“Again.” Beau steps in front of me, blocking the view of my friends’ reflections and filling my vision. He’s so close, I can smell him. And he smells like spring. Like clover. And rain. Natural. Clean. “Weight in the heels.”
With my feet anchored, I’m more stable as my hands go up this time, and I’m ready for him to notice that I—
That you what? That you can breathe without falling down? Moira’s voice is as clear as if she’d droned in my ear. I wobble and resist the urge to swear.
In front of me, Beau shakes his head again. “You’re still not breathing deep enough.”
Lifting my arms again, I scowl. “Yes, I am.”
“Breathe here.” His hand presses into my belly, and the touch is such a shock, I really do almost fall.
“W-What?” I stagger back, but he braces a hand behind me, low on my back, and now my middle is sandwiched between his two hands.
“Here. Breathe into my hand,” he says, pressing more firmly into my belly.
And it’s like an anchor. Not just in my heels, but everywhere. In my bones. In my cells.
“Then I look at you
And the world’s alright with me”
Bill Withers’ deep voice seems to pair with the weight of this touch. This heavy, warm pressure on a part of my body no one touches unless I’m being measured for alterations or cinched into costumes.
Or poked when I’m bloated, but that’s just Moira.
No one touches me like this. With a wide, firm, steadying hand.
“Just one look at you
And I know it’s gonna be
A lovely day”
“Move me,” he says, his voice low.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry as dirt.
Two dark brows draw together over the deepest brown eyes I’ve ever seen up close.
“Move my hand.”
I don’t want to. It’s a troubling thought, but I don’t want to move his hand. Something about his touch right there is… well… comforting.
But I obey. Without taking my eyes off his, I reach down and grab his wrist. I feel heat and tendons and sinew before I watch his eyes narrow in confused mirth.
“With your breath, Iris. Move my hand with your breath.”
Next to us, Ramon snickers just as flames of mortification roar beneath my cheeks. I release Beau’s wrist like it’s radioactive.
I’m such an idiot.
“No, keep it there,” Beau says, just a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Keep it there so you can feel what I mean.”
Hesitantly, I grip his wrist again.
“Now breathe.”
I inhale.
“You’re filling the top of your lungs.” He presses into me again, and the sensation echoes all the way to my toes. “Fill your belly.”
I take a tentative breath and let my stomach expand just a little against his hand.
“More,” he orders when I exhale.
I breathe in again, past my lungs, pushing against him a little more.
“More, Iris.”
“I can’t,” I gust out on a sigh.
His eyes narrow in challenge. “You can. You’re moving, but just barely. Let go. Stick your belly way out.”
“No way,” I blurt, backing away. Except I can’t back up much because he’s bracing me from behind.
Beau frowns. “Why not?” He steps in, closing the fraction of an inch I put between us.
“Stick my belly out? Are you crazy? I’ll look fat.”
His brows shoot up. A look I can’t decipher crosses his face. “Trust me,” he says flatly, “you won’t. Now breathe.”
I do, but no deeper than the last time.
“Really?” He looks less than amused. “That’s the best you can do?”
No. It’s not the best I can do. I can stick my stomach out a lot further, but why the hell would I do that? Me dancing is bad enough. Me looking fat while dancing? Well, that’s hell realm material.
“Iris.”
“What?”
He crowds me more than he’s already crowding me. “Dance begins here.” He presses that hand into me, and again, I feel it like a shower of sparks and a mug of hot cocoa all at once. Exhilarating. Soothing. Delicious. “Here. Not in your feet or your legs. But in your core. If you breathe from here and move from here first, everything else works out.”
That can’t be right. Can it?
“But ballet dancers aren’t sticking their bellies out when they’re dancing.”
“Professional ballet dancers have been doing breathwork since Day One,” he says flatly. “They are breathing as deeply as possible to be able to do their lifts and leaps and jetes. They’ve just learned to incorporate breath with movement.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “How do you know?”
