Last Dance

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Last Dance

  Missed Connections #1

  by Jeffe Kennedy

  It was five minutes. His hand on the small of her back. His eyes watching like there was no one else in the crowded club. His body a breath away from hers. A kiss full of heat and need and promise.

  But then the stranger disappears. And Charlotte Emory can’t forget him. Worse, according to the dating Rules she and her four best friends swear by, all she can do is post an ad online. No names, no numbers. Just a missed connection – and the hope he’ll meet her, and see where another dance leads.

  Except Mr. Mystery has his game, too, and he isn’t playing for only one night. He tempts Charley into a daring exploration of power, lust, and suspense, where even the most innocent requests sound indecent…and the indecent ones make her burn all night.

  If she plays by the Rules, they’ll never get past teasing each other. But rules were made to be broken…

  Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer M. Kennedy

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental.

  Thank you for reading!

  Credits

  Content Editor: Deborah Nemeth

  Production Editor: Rebecca Cremonese

  Cover Design: Kellie Dennis, Book Cover by Design

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  The Rules

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  About Jeffe Kennedy

  Titles by Jeffe Kennedy

  Acknowledgements

  A number of people helped me with this book, filling in all the many things I don’t know about my characters and their professions.

  Many thanks to Elisabeth Lane for the section on making Bananas Foster waffles—both the idea and the execution.

  Thanks to Shari Slade and Alexandra Haughton for providing excellent dance metaphors.

  Elizabeth Ryann suggested using Damon’s bathroom on Vampire Diaries and HGTV.

  Nancy “One-Swing-Teichman” Bauer gets credit for help with Chicago details. And for being my sister in TTKE all these years.

  Much gratitude to Sonali Dev for frank advice on an Indian woman living in the U.S. Now I know never to say “cashmere pashmina.” Any mistakes made by this fair-skinned Irish Catholic girl are mine. Sonali tried to keep me honest! She and Joan Bell Hanegan also get many thanks for suggesting the name “Anaisa.”

  You all may have noted Rebecca Cremonese cited in the credits. Not only does she copy edit my work, she builds style guides, nags me on consistencies and – in this case – told me All The Things about life in musical theater. I incorporated what I could. All improbabilities that remain are my fault entirely.

  As always, thanks to my “team” – David and Carien, for all you do to keep the balls in the air and me herded. I’d be lost without you!

  The Rules

  As women holding ourselves to certain standards (if not necessarily high ones), we of the Fabulous Five agree to abide by the following Rules:

  1. It is permissible to dance or hang with any man once and once only in order to assess his fitness according to the following criteria: Looks, Rhythm, Taste, Touch, and Chemistry, with a maximum of one point per criterion.

  Amendment 1a. Partial points are permissible, in multiples no smaller than a tenth.

  2. A man must score at least a two out of five to advance to the second round—dating or dancing.

  Amendment 2a. This must be a score of 2.0 or better. No rounding up from a score below 2.0 is permitted.

  3. Cell numbers will be given only upon request, never offered, and only to those who’ve advanced to round three.

  4. A score of four out of five is needed to advance to round three. No exceptions. This can include additional dances, dates, or making out, short of intercourse.

  Amendment 3a. This must be a score of 4.0 or better. No rounding up from a score below 4.0 is permitted.

  5. No sex with any man who has not advanced to round four, which requires maintaining a score of 4.0 or better following round 3.

  6. Anyone who has agreed to abide by these rules and fails to do so will pay a penalty as determined by the group.

  Amendment 6a. Rounding up from lower scores will elicit a more severe penalty.

  Amendment 6b. (aka the Charley Amendment) Poor math skills are no excuse.

  ~ 1 ~

  The problem with martinis is, although they look and taste fabulous—plus low carb, if done right—the steep slope of the glass makes them easy to spill. Disaster in the making.

  Particularly on the second round.

  Being a cautious sort, if only in this arena, I sipped at mine before taking another step and used the opportunity to survey the club’s offering of masculine company. And to let them get a good look at me. Take the spotlight when you can because there’s always someone meaner ready to upstage you. The bright bounce of lights glanced off a good set of shoulders here—and ooh, a very nice ass in black jeans there. A table of guys gave me a long look as I passed and I pretended not to notice, though the dark-haired one could be a possible.

  “Any likelies?” Amy asked, taking the fresh drink from me as I got to our table, blowing me a kiss of thanks. She wore a lacy black sheath she’d designed in her spare time and made from remnants at her job—and she made it look like couture, the talented bitch.

  I set down my own glass. “Nobody stands out as fabulous. But the table over your right shoulder might have potential.”

  “The night is young,” Ice observed, scanning the dance floor below with dark eyes. She’d refused another round, as had Julie. Both of them still nursed their first drink, though Ice—Anaisa, though only her professors called her that—was theoretically not supposed to drink alcohol. She made a regular practice of doing all the things her family disapproved of, which was fairly easy since most of them lived elsewhere, some of them in India. Marcia didn’t drink at all and she clutched her seltzer, clearly wishing to be at home. It was a rare Friday night that I didn’t have a show, Julie wasn’t slaving in her restaurant, and everyone else was free, too, so we’d talked Marcia into coming out with us instead of staying behind in our empty house. But no one could force her to have fun.

