by Unknown
“Whatever. I’m here, and you have to go home and go to bed because fi ve’s gonna come early, dancer,” he taunted, throwing some money on the table and lifting his perfect body out of the booth.
A rush of gratitude overwhelmed her and more tears stung her eyes. “I love you.”
“You love me right now, but tomorrow at fi ve in the morning?
Probably not so much. Move it, pretty lady.” He swatted her ass on their way out the diner’s door.
Mel giggled, feeling lighter than she had in months.
Well, her spirit felt lighter.
Her thighs still had a big question mark hovering over them.
But for the fi rst time in months, she wanted to get out of bed in the morning. Maybe not at fi ve, but she wanted.
Wanting anything other than the cover of her shame and pain was a start. That thing Maxine kept saying would happen just might have begun.
With his hand at her waist, Neil gave her a light pinch. “Hey, isn’t that your friend from the Village giving us the evil eye,” he asked as they made their way to Neil’s Corvette.
Mel glanced in the direction of Neil’s gaze and nodded up at him, shooting a twiddle of her fi ngers in Drew’s direction when they passed in the parking lot and avoiding the curious butterfl y that had taken fl ight in her stomach at the sight of him.
But Drew only glowered at her. Someone was still holding a grudge about being turned down, reinforcing her fi rst thought that no one turned down Mr. McPhee.
Neil opened the passenger door and poked his head in with a question on his face. “You like?”
Yeeeessss. “No. No, I do not like. And he doesn’t like me either.
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He’s of the ridiculous mind- set that teaching boys to dance is girly.
He was really pissed when he found out I was his son’s ballroom instructor at the school. Too bad you couldn’t show him what manly is all about, huh?” She pinched Neil’s lean cheek with affection.
He pursed his lips. “Yeah, too bad.”
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C H A P T E R S I X
Dear Divorce Journal,
In light of sucking it up: five in the morning should be outlawed. In fact, there should be no numbers on a clock before, say, nine a. m.
The other day I hated everything. Now all of my hate’s directed at Neil. I’d forgotten what a Jane Fonda– ish exercise dick he is. And I don’t care if my caboose will eventually look like I bought the Booty Pop when I finally can fit into some skinny jeans. I. Hate.
Neil. I also hate crunches and third position in ballet.
I’d also forgotten how much third position strains a girl’s flabby thighs. Oh, and there’s one more thing I hate. Drew McPhee.
Okay, maybe not him per se, but all of his luscious fantasticalness. Yes. That I hate. I mean, Jesus Christ and a tango— a girl says no to a date with a guy and then not only is he suddenly everywhere, but to make matters worse, he’s all she can think of? What kind of special hell is that?
Neil watched his best friend in the world, the only friend he’d ever almost completely trusted wander off into the lit interior of Westmeyer a week after he’d arrived in Jersey and gritted his teeth.
He loved Mel as much as he loved any family member. Maybe even more.
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penniless, and so sad, it hurt him to look at her for very long without wanting to fi nd Stanislov Cherkasov and beat the Russian out of him for mutilating Mel’s life this way.
To see her with so little interest in a passion they’d shared and worked so many years to fi nd fruition in, almost broke him.
But Stan would pay.
It would hurt.
That made Neil smile as he left Mel to make some phone calls.
!
Mel limped toward her fi rst class, attempting to hide the agony she was in, but her thighs just wouldn’t go down without a screaming match. Oh, God. How was she going to teach a class when she couldn’t move without squealing like a pig?
Damn the Neil-a-nator and his endless taunting about hip-hugging bikinis and muffi n tops. The relentless bastard; she’d never said word one about her desire to be a cougar. She’d grown crazy-fond of her soft, doughy middle.
Clinging to her classroom door, she dug her fi ngers into the doorframe and groaned at the thought of warming the boys up with stretches.
“Did someone show off just a little too much doing the waltz last week?”
Mel’s head popped up.
Drew smiled down at her— smug and arrogant, a tool belt around his lean waist.
If her arm could move more than two inches above her hips without protest, she’d yank that hammer out of it and club him to death— spiky end up. “You remembered the name of the dance. I’m impressed. Bet you can’t spell it.”
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sional passing in the hallways. Him with a sour expression of distaste on his gorgeous face when he walked past her classroom, and her counting the planks of wood on the dance fl oor to avoid his cranky.
Just because she’d said no to coffee didn’t mean they had to have a Mexican standoff each time they were in the general vicinity of one another.
And that was another problem altogether.
As vehemently as she’d denied the wish to date was as often as Drew’s handsome face and sinful grin popped up in her mind’s eye.