The corners of his eyes crease with satisfaction. “Because I studied ballet for eighteen years.”
Maybe I’m an idiot, but I did not see that coming. I look him up and down in his collared shirt and chinos. At first I can’t picture him in a leotard and tights.
And then I totally can. In fact, I’m sure most women—and no small number of men—would pay good money to see him in nothing but Lycra.
But eighteen years?
“Where did you study?” I hear myself ask.
“Here.” One corner of his mouth lifts in a smile.
“Here, in Lafayette?” I ask, confused.
Amusement sparks in his dark eyes. “Right here. At La Fête.”
“Mr. Hebert taught you?” I squawk.
Beau chuckles at my surprise. “He and my mom.”
I blink. “Your mom? Does she teach here too?”
“She used to,” he says, his smile slipping. Then his hand presses into me again and all thoughts of ballerinas flit from my head. “Now breathe. Big this time.”
I do, making the mistake to look down as my belly rounds under his hand.
“Ugh,” I mutter.
“Look up. At me,” he commands.
So I do. He’s so close, and his gaze falls on me, into me. It’s so heavy it’s hypnotic. I immediately stop breathing.
“Breathe, Iris.”
I breathe, stretching my diaphragm, filling my belly.
“Good. Again.”
I do it again and again and again. And then keeping the hand on my middle, he uses his free one to clasp my wrist, and he sweeps it up as I breathe in.
“Heels down,” he reminds me when I tip forward.
I anchor in the heels and raise both hands. Ramon and Sally, who’ve been silent witnesses since Beau touched me, start moving in tandem with us.
We breathe, sweeping our hands up, and after half a dozen times, I realize that my arms no longer feel like they’re made of popsicle sticks. Instead, it feels like they’re moving through water.
Gracefully.
“Great. Great.” Beau gives a tight nod. “We’ll begin with some kind of warm up every time.”
Then he steps back. His hand leaves my belly, and it’s like someone has ripped away my blanket while I dreamed. Instinctively, I cross my arms over my middle to try to recapture the lost heat, but it’s gone.
“Okay.” Beau picks up his phone again and suddenly, Bill Withers’s melted caramel voice is replaced by a cranky Cajun accordion.
Have I mentioned that I’m not much of a Cajun music fan?
This may not be the most politically correct thing to admit—so I haven’t said it out loud—but Cajun music is to the ear what a wood chipper is to, well, wood.
Okay, maybe I exaggerate. My ears are still intact at the end of each lesson, but my nerves are mulch. Most Cajun songs sound like cat sex with a beat. Like someone put a slow country song—which I heard plenty of growing up in Oklahoma and can only appreciate now that I’ve listened to Cajun music—through a hand-crank coffee grinder. While two cats go at it.
Yeah, I’m not a fan.
While I sulk on the inside, Beau turns to Ramon. “Did my uncle teach you the Two-Step?”
Beau chokes on a laugh. “Okay, Bernardo,” he scoffs, pointing toward me, “let’s see what you got.”
I frown at Ramon. “Bernardo?”
Ramon turns to me, brows lowered. “It’s from West Side Story. Your new dance teacher thinks he’s funny.”
Apparently, I think he’s funny too because I laugh—as much at Beau’s joke as its irritating effect on Ramon.
“Traitor,” my PA mutters as he takes position in front of me. His hand lands on my waist, and he grips my right hand with all the warmth of a dental cleaning. As though that’s not enough to let me know he’d rather a different dance partner, he looks over at Beau. “With Mr. Hebert, I danced with Sally and he danced with Iris.”
Beau smirks at Ramon. “And what did I say about that?”
I stifle a giggle. “You sound like a school teacher.”
His smirk becomes a smile. A real one. It’s beautiful. “I am.”
“Really?” Sally asks, sounding incredulous. She looks both confused and a little alarmed.
Beau dips his head in a nod. “High school French.”
A look of relief passes over my best friend’s face. “Oh, so not little kids.”
