cocktail napkin in front of her. “Are you up for another lonely-tini?”
She wrinkled her nose. “So you remember that. No, I need more of a drown-my-sorrows-tini.” Although drown probably wasn’t the best word after her performance in the pool. “Something to wash down embarrassment and regret.” Because even after one lesson, she was regretting the deal she’d made with the girls. She remembered quite vividly now she did not like to swim and that she did like men—a lot. Especially men with pale blue eyes and dark hair, like the bartender smiling at her.
He rubbed his chin. “Embarrassment and regret. I’ve got just the thing for you—only if you tell me what’s got you embarrassed and full of regret.”
She rested her chin in her hand. “I signed up for scuba diving lessons, and I hate it. I can’t swim very well, and my instructor is this mean Navy SEAL dude.”
“So quit.”
She put her hands on her hips, imitating her mother’s voice as well as she could. “The Penningtons aren’t quitters. Try and try again, that’s our motto.” She rolled her eyes. “Plus my friends and I all made this New Year’s resolution to try new things instead of…” She shrugged and let her sentence trail off, embarrassed to admit what they’d agreed to.
But he finished the sentence for her. “Give up guys, right?”
Her eyes widened. “How did you know?
He laughed. “You toasted to it, like, five times.” He shrugged and wiped down the bar. “Plus, you inspired me to give up women for a while.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Sounds like there’s a good story there.”
He shrugged. “No different than yours, I’m sure. I’m just sick of the scene, being disappointed when relationships go nowhere. It’s a big relief, actually.”
“You think so? I’m counting down the days until it’s over, believe me.”
He leaned against the bar. “You think you can last?”
“If I don’t drown in scuba class, first.”
He smiled and her knees felt weak even though she wasn’t standing. Sitting across from a hot guy at a bar was a bad place to be for a gal giving up guys.
He held out his hand. “Nate Johnson, and I’m here every Thursday if you’d rather jump into a martini than the pool.”
She raised an eyebrow and shook his hand. “Claire Pennington, and that’s good to know. I have a feeling I’m going to get to know you well.”
***
Lori wandered into Tom’s reupholstering workshop two days before her next class. It was located right next to her favorite flower shop in town, Your Heart’s Desire. She wondered how often Your Heart’s Desire had to make deliveries to their handsome neighbor next door. He was chatting with a customer, and his smile blew her away from across the room. If she hadn’t given up guys, she would totally be preparing a flirty line or two.
Instead, she blew out her breath, shook off the lusty feelings and carried her chair over to him. She looked around at furniture in all different states of completion. It looked like business was booming for him, and she’d bet a bundle most of his customers were women.
“So, I have no idea how to strip,” she said, turning red as she realized how that sounded. “The wood, I mean. Strip the wood.” She coughed. “The wood.” Man, now she was turning redder.
He was gracious enough not to laugh. “It’s not too hard.” Now his cheeks were turning pink. He shook it off. “Let me show you, so you can do it yourself next time. You can use a chemical remover, but I like to use a disc sander. You’ve got to be careful, though, not to damage the wood.”
He turned on a small sander and buzzed it quickly over the legs, removing most of the stain. “Now we’re going to go over this with fine sandpaper. Let me show you the proper technique.”
“Okay. I’m all about technique.” The words came out in a sexy tone. She gritted her teeth. Was she programmed to automatically flirt with a handsome man? Was she helpless to stop?
He looked at her. “Glad to hear it. Technique’s important for a lot of things.” He gave her a piece of sandpaper, and set his hand over hers, guiding it along, moving with the grain of the wood. She hated how nice his hand felt on top of hers. His hand was big and strong, and the tips of his fingers felt rough. That would be an interesting sensation along her stomach, or her inner thigh.
She closed her eyes and tried to fight the feeling.
He let her finish the final leg, and she took a step back, admiring her work. “Beautiful, ” he said, but he wasn’t looking at the chair; he was staring at her. Then he checked his watch. “It’s just about closing time. Let’s get the stain on this, and then would you like to join me for dinner? I can tell you all about webbing stretchers.”
That would be important to know, she told herself. Sort of like extra credit and not at all like a date. A field trip. Yes, that’s what it was. “Sure. I need to know all I can about webbing stretchers.”
***
They lingered over burgers and shakes at the diner down the street, laughing and talking until the waitress practically shooed them out into the snowy night.
She discovered that they both loved horror films, golden retrievers, and stout beer—and they
did actually talk about webbing stretchers. For two minutes. When he walked her to her car, she realized there was definitely a spark between them. But she took a step back. “Thanks, Tom. That was fun.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I can give you a personal lesson on channel tins this Saturday if you’re interested.” It was probably a reupholstering term, but the way he said it made her shiver.
Man, no wonder all his students returned for a second session. She frowned. “I’m sorry, I can’t.” She wasn’t about to explain why she couldn’t, and she wasn’t about to break the girls’ resolution. It had been her idea, for crying out loud.
He looked surprised, then resigned. “Okay. I’ll bring your chair to class. See you in a few days, Lori.”
***
Vivienne handed out flashy gold-coin belts to the belly dancing class. “Now you can hear your hips shaking. A little inspiration to get your groove on.”
That just didn’t sound right coming from sweet little Vivienne. Harper tied hers on and swished her hips. Patrick waltzed past her with an exaggerated sexy sway, his gold coins clinking against each other.
“Show off,” Harper teased. “Are your friends shocked you came back for another lesson?”
“I think they were considering joining when I told them about all the hot women in class.”
“I don’t think you could handle Vivienne,” she teased.
“Redheads are more my speed,” he said, staring at her hair.
She hoped her face wasn’t turning a similar color. Luckily, the music started and she turned away from him.
At the end of the class, she tried to hurry to her car and avoid any more flirty talk with him. She would not break this resolution. But Patrick caught up to her. “Hey, wanna grab a drink?”