From almost the moment she’d said no, she’d done nothing but think about him.
He’d put some sort of voodoo curse on her— maybe made a Bar-bie Mel doll he stuck pins in every night to make her painfully aware she’d said no to him. He was sticking them in her unmentionables, too. Two nights ago, she’d awoken with some very impure thoughts about Drew McPhee and red- hot cheeks.
And lady bits …
He leaned into her, his lips so close, Mel almost sighed. His breath had the faint smell of mint, and his shampoo was defi nitely something manly. Such a surprise. She straightened at the sound of his slight chuckle. “I’m here to fi x the loose boards on your dance fl oor, queen of the waltz.”
“But I have a class in fi ve minutes.”
“And my time is limited. I have a plumber coming in about the water heater in an hour. So it’s now or never, and I know you don’t want to compromise the safety of the boys. If one of them tripped and fell, you’d have one less tutu to fi ll. We couldn’t have that.”
Damn safety precautions. “Fine, but could you hurry it up? The boys can’t dance if you’re banging around. It’ll throw them off tempo.”
God knew they couldn’t afford that.
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smug grin, heading toward the right edge of the fl oor to assess the loose boards.
Mel gingerly made her way to the ballet barre, gripping it so it was behind her and praying it would hold her weak, overexercised body up.
Even her fi ngernails ached. She watched from her place at the barre as Drew kneeled on the fl oor and popped up one board to examine it.
Her eyes fell to his ass and then the strain of thick muscles in his thighs. They fl exed and rippled while he reached forward and lifted each plank. The angles and rigid planes of his body under the sunlight streaming into the classroom made everything about his deliciousness magnifi ed.
Or was that just because she was exhausted and that made her hypersensitive to everything Drew related?
Mel gulped, closing her eyes to shut out his frame. What was that old saying— sometimes you get what you wish for? What had she been thinking when she’d wished Drew away? What was a little difference of opinion when it came to the arts?
But it wasn’t like they disagreed on political parties or genres of music. He’d slammed the one true love of her life. Her livelihood.
Her world.
However, seeing him, hearing his voice, watching his deft movement with a hammer made a drink and those big strong thighs pressed against hers in a TGI Friday’s booth somewhere not such an unappealing thought now.
Then she caught herself. She was doing it again. Getting all caught up in a man when what she should be caught up in was her and this new life she had no choice but to lead. Isn’t that what Max and the divorce minions had said? She should fi nd out who she was and whether she liked to spelunk or scuba dive— or whatever.
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spent her time thinking about a man. God, she was pitiable. She wouldn’t know a healthy relationship if it cha- cha’d right over her.
She had to have a healthy relationship with herself before anyone else. She needed to learn what her boundaries were— her lines in the sand.
And that meant she absolutely would stop focusing on Drew.
Just then, Drew glanced over his shoulder and caught her looking at him. “No. Don’t say it. I have a way with wood. I can tell by the way you stare. Your admiration comes off you in waves,” he teased.
Mel scoffed, pivoting on her sore heel to face the barre and begin plies. She bit her lip hard to prevent the high- pitched scream she wanted to wail at the tearing of her inner thigh muscles. But the hell she’d show any signs of weakness.
“Morning, Ms. Cherkasov,” Johann said, rushing into the room just seconds before the bell went off. As the boys fi led in, Mel asked them to line up.
Today was the day they’d dance with a real partner.
Her.
Her in all her muscle meltdown. Fighting the wince her heel hitting the fl oor brought, she glided toward them. “So are we ready for today? It’s your fi rst pop quiz.”
Moans— lots of them. She’d grown used to their moans. They always followed the mention of a quiz. “Oh, quit with all the moaning. I bet you don’t moan when Mr. Linky says it’s time to dissect the lifespan of the cockroach or calculate the distance between here and Jupiter.”
“I know the answer to that,” Emilio said.
Mel couldn’t help but chuckle. “I bet you do, but the real question is do you know the steps to the waltz because that’s your test today, and guess who you’re going to be lucky enough to dance with?”
“Strippers?” Hank Wong shouted then looked embarrassed. She’d noticed that Hank had a habit of speaking long before he thought.
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Another chuckle followed from the other end of the room, deep but muffl ed.
Mel gave him her stern eye even as she wanted to laugh until she cried. “Hank Wong, you know that was inappropriate, but I’ll give you it was a little funny, too. Now no more stripper talk. You’re dancing with me, gentlemen, and I’m no stripper. Line up, prepare your frame, and remember to count in your heads, not out loud. Soon, the waltz will be second nature.”