“No.” Beau shakes his head. “But I’ve taught elementary kids in an immersion summer camp. It was fun.”
Sally’s eyes widen, and she keeps her mouth closed, but I know what she’s thinking. She’s not a fan of Beau, and the thought of him being unleashed on precious elementary children gives her the heebie-jeebies.
“So you just like older kids better?” she asks, unable to let it go.
A thoughtful look crosses Beau’s face. “No,” he says with a gentle headshake. “I like teaching all ages. I just think my high school kids need me more.”
“Need you?” I hear myself ask. His gaze meets mine.
“I teach in a low-performing public school. Most of my kids are low-income and at-risk,” he says, his expression sobering. “It’s not a great environment, but I try to make it better.”
This isn’t what I expected from Mr. Hebert’s grumpy nephew, and I want to know more, but he gives an impatient shake of his head. “Now let’s get moving.” He claps in time with the music. “Ramon, on four. One-two-ready-and—”
I know Ramon is going to step to his left. I know this. I’ve already had three lessons with Mr. Hebert. But for some godforsaken reason, instead of stepping to my right to match him, I go left and we tug apart.
“It’s okay,” Beau says, still clapping in time. I join with Ramon again and let go a frustrated breath. “Start again in four-three-two-one.”
This time, I go right like I’m supposed to, and I even remember that it’s right-together-right-together then left-together-left-together. I mean, that’s why they call it a Two-Step. You can’t get much easier than that. I don’t think there’s a One-Step out there anywhere. And yet in just a few seconds, I’m no longer in sync with Ramon. As though he’s dancing on solid earth and I’m moving around on ice, my feet veer well beyond his steps in either direction.
“Your steps are too big,” Ramon complains. “Step smaller.”
“I can’t keep up with you if I step smaller,” I snap, defensive and quickly growing embarrassed.
He scowls. “Have you tried?”
“You think I’m not trying?”
“I think you’re not breathing,” Beau interjects, his voice calm. “Try to time your inhales and exhales with each two-step.”
I try this, trying to remember his rule about breathing with my belly. Inhale-right-together-right-together. Exhale-left-together-left-together. Inhale-right-together-right-together. Exhale-left-together-left-together. I’m still all cattywampus, just now with more oxygen. Maybe too much.
“Stop stepping so big,” Ramon grumbles.
“I’m getting dizzy,” I announce, releasing Ray’s hand and clutching my forehead.
“Okay, stop,” Beau commands.
“You’re dizzy?” Ramon asks. I hear concern in his voice, but my eyes are closed as the room tilts. And then I’m tilting.
“Whoa.” A hand grips my upper arm, and I open my eyes to see Beau Landry steadying me. He’s frowning again. “Are you alright?”
I see his mouth move as he asks the question, and it seems like I hear the words in my head a little later, like when the soundtrack on Netflix gets buffered and you have to reset your connection.
Beau doesn’t take his eyes from me. “Let’s sit down.” And then he’s pushing me. Pushing me backward until the back of my knees hits a chair. It’s one of those wooden chairs with a round seat and a back in the shape of a heart, and for a minute, I picture Beau Landry dancing with it in a tap routine, and I giggle.
My giggle turns his frown into a scowl. “I suppose you’re going to tell me again how you’re not high, right?”
Chapter Ten
BEAU
As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I regret it. Because Iris Adams goes ghostly white, and I have a sickening feeling it's not because I called out her drug use.
“Is she ODing?” I ask, squeezing her hand that’s now clammy in mine.
“No, you jerk!” Her friend Sally shoves me aside—hard—and drops down in front of her. “Iris, honey, when did you last eat?”
“Umm…” Iris squints, wearing a look like she’s trying to solve a calculus equation. While stoned.
Ramon flanks my other side, hovering over us. “She had a smoothie at lunch. I know that much.”
“That was at eleven,” Sally says, sounding flustered. It’s almost six-thirty now. I’ve eaten twice since then.