  Believe me, I’d tried. My own personal sacred mission. Saint Charley, that’s me.

  “I gave the bartender Marcia’s number though,” I added, because I couldn’t resist. The girl needed poking. “He said he wanted a virgin sacrifice for some shamanistic ritual.”

  “Oh, ha ha.” Marcia at least transferred her black look from the seltzer to me. “There’s nothing wrong with saving myself.”

  “Saving is economical.” Amy nodded, making a serious face.

  “A virtue, even.” Julie licked off the end of the plastic gecko tail the Lizard Club used for drink stirrers. “Unless you count hoarding. Then it turns ugly.”

 
; “Oh my god. That show is riveting.” Ice shuddered. “I’m horrified but I can’t look away. Even in reruns.”

  “It’s a disease.” I deflected Marcia’s glower of warning with my best Julia Roberts angelic smile. It’s a good one. I’ve practiced it. “You can’t judge people like that—just give them your compassion and try to help. Or refer them to social services.”

  “Charlotte Emory, I’m going to crawl across this table and strangle you if you don’t shut up,” Marcia growled.

  I batted my lashes at her. “What? I’m just trying to help.”

  “Well, you’re not. I’ll find the right guy sooner or later.”

  “Sooner is more likely with you pried out of the house,” Ice noted.

  “And later than anyone we know,” Amy toasted her with a martini already half gone.

  “Than the rest of the known universe.” Julie poked Marcia with the gecko tail, which at least diverted Marcia’s attention onto her.

  “I hate all of you.” Marcia folded her arms. “Why don’t you go dance already?”

  “Hello, ladies.” Ooh, right on cue, Mr. Dark Hair had come through. His gaze fell on me and I returned his very charming smile. “Wanna dance?” he asked me.

  Yes. Yes, I did.

  I took a buzz-sustaining swallow of my martini and pushed it over to Marcia for guarding. She wrinkled her nose at me, but she took her duty seriously, no matter how much she grumbled. We kept talking about getting those coasters or maybe the nail polish that changes colors in the presence of roofies, but in the meantime we employed the tried and true designated table-sitter system. Someone had to stay and guard the drinks and valuables. Ideally we rotated duty, but since Marcia wouldn’t ever dance, she usually got stuck with it. We all knew it wasn’t fair, but I figured she’d eventually get on the dance floor out of sheer misery, if nothing else.

  What can I say? If I was good at math I’d be a brilliant medical student like Ice, not a poor man’s Taylor Swift.

  “I’m Jeff,” said Mr. Dark Hair, offering his hand as we walked to the dance floor.

  “Charley,” I told him.

  “Cute.”

  I pursed my lips in a little kiss. “Thank you, slick.”

  “I meant the name, but so are you.”

  Charmer.

  Taking the high road, I overlooked his buddies giving him the thumbs-up as we passed their table. Boys. Hopefully some of them would ask my girlfriends to dance, too. With the one glaring exception, we all loved to dance and the Rules allowed us to say yes to pretty much any guy who asked, barring major red flags. But only once.

  After that, it seriously depended. A guy had to hit two out of five criteria to earn a second dance. Those standards, doncha know. Gotta have ’em or we’re tempted to let them slide.

  Especially then.

  We reached the dance floor and the music drowned out all possibility of conversation, which was just as well as it’s not one of the five criteria for a reason. Soon Ice and Amy were dancing nearby. Julie, always considerate, had probably stayed behind to keep Marcia company. I’d have to take a turn next or she’d feel too guilty to have fun. I’d have to anyway if Charming Jeff didn’t up his game and at least meet a two. He had a solid zero for Rhythm and it wasn’t looking good for the rest. But I couldn’t backslide into rounding up again. Ice would cut off my toes.

  Really, I could stop with a zero for Rhythm, as it’s the most important for me. There’s that joke about whatever conservative religious group prohibits sex standing up—because it might lead to dancing. So true. Seriously, you could tell a lot about a guy by the way he danced, both how he’d be in bed and out. But not everything is about sex—alas for that!—and I’d had some good times with guys who bottomed out on Rhythm, and still hit solid overall four from the other categories.

  Thus Ice and I had developed our original five-point criteria.

  1. Looks. Not how he looks, though it’s a factor, but whether he pays attention to the woman he’s with or has to scan the room for other possibilities. This cannot be overestimated. A guy who always looks at other women? Will always look for other women. Been there. Not doing it again.

  2. Rhythm. Okay, even though this is critical for me, even I know not everyone has the moves. We make fun of white-boy dancing for a reason and that particular ethnic group does not have a corner on the market. But a guy who doesn’t use his hips on the dance floor to a rocking groove won’t move them in bed either. Takes a lot to make up for that. It can be done, but… yeah.

