Shall We Dance?

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  Shannon studied her sister. “Traci?”

  After a pause, Traci blinked . . . and then turned shame-faced. “Sorry. I’m not used to having my personal and professional lives intersect like this. It caught me off guard, walking in to see Dylan with his arms around you and “Come Away with Me” playing.”

  Dylan winked at Shannon. “My arms were absolutely not around you, were they? They were holding you properly and with the right amount of tension, too.”

  The comment made her chuckle. “That’s right. We’ve, uh, been working on noodle arms tonight.”

  Traci smiled as she tossed her backpack toward the corner of the room. “Dylan, you do look better. Boy, maybe I should have been dancing tonight. I could have used some stress relief.”

  Now that she wasn’t feeling so defensive, Shannon noticed that her sister didn’t just look surprised about her and her partner. She looked exhausted. “Traci, are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” She rolled her shoulders, obviously trying to lessen some tension. “Sorry. It’s been a heck of a day, hasn’t it, big guy?”

  Dylan nodded. “You could say that.”

  “Did Dylan tell you how he took down that perp and almost got shot?” Traci asked.

  Feeling more and more confused, Shannon shook her head. “No. We . . . we didn’t talk about work.”

  Traci raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t tell her about how you almost got shot, Dylan?”

  “No. And I’m fine.”

  “Not really,” she retorted. “Your arm was grazed.”

  “Grazed?” Shannon whispered.

  Both of them ignored her.

  “It wasn’t grazed.” His voice was hard. “It’s just a little banged up. No big deal.”

  While Shannon was gaping at the two of them and trying to process shot, grazed, and a little banged up, Traci fired off another comment.

  “I heard the lieutenant tell you to go get checked out. Did you?”

  “There wasn’t any reason to do that. There was no way I was heading to the hospital. I’m fine.”

  Shannon finally interrupted. “I’m sorry, but you were hurt today? Your arm got hurt and I was giving you grief about noodle arms? Why didn’t you say anything?” Yes, her voice had risen, and yes, her accent was back in full force.

  Looking increasingly uncomfortable, Dylan shrugged off her questions as he walked to her side. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

  He’d spoken soft. Sweet. Shannon looked into his eyes. “I can’t believe you let me give you a hard time about being late.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  If they’d been alone, she knew she would have reached out to him. Maybe pressed a palm to his chest. Maybe ran her fingers across his cheek. Anything to let him know that she cared.

  Which had kind of just come from nowhere.

  Traci cleared her throat, bringing them back to the present. “It was his right arm.”

  “You’re right?” She moaned. “And here I’ve been telling you to hold it out steadier.”

  Dylan lowered his head so his mouth was just inches from her ear. “I promise that I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

  “As long as that graze doesn’t get infected,” Traci said. “Since, you know, you refused to get checked out.”

  Dylan looked back at his partner. “Stop. You’re scaring Shannon.”

  Traci looked from him to her. After a couple of seconds, she held up a sack of fast food that Shannon hadn’t even noticed in her hand. “All right then. Changing subjects, I brought home burgers, Shannon.”

  “That’s so nice of you. Thanks, I’ll be right up.”

  “’Kay.” After taking a few steps, she looked over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Dylan.”

  “Yeah. See you at eight, Lucky.”

  When Traci was out of sight, Dylan pulled out his wallet. “Traci was right, this is something, huh? Talk about a small world.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I can’t believe you two are sisters,” he continued as he handed her two twenties. “You don’t look anything alike.”

  “We both have brown hair and brown eyes.” Traci was also persistent and loyal—two qualities she knew she had in spades.

  “That might be it, though. You’re such a little thing.”

  “I’m five foot three.”

  He grinned. “Little.”

  “For the record, I can’t believe you’re my sister’s partner on the force either. I was just as caught off guard as the two of you.”

  “Crazy, huh?” Stuffing his wallet back into his back pocket, he said, “Seriously, Traci is a good cop. She’s got quite the reputation back in Cleveland. Bridgeport is lucky to have her.”

  “Wow. I guess I better ask her for some stories.”

  “If she gives you more than a couple of shrugs and ‘I was part of a good squad,’ I’ll be surprised. She’s pretty closed off.” He winked. “My mother would call her a little prickly.”

  “My momma would have called that gumption.” Thinking back to the way she’d greeted him when he’d first arrived, Shannon frowned. “Prickliness might be a genetic thing, I’m afraid. I’m sorry about giving you so much grief when you got here.”

  Dylan’s eyes warmed. “You had reason. Being late is rude. I could have called or texted.”

  Yeah, when he wasn’t getting shot at or avoiding the hospital. “Maybe, but I still feel bad. I could’ve been nicer.”

  “Hell, I could’ve been a little less honest during our first lesson. I didn’t need to put that bet out there like an unwanted gift.” Gazing down at her, the corners of his lips turned up. “So, any suggestions for getting into Traci’s good graces?”

  “I don’t really know her all that well. But so far, food always helps.” She smiled, hoping her little joke would encourage him to ignore her statement. But it didn’t.

