Ooh La La

by Doreen Alsen

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Simon said, intent on making a quick getaway. He slipped off the barstool, hand in his pocket to pull out his phone. He’d already put Veronica’s number into his contacts, that’s how hopeful he felt about the whole situation. He put up the collar of his black leather bomber jacket as he stepped outside to The End Zone’s porch. He hit her number and waited.

  “Hello, you’ve reached Veronica Cooke,” answered a very formal, prim voice. “I’m unable to take your call but please leave a message at the tone and I’ll get back to you.” Beep!

  He smiled. Everyone else said wait for the beep. Veronica was all wait for the tone.

  “Yeah, hey, Veronica. I was able to find someone to cover for me, so if you still want me to go with you to the Gala, I’m ready, willing, and able. Let me know. And the dance lessons, too.”

  He clicked off and thought about his gorgeous brunette with sea foam eyes.

  He was ready, willing, and able all right.

  ****

  “Are you going to answer that?” The ever-elegant Andi Kelly asked Veronica.

  Veronica’s face burned as she looked at the caller ID display. Simon!

  She’d call him later. “Nothing I have to deal with now.” She slipped the phone into her purse. She made a decision and scrunched her nose. “Just my mother.”

  The other women at the table nodded in sympathy.

  Veronica’s mother was well known for her rigidity and intolerance. If she didn’t approve of someone’s family tree from the time of Cain and Abel, she had no use for that person. She, of course, could trace her lineage to the First Comers, in particular Francis Cooke, one of the Pilgrims who came to America on the Mayflower.

  Whatever.

  Veronica was meeting with her friends on the Gala committee at Hope Monahan’s restaurant to put the finishing touches on the menu and number of people. Hope’s was a small earth-to-table restaurant, the atmosphere homey and cozy, the food world class. Due to the cold snowy weather, the fireplace in the bar roared as it provided warmth for Hope’s patrons.

  “Good evening, ladies! I come bearing pastry.” Hope appeared with a sampler platter of candy colored, heart-shaped delights. Each had a little slogan on it, just like those Valentine candy hearts. “Since the Gala is so close to Valentine’s Day, I wanted to play with that theme. They’re a mix of both sweet and savory. Let me know which ones you like best.”

  Gina Ross inhaled and closed her eyes. “Omigawd. These smell amazing.”

  “Let me get some plates.” Hope went to the bar while her catering coordinator, Ainslie Mason, sat down.

  “Dig in! I really love the strawberry-white chocolate ones,” Ainslie said.

  Veronica smiled as she looked around the table at her friends. They couldn’t be more different. Andi Kelly, an elegant blonde, taught music at the local high school. Gina Ross, head covered in riotous red curls, was a stay-at-home mom whose husband taught French at Barrett U. Ainslie Mason, with her short dark hair and big dark eyes, ran Hope’s catering business. And auburn-tressed Hope Monahan, a brilliant chef, who in turn was married to one of the most famous chefs in the world.

  Veronica frequently felt invisible when she was with them, though she knew they’d laugh if she ever told them that. Each of them were married to their soulmates, but their roads to romance had been rocky, to say the least. Andi the dreamer, Gina the class clown, Ainslie the Southern belle, and Hope the practical one; they were good friends to Veronica and she didn’t know what she’d do without them.

  She sighed.

  “What’s up?” Gina popped a heart-shaped cracker covered with warm Brie and a slice of pear into her mouth. “Your mother giving you trouble throwing some stick-in-the-mud men your way again?”

  As her face heated, a smile crept over Veronica’s face. “Of course she is. I, however, got a date on my own. I think.” She reached over and grabbed a blueberry-frosted pastry that proclaimed, Ooh-La-La in cherry colored piping. “What kind is this?”

  “Oooh, spill!” Andi ignored Veronica’s question as she dissected a canapé on her plate with the expertise of a cardiac surgeon.

  “I literally ran into an adjunct dance teacher at school and if he can get time off from his weekend job, he’s going with me.”