  3. Taste. This is subjective, but key. A guy has to have a certain amount of class. He’s out at a club, he can dress decently. Don’t get me started on the corporate drone look. Take a change of clothes to work already. Along with this, he can have the manners not to attempt dirty grinding on the first dance. Making an effort to be charming is always a plus.

  4. Touch. Depending on the song, this aspect can’t always be assessed on the first dance. That makes it a bye for most guys on the first, an automatic point, like getting credit for putting your name at the top of the test paper. Still, there are opportunities. How and how much a guy touches you can give critical clues. If you don’t like his clammy handshake or attempt to cop a feel too soon, it does not bode well for later action. And mushy kisses? Just no. No, no, no.

  5. Chemistry. The elusive chemical element that trumps all the rest, even for me. It can be tempting to advance a guy to the next round who fails on the first four criteria, based entirely on the zing of chemistry. Major no-no and part of why we have the Rules. Conversely, a guy can ring up just fine on one through four, bomb on this last and still advance. However, it’s the difference between kissing your brother and kissing your lover. Cannot be faked or redeemed. Regrettable, but there it is.

  Now—some of the more serious-minded, less shallow members of the Fabulous Five will argue that the guy’s personality goes here. Things like humor, honesty, integrity, and whatever all. But I figure that stuff comes in later. Like planning marriage and babies later. So not what I’m interested in. Call me shallow and frivolous—I’m at peace with that.

  Charming Jeff scored fine on three and four and did okay on chemistry—but totally bombed the rest. Big fail on keeping his attention on me, as he kept scanning the room for other, possibly better partners, not to mention looking to his buddies for approval, yet again. Spare me. Then the stiff hips thing. Still, he had a solid 2.5 when the song ended, and I would have given Not-So-Charming Jeff another chance to raise his score, but he tossed off a thanks and went over to high five one of his buddies.

  Tanked his score right there.

  So I spelled Julie at the table keeping Marcia company, then rotated off with the other gals through the evening. All of it blurred into that ideal high-frequency whirl of breathless dancing, the sweet buzz of the drinks, the laughter of my girlfriends, and the hot gazes of guys.

  My sweet zone.

  None of the guys present really did it for me though. Not enough to give them a spin for the more intimate kind of dance. A seriously meh evening when 2.5-Jeff pinged the high score. Too bad, because the music thumped in my blood and I simmered under the skin to get laid. I’d been too busy performing, auditioning, and rehearsing lately. I never had time for a boyfriend. Or the inclination, because who needs that crap? But hot monkey sex on my night off would have been a lovely treat. No such luck for our heroine. The waitresses had already circled for last call and the prospects looked worse than dim.

  The song came to a close, shifting into the final slow dance. The Guns N’ Roses cover of “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.” Nice. The crowd groaned, with some people leaving and others sliding in for the clinch. I like the song, but my latest partner—barely a two anyway—dashed off to snag one last drink before they closed the bar. Good to know where his priorities lay.

  I tell you—the Rules work.

  I headed off the floor, ready to round up the others and blow the place, when a warm hand caught my elbow. I looked over my shoulder. And
up. Into lovely warm brown eyes set in a square-jawed face, framed by tousled dark-blond hair. More corporate than I usually went for, but hello Chemistry.

  “Don’t go,” he said and tugged me back onto the floor. “Dance with me.”

  Okay then. I didn’t usually go for pushy, but the way he coaxed me into the rhythm of the music—folding my right hand in his left and resting his other at the small of my back in a perfectly polite, smoothly mannered way—totally suckered me in. He led with practiced form and confidence, ringing up a very solid four in the first fifteen seconds, hitting full marks on Touch, Rhythm and Taste, along with that delicious zing of Chemistry. Wow.

  Now, beer-goggles—or, in my case, martini-spectacles—are a very real thing. Usually I can count on my scores going up toward the end of the evening, particularly if I haven’t gotten laid in a while. It’s like food or alcohol portions—if you don’t measure them they creep up on you. Particularly when you’re hungry, which I pretty much always am. I know this about myself.

  More important, the rest of the Fabulous Five know it and hold my feet to the fire.

  Which is why it’s a solid rule none of us sleeps with a guy unless we’ve danced with him at least three times. This precludes any bad decisions arising from last-dance desperation.

  I seriously considered breaking that rule.

  This guy. He danced like a dream. Yeah, it was a slow one, but he didn’t succumb to the clinch-and-sway solution. He carried me into a lovely modified two-step, starting simple, his generous mouth curving when I followed easily enough, our bodies finding an immediate groove, slow and savory.

  And he kept his gaze locked on mine. I might have been the only woman in the room. Girls, we have a five. Ding ding ding! Heady stuff after the evening I’d had. His hand burned at the small of my back, the music throbbing between us. Expertly guiding me away from an oblivious couple, he pulled me closer and I went with it, letting my breasts press against his chest, loving the flare of heat in his eyes as I did, the way he focused on my mouth.