  “Do I want to know how it is you don’t know her well?”

  “It’s not a secret, but it’s going to take a while to explain. Traci might want to do that.”

  “That sounds cryptic.”

  She smiled. “And you sound like a policeman: so suspicious.” When he studied her carefully, she said, “So, class number three next Friday night?”

  After a pause, he nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

  “Have a good week, Dylan,” she said as she opened the door for him.

  Just as he was about to step out, he turned to her. “You know what? This dancing thing has been a lot more fun than I thought it would be.”

  She laughed. “Those are words to warm a girl’s heart. I’ll see you in a week, officer.”

  After he gave her another searching look, he walked through the door.

  She locked it behind him but couldn’t help but watch him leave. He’d been right. Their session had been a lot more fun than she’d expected, too. And the feel of being in his arms? Well, there’d been something there between them.

  It seemed that old adage was true. Nothing really was what it seemed to be. Not the situation and not people.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Those who can’t dance say the music is no good.”

  —Jamaican Proverb

  Saturday

  She wasn’t sure if she was going to be able to finally do it.

  Gazing at the front door of Backdoor Books through her windshield, Jennifer Lange sighed. Backdoor Books was simply the cutest place. Well, she thought it was—she’d only seen pictures of it online.

  The quaint bookstore was housed in a remodeled three story building right off Broadway in Montgomery, the next town over. There was a fireplace on the first floor where visiting authors did talks and signings. The children’s area in the basement looked like a scene from “Hansel and Gretel.” Wooden cutouts of trees and bushes and houses were everywhere. They looked perfec
t for six-year-olds to hide behind. There were also three little playhouses that the managers had outfitted with books, stools, and lots of windows for kids to peek out of.

  The second floor was divided into fiction and nonfiction sections. Each genre section was large and filled to the brim with hardcovers and new paperbacks.

  But the third floor was what interested Jennifer the most. It housed the self-improvement, crafts, travel, and cookbooks. Lots and lots of wonderful small-town cookbooks. Her hands practically itched to get hold of them.

  The only problem with any of this was the fact that she was afraid to get out of her car. Almost petrified, thanks to the fact that she’d been attacked two years ago on her way from class, back to her car.

  It had been bad. They’d robbed her, broke her arm when she’d struggled. And when they’d forced her down on the pavement, her face had been smashed into a shard of glass—a thick, jagged piece that left a deep scar, even though the doctors at the hospital had repaired it as best they could.

  Chill bumps grazed her arms as she recalled everything else. Everything she hadn’t been completely coherent for. Everything that the doctors at the hospital had said had happened.

  Since then, a lot of things had changed. She’d become almost afraid of her shadow. Her brother Dylan, whom she’d always been close to, had become more stressed than usual. Their parents had tried to get her to move with them to Hilton Head. Some of her friends had drifted away when their sympathy ebbed and their confusion about her fears of men—and to a smaller extent, the whole world—increased.

  She’d ended up moving from downtown Cincinnati to Bridgeport, where Dylan had gotten a job in the police department. And because he was so busy, her fear had reached a dangerous point.

  That was when she’d finally started counseling. She’d been going for fourteen months now and had made a lot of progress. Now she could actually admit that she’d been attacked by three men, raped by one of them, and was never going to be the same for the rest of her life.

  Melissa, her counselor, had smiled the first time Jennifer had said those statements out loud. But no matter how much better it was for her to face the truth, Jennifer had only felt sick.

  Now Melissa had given her homework to work on in between appointments—assignments to go out into the world. She could now visit a few restaurants and public places if Dylan took her.

  But this was a big deal. She was finally going to go someplace by herself. And not just “go” there, either. She was going to get out of the car, walk into a store, and even speak to a stranger.

  That was why she was sitting in the parking lot. Yesterday, at the end of her session, she’d promised Melissa that she’d go to Backdoor Books. Not only that, she was supposed to go to the cookbook section, pick out a book, and purchase it.

  Two years and two months ago she wouldn’t have even been able to imagine doing any of that.

  Could she do it now?

  She was petrified. But did she really want to tell Melissa on Tuesday that she’d chickened out? Imagining the conversation, she knew that her counselor would nod, look her in the eye, and say she understood . . . but that she was disappointed.

  Jennifer didn’t want that.

  More than anything she wanted to be able to tell Dylan that she had left the house and was trying to get better. Remembering her breathing exercises, she opened her car door. It was maybe thirty-one degrees out. Gray sky, old snow on the ground. Damp and bitter cold. The air clung to her skin, seeping in—making the warm lights shining through the bookstore’s windows look even more inviting.

  She looked around. There were only around eight other cars in the parking lot. It was also the middle of the day. She wasn’t in danger.

  But still, she hesitated.

  The front door of the shop opened. A man who had to be in his seventies walked out. In one hand he held a paper coffee cup. In his other a packed shopping bag. He looked both ways, then crossed the parking lot. She watched him walk to one of the handicapped spaces near the front, get in his car, and drive away.

  It was time.

  Picking up her purse, she stood and closed the car door, but kept one hand on the roof of her car. She wondered if her therapist would think she’d done enough.