  Gina’s eyes narrowed. “Does this dance instructor work at The End Zone?” Gina used to work there and kept close tabs on what was going on. “Did you score a date with Simon West?”

  Veronica blinked. “Do you know him?”

  Gina fanned herself with her napkin. “I drool over him regularly.”

  Ainslie elbowed Gina in the ribs. “Ian must love that.”

  Gina smirked. “I think Ian might drool a little too.”

  “I haven’t met him.” Hope brushed flour off her chef’s smock.

  “Think Matthew McConaughey’s better looking, younger brother.” Gina grinned. “He’s totally built.”

  The ladies lapsed into a reverential silence.

  Andi was the first to come to. “So you ran him down?”

  “In the hallway in Old Main. I was late for class and klutz that I am, I ran right into him.” She grimaced. “I knocked him flat on his butt.”

  “And what a gorgeous butt it is.” Gina was incorrigible but Veronica wouldn’t have her any other way.

  “Well, color me impressed,” Ainslie said. “You manage to walk all over the sexiest man in town and get him to escort you to one of the biggest parties of the year.” She gave her a light punch in the arm. “You’ve been hiding some serious mad skills, girlfriend.”

  “I have no such skills, mad or otherwise.” Veronica shook her head. “It was my dumb luck.”

  “So how did it go?” Andi asked. “Did you knock him to the floor and he was so bowled over,” she snorted while everyone else groaned, “that he asked you from the floor?”

  “No. I found out who he was, tracked him down and apologized. Then he asked me to Sammy’s for coffee and we kind of hit it off.” At least she hoped they did.

  “Well, good for you! He’s not only gorgeous, he’s a great guy, even if he is a little mysterious.” Gina picked up a heart-shaped cake topped with some raspberries.

  “Mysterious?” Veronica bit her lower lip.

  “Yeah, he’s got some things going on that he won’t talk about.” Gina shrugged. “But we all have those kinds of things in our lives.”

  “You did good on the date front, asking Simon Hottie Mc Hotterson West to go with you.” Andi sat back in her chair and fanned herself.

  “He’ll definitely drive your mother crazy.” Gina grabbed for another pastry.

  “That’s not why I asked him,” Veronica said. “But getting my mother off my back is a great fringe benefit.”

  “Can we say amen to that?” Ainslie grinned.

  Veronica nodded and grinned back. “Amen!”

  Chapter Six

  “Like I told you on the message I left, I did manage to find someone to cover my End Zone shift, so if the invitation is still open, I’d love to take you to the Ballet Gala.”

  Veronica cradled the phone against her ear. “The invitation is most definitely still open.”

  “Great! I gather it’s formal?” Simon’s voice rasped low over the phone.

  “Yes.” A thought occurred to her. “Do you have a tux?” The question might offend him. A tuxedo didn’t necessarily hang in every man’s closet.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” He chuckled. “This hoedown won’t be my first rodeo.”

  She blinked. He was a dancer. She shouldn’t have worried. “Well, that’s great then.”

  “Now about those dance lessons. We’ve got, what—a week and a half before the event?”

  “Something like that.” The nerves in her stomach jumped up for attention.

  “Are you free Wednesday evening? Like, say seven-ish?”

  Her mouth went dry. “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Want to meet me at the studio where I teach the tap c
lass? It’s open then and maybe we can go get something to eat afterwards.”

  No guts, no glory. “That sounds like fun.”

  She heard him smile over the phone. “It will be. See you then.”

  “See you.” She looked at the phone for a minute after she clicked it off then stood and made a beeline for her closet. Maybe she should reconsider what she was going to wear to the Gala.

  She pulled out the long sleeved, boat neck black velvet dress. It was perfectly suitable…if she was sixty-five years old. She needed a wardrobe update STAT. Who in her circle of friends knows the most about fashion?

  She ran to the phone and punched in Ainslie’s number. If anybody knew how to play fairy godmother and dress Cinderella, it was Ainslie Mason, a former Miss South Carolina.

  ****

  “So you need a killer dress.” Ainslie brought a pot of tea to her kitchen table where Veronica sat.