Shuffl es of reluctant feet dragged across the fl oor, forming a line.
Mel nodded her head to signal R. J. to begin the music. Holding her arms up, she awaited her fi rst victim, Nate, fully aware his father’s eyes were on her back.
At least she hoped it was her back— not her ass. That was a tragedy in her wraparound skirt and V-neck, royal blue leotard.
Nate took her hands in his, pulling his spine upward from his core. Mel, at fi ve- two, was almost four inches shorter than him. Yet, Nate’s carriage, the way he took command without even moving, gave him the illusion of someone who stood six foot.
When the fi rst beat of the music began, Nate’s innate ability to lead his partner at such an early stage of the game brought a genuine grin to her face. As their movement began, and this tall, skinny, sometimes even awkward boy took command of the fl oor, Mel’s mouth fell open.
Nate had an amazing musicality to his movement, his rise and fall with each step so beautifully in sync with the music made her heart thump with the possibilities he presented. His posture began to slump for a brief moment, but she didn’t have to remind him. As though he knew he’d made an error, he instantly caught it, then smiled a question at her.
When he was able to navigate a small turn and still end up on the correct foot, Mel felt a tear sting her eye.
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gift for dance was secondary right now. Someone in her classes had been listening, watching, instead of calculating mathematical problems in their heads to amuse themselves in their boredom.
A petty thought also occurred to her— Drew had just witnessed his son dance a waltz that was better than some who’d practiced for weeks just to get the basic steps. Drew McPhee’s son could dance. He didn’t just go through the motions because he had to, he danced. He felt the music. He allowed it to take over when it should and held back when it shouldn’t. His dancing had shades of light and dark she’d never experienced in her years of teaching.
Score.
When the music stopped, hope swelled in her. The hope that at least just a little of the joy dancing could bring had rubbed off on the boys— on Nate.
The room fi lled with a silence and then all at once, the boys were sound and motion, clapping Nate on the back and guffawing like he’d just scored a winning touchdown. “Dude, you almost looked like one of those guys from Celebrity Ballroom,” Ahmed praised in his stoic, even tone.
Mel stole a glance at Drew.
If her mouth had fallen open in surprise before, Drew’s could catch softballs. Mel instructed the boys to practice their box steps before striding across the room. She clucked her tongue at Drew.
“Tell me. What color tutu do you think would really work for Nate? I say a sky blue. It’ll enhance his eyes, no?”
Drew shoved a hand into his thick hair, ignoring her jab. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say he did a terrifi c job, and you’re proud of him. He has an in -
tuitive gift for interpreting music and gorgeous natural lines. That’s rare.”
“I don’t know where that comes from.”
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“Clearly, not you, caveman,” she muttered under her breath so her students wouldn’t hear her. “Do me a favor, okay?”
“No tutu.”
/> Mel smiled up at him cockily. “We don’t need your stinkin’ tutu.
Don’t quash this, Drew. Please. Don’t make him feel like he’s putting on makeup and a skirt, okay? Scratch that. Even if he was putting on makeup and a skirt, make sure he knows you love him. Nothing beats that. I had parents like that. So, keep your archaic thoughts about girls and dancing to yourself. If you beat him up about just how good he is, you’ll beat the fun right out of it. You’ll embarrass him if he thinks you disapprove, and I won’t have it. Got that? Love him for who he is.”
Drew’s nod was slow, his eyes still fastened on his son. “There was never any question.”
“Then my work here is done.”
Mel turned back to the class and clapped her hands. “Okay, guys.
Let’s focus. That was good, but we have a long way to go. Nate,” she said once the ruckus had died down, “nice job!” She followed her praise with a curtsy. “That’s the way it’s done, guys. Johann, you’re my next victim.” She pointed to the fl oor in front of her and smiled.
Johann took her hands in his, his palms sweaty, his tongue slipping nervously along his bottom lip.
As the music started back up, it brought with it a new sense of purpose, making her forget her aching shoulders and sore calves.
Nate could dance. It just took one student. She’d done something right.
Boo- yah.
!
Drew caught up with Nate just as the last bell of the day rang. He clamped a hand on Nate’s shoulder, spinning him around in the middle of the crowded hallway.
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“Hey, Dad. You ready?”
Drew looked down at his boy. A boy who’d glided across the dance fl oor with the alluring Mel Cherkasov like he’d always been doing it, and pride swelled in his soul. Sure, he’d like it if Nate could throw a football to victory— or hit a homerun. Those things he understood. He didn’t understand this dancing thing.