  She wouldn’t. She’d only look at Jennifer, lean back in her swivel chair, and ask if standing against her car in the cold was the same as walking into the bookstore and looking at cookbooks.

  No. No, it was not.

  She started walking. Barely remembered to stop and wait for the SUV that was zipping too fast through the parking lot. Then got to the door.

  “Hey, hold that open for me, would you?” a man called out.

  She froze. Looked behind her.

  It was a guy about her age holding a squirming black-and-tan puppy and a large cup of coffee. He had sunglasses on even though it wasn’t sunny.

  “Do you mind?” His voice was more impatient.

  “What?” Realizing he was about to be by her side, she yanked open the door.

  “Thanks,” he smiled at her just as the puppy squirmed again and yipped.

  And . . . his coffee cup flew out of his hand and sailed toward the ground at her feet. They both stared in dismay as the lid popped off, as if in slow motion, and the hot liquid splattered out onto her legs.

  “Oh!” She jumped back.

  “Crap. I’m so sorry.” He went down on a knee. The puppy scampered free as he reached out a hand.

  Afraid he was going to touch her, Jennifer stepped back.

  “Sorry!” Looking embarrassed, he picked up the fallen cardboard cup just as the puppy trotted closer and gave the spilled coffee a tentative lick.

  “Jack?”

  He looked up. “Hey, mom.”

  Obviously excited to see a friendly face, the puppy ran toward the woman.

  She bent down and picked it up. “What is Harvard doing here?”

  “You know I couldn’t leave him home,” the guy said as he got to his feet. “Not yet, but that’s not the issue.” He turned to Jennifer. “Miss, are you hurt? Did you get burned?”

  Her leg was wet but nothing hurt. “I’m fine.”

  Still holding the puppy, the guy’s mother turned to face her. “What happened to you?”

  “My coffee just spilled all over her, Mom. Miss, are you sure you’re not hurting?”

  “I’m fine,” Jennifer said again.

  “Oh dear. Come on in, honey.” As Jennifer stepped in, the lady put the puppy back down. It yipped, smelled a stack of books, then circled back to her. When she looked down, it wagged its tail.

  It really was too cute. The dog didn’t look like it was any sort of particular breed, more like a mishmash of a half-dozen. But seeing its sweet brown eyes and gentle personality, Jennifer decided it was a combination of all the best parts.

  Ignoring the coffee spill on her leg that was now just more of a bother than anything, Jennifer knelt down to give Harvard a pat.

  The dog wagged its tail some more.

  “He’s really soft,” she said, looking up.

  “He’s a mess, but he’s a keeper, for sure,” the guy said as he knelt down next to her.

  Then, suddenly, her body responded. He was too big, too close, and his proximity to her on the ground triggered far too many reactions.

  Mainly, panic.

  Feeling off-kilter, she pulled away from him.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  She couldn’t talk. Could barely get to her feet.

  The woman hurried to her side. “Honey? What happened? Did you get burned after all?”

  She shook her head. Suddenly, it felt like her cheeks were frozen. No, it felt like all of her was frozen in place. Hating herself for not being able to do more, she whispered, “Sorry,” before turning back to the door.

  Feeling like
the whole world was buzzing, she pushed on it hard.

  Rushed outside and tried to remember all of the coping exercises Melissa had taught her for panic attacks.

  Just as the door was swinging shut behind her, the guy stopped it. “Mom, watch Harvard!” he called out.

  The door closed with a snap behind them.

  The air was still cold. But now, instead of yearning to button up her coat more, she was tempted to pull it off. To let the air revitalize her. To do something.

  “Hey.”

  Now that she’d finally gotten her bearings, Jennifer turned around. He was standing about three feet away. His hands were raised like he was afraid of making any wrong move. Boy, she was such a mess.

  “What did I do?” he asked.

  What could she say but the truth? “Nothing.”

  His eyes skimmed her cheek. She knew he noticed her scar. Was probably now wondering what it was from. But he didn’t say anything more.

  Which made her feel like she could finally speak again. “My problem isn’t with you. It’s . . . it’s me. I . . . Well, I sometimes get panic attacks.” Okay. She sounded pitiful, but at least she was talking.

  “I spilled hot coffee on your leg. That had to hurt. Will you come in? At the very least, you can go to the restroom and wash it off.”

  She couldn’t go back in that store. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

  “I feel terrible. Are you sure you aren’t burned?”

  “Don’t. Like I said, a lot of what’s going on is me, not you.” Which sounded like a bad line from some Lifetime movie.

  “I feel like I’ve ruined your day.” Frustration was thick in every word. “If you want, I’ll stay away from you in the store.”

  She wanted to be normal so badly. She wanted to be normal and easy going and the way she used to be. “I’m just going to go.” She turned toward her car and started walking.

  “Can I at least know your name?”

  She turned around. “Why?”

  “Because, at the very least, I’d like to know the name of the pretty girl whose day I ruined.”

  Before she realized she was doing it, she smiled. “You didn’t ruin my day.”