  “Yes.” Veronica bit her lower lip. “Killer, but not too killer.”

  Ainslie sat. “And you lost me. Do you want to bring the sexy and knock this guy’s socks off or not?”

  “I want to knock his socks off and not give my mother a coronary.”

  Ainslie looked horrified. “Forget your mother. You’ve got a date with a man who, as Gina says, would give Matthew McConaughey a run for his money and make Chris Hemsworth look like a troll. I repeat, forget your mother. You want to give Simon West the coronary.”

  Veronica put her hands over her eyes. “Oh God.”

  “Here’s the thing. I have a closet with vintage designer gowns. Let’s go see if I’ve got something that’s perfect for you.”

  Ainslie wasn’t a teeny, tiny waif. Neither was Veronica. Something of Ainslie’s just might fit.

  They settled on an elegant mermaid style creation of sea foam colored satin that exactly matched the color of Veronica’s eyes. Though not too low cut, the rhinestone trimmed neckline and bodice showed a lot more cleavage than her fall-back black dress.

  Veronica did a little pirouette in front of Ainslie’s floor to ceiling mirror and the dress frothed around her feet like gentle waves breaking on the beach.

  “You look fantastic!” Ainslie clapped her hands. “You need to wear your hair up, but loosely, like you just got out of bed and want to jump right back in…and some dangly, sparkly earrings. Do you have shoes?”

  “Maybe.” She frowned. “Not really. All my shoes are sensible.”

  “You don’t want to wear sensible shoes. Get some strappy stilettos.”

  Veronica’s eyebrows shot to the top of her forehead. “In the winter?”

  Ainslie rolled her eyes. “Yes, in the winter. Don’t wear them out, take them with you and change there. Trust me on this. You’ll kill him.”

  “You think so?” Veronica’s stomach churned.

  “Absolutely. Mr. Simon West won’t stand a chance.” Ainslie put her hands on Veronica’s shoulders and squeezed lightly. “It’s going to be awesome.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” she whispered.

  ****

  Simon paced the dance studio while he waited for Veronica. Yeah, he’d gotten there a little too early, but he wanted to make sure he picked the right music and had it all queued up and ready to go without a hitch.

  The devil was in the details.

  He’d chosen his clothes with care. Usually he’d wear sweats and a tee, whatever, but tonight he opted for his favorite pair of jeans and a slate blue waffle Henley and an old pair of tap shoes from which he’d removed the taps.

  Really, all he wanted was to learn how she felt in his arms. Teaching her to dance was only an excuse to get up close and personal. He scowled and shoved his hands in his jeans’ pockets. He was used to being Mr. Smooth when it came to women. Veronica had tilted his world a little bit, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

  Everything else in his life was so unpredictable. Did he really need his love life to be off-kilter too?

  Did he have a choice? Probably not. As an artist, he knew all about the whims of the heart, certainly enough to know that sometimes they sucked. You had to listen to them anyway.

  “Simon?”

  He turned. Veronica stood in the doorway. “Veronica. Hi!”

  She’d dressed in tidy, pearl gray wool slacks topped by a dark pink soft looking knit tunic. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, like a mahogany waterfall of silk.

  He couldn’t wait to find out if the tunic was as soft as it looked. His fingers itched to touch it.

  “C’mon in. I’ve got everything all set up.” He held out his hand.

  She took it. His skin jolted at her touch. “I really do have to warn you that I’m a total klutz.”

  Drawing her deeper into the studio, he squeezed her hand. Her skin was soft and her bones delicate. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I’m tougher than I look.” He meant to let go of her and turn on the music but gave into impulse and brought her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips along her knuckles.

  Her breath hitched at the contact and her hand trembled. Just the response he’d hoped for. “What kind of dancing do you want to practice?”

  She blinked. “All of them?”

  “All?” He lightly rubbed his thumb over her knuckles.

  “Well, I don’t know.” She pulled her hand out of his and put it behind her back. “Something simple. You’re the teacher. You decide.”

  “How about we start with a box step? That’s the simplest.”