Ramon squats down so now all three of us are at Iris’s feet. “Did you eat the apple and almond butter I packed for you after we broke this afternoon?”
Iris puts the heel of one shaking hand to her forehead. The other, I realize, is still in my grasp. I let go.
“No,” she says, shaking her head.
“Why not?” Ramon asks, but there’s no accusation or censure in his voice. Just the question.
The actress shuts her eyes, but with her hands still shaking and her skin a pasty white, I know, for once, she’s not acting. “Moira was in my trailer after we broke. She wanted to go over some things.”
“Yeah, but—” Sally starts.
“You know I can’t eat in front of her.”
The three of them get very quiet.
And I take this as my cue to leave, so I stand and slip out. The kitchen is empty. Nonc must have gone back upstairs.
I open the fridge and do a quick sweep. There’s the ham she just brought, but I’m thinking she needs something that’s going to fuel her fast. I grab the Mayhaw jelly, Nonc’s favorite, and take down the peanut butter from the cabinet.
A few minutes later, I carry the PB&J back into the parlor. Iris’s color is better, but she looks exhausted. Guilt reaches into my guts and gives them a twist as I think about my assumptions.
And my accusations.
“Here,” I say, offering her the plate.
She looks down at the sandwich cut into quarters. “Oh… You didn’t have to do that.” Her voice sounds washed out. Wrung out too.
“I did,” I say. “I like my students to be conscious. Preferably, nourished.”
Her gaze lifts to mine. This close, I notice that her eyes burn with the most startling blaze of gold, green, and rust. A glinting hazel fit for any wicked witch.
Or good witch, as the case may be. Because the color rushes back to her cheeks, and I don’t think even the best actress in the world can blush on cue.
Maybe Nonc is right about her.
I put aside my questions about Iris Adams and nod toward the plate. “Take it.”
She looks at the sandwich squares. I watch her swallow. She’s hungry. That’s obvious. Poor girl.
I give a half-shrug. “Start with one. Then see how you feel.”
With fingers that still tremble, she plucks one of the quarters from the plate and takes a bite. Her gaze lifts to mine.
“Mmm. What kind of jelly is that?” She smacks her lips. “It’s not grape.”
I grin. Nothing about that look of wonder could be affected either. “It’s Mayhaw.”
She blinks. “What’s that?”
“A berry that grows around here.”
She finishes the square and closes her eyes. “Mmm. It’s good. Tart but sweet.”
“Yeah, they’re real tart. Not too good to eat straight from the tree, but they make great jellies and syrups.”
Without hesitating, she picks up another piece and takes a bite. “I like it. Can you get it at the store?”
I press my lips together. “Hmm. Probably not. A farmers market will have it—for the next couple of weeks anyway.”
Her eyes go wide, and she shoots a look at her friends. “We have to find a farmers market.” She jerks her head back to me. “How long are Mayhaws in season?”
“Um,” I swallow a chuckle, “May.”
She looks down at the sandwich square, smiles, and looks back up at me. “I guess that makes sense.” Iris pops the last piece of that square into her mouth and grabs the third. “I really shouldn’t eat this whole sandwich,” she mutters.
“I think you should,” I say.
She shrugs, taking a bite. “Moira would freak,” she says around a mouthful.
I’m starting to think I wouldn’t like this Moira. Which means Nonc was at least right about her. Was he right about both of them?
“What Moira doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” When I say this, both Ramon and Sally turn their gazes on me. Am I just imagining it, or do I see approval in their eyes where there wasn’t before?
Iris finishes the third square and stares at the fourth. I’m still holding the plate in front of her, and I nudge it a little closer.
“C’mon. You can’t let Nonc’s favorite jelly go to waste.” Her eyes flare with alarm, and she picks up the last piece. “You need something to drink?”
Mid-bite, Iris shakes her head. “I have a Vitamin Water in my bag.”
Two-Step Page 9