Two-Step

by Stephanie Fournet

  Beau notices. “You had enough?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a nod.

  “Sure?” His focus on me is so intense, I feel caught in his gaze.

  I have the sudden hunch he’s thinking about the dizzy spell I had during our first lesson, and I flush with embarrassment.

  “I’m sure.”

  He watches me for a second, his expression unchanging. “Okay.” Then he grabs the tray and heads to the front of the studio. “Just in case anyone gets hungry later.”

  “I’m good,” I say, which is mostly the truth.

  “I could have more,” Ramon is quick to say, eyes on the tray as Beau moves through the swinging door.

  “Me too,” Sally adds, following them.

  I bring up the rear, wondering how many calories Cajun dancing burns.

  In the little parlor, Beau sets the tray down on one of the round-bottomed cafe chairs and takes out his phone.

  “Let’s warm up,” he says.

  I’m expecting the same breathing routine we’ve used every time, but instead of Bill Withers, Gnarls Barkley's “Crazy” fills the room. I almost choke on a laugh. Beau turns to face the three of us. “Follow my lead.”

  The beat is faster, more in-your-face than our other warm-ups, and I watch Beau keep time with it just by using his hips. Ramon and Sally imitate him, but I