  She saluted. “You’re the boss.”

  “And don’t you forget it.” He walked her to a spot facing a wall of mirrors and stood next to her. “Here’s what we do. Step forward with your left foot.”

  “Which one?”

  “The left one.”

  “Which left foot? I have two.”

  He snorted and shook his head. “Very funny. Just mimic what I do. Like this.”

  He took her through the steps and realized she’d told the truth. She had little to no sense of rhythm.

  He was having some problem concentrating himself. She distracted him. The scent of perfume, a sexy mix of vanilla and gingerbread wafted around to torture him.

  Time to kick it up a notch. “Let’s try it together, like we’ll do it at the Gala.

  She looked dubious. “You sure about that?” Pointing to his shoes, she said, “Maybe you want to change into Doc Marten’s or something.”

  “I’ll take my chances. Our hands go together like this.” He took her right hand in his left and, palm to palm, held them out to the side. “Now put your left hand on my shoulder and I’ll put my right hand right here, just under your left arm. Comfy?”

  “That’s not exactly the word I’d use.” She licked her lips.

  He wished he could do the same thing, just bend his head down and catch her mouth with his own and coax it open with his tongue.

  He realized she was staring up at him, and unless he missed his guess, and he usually didn’t, she was thinking the same thing as him. “If you don’t want me to kiss you, you better tell me right now.”

  Her pretty rose-colored lips parted and her eyes fluttered shut. He took that as a yes, please, kiss me.

  So he did.

  She hummed when their mouths came together, a throaty, helpless sound of pleasure that zinged right along all his nerve endings. Almost afraid to move, he kept them in waltz position.

  Her lips were soft and her taste so sweet—as sweet as the first strawberries in June, such a long way from the snow covering the ground here in February.

  He forgot to breathe, lost in their kiss, so when she pulled away it took a moment to remember not only where he was, but hell, also who he was.

  But he knew the name of the woman in his arms. “Veronica,” he whispered, his voice heavy and rusty.

  ****

  Warmth flooded Veronica’s system. Her heart beat against her ribs like a wild bird trapped in a cage. She ran her ton
gue over her lips to catch one last taste of him.

  He smelled wonderful, a mix of sandalwood and leather. She wished he’d take her into his arms and hold her close, but he kept her all set to dance.

  He cleared his throat. “Let me turn on the music.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a remote for the studio’s sound system and zapped it on. Lionel Ritchie started Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady.

  Veronica loved that song, even though it was a solid golden oldie.

  “You ready?”

  She nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Okay, here we go. One. Two. Three.” He guided her through the steps and around the floor.

  She was a math whiz, but damn if she couldn’t remember how to count. Her feet threatened to rebel with every glide. She devoted her attention to looking down so she wouldn’t trample Simon’s feet.

  “Relax, I’ve got you.”

  She tore her gaze from the floor to his face. Bright blue eyes demanded her attention. “I won’t let you fail.”

  She almost believed him.

  The song spun down and they stopped moving. “See. You did great.” He pulled her into his arms.

  “But—”

  “No buts. Just this.” He bent his head and caught her lips with his. His were warm and firm and gentle. Potent. He didn’t plunder and take. He shared. He savored. He broke the kiss and dropped his forehead onto hers. “Hungry?”

  “Um yeah, you could say that.”

  He chuckled. “How’s Esmeralda’s sound?”

  Food. He was talking about food.

  Damn. “I’ve never been there.”

  “Then it’s time to rectify that.” He stepped away, grabbed her hand, and held it lightly. “Let’s go get some dinner.”

  “Sure. Why not?” But she certainly wasn’t in the mood for dinner right now.

  Not at all.

  Chapter Seven

  Esmeralda’s was one of Veronica’s favorite restaurants, with a calm atmosphere and good French bistro style food. The speakers poured out Debussy as the hostess seated them in a corner of the dining room.

  It was snowing outside but Esmeralda’s dining room was warm and cozy with flickering candles, an antique wood stove cranking out heat, and the seductive aroma of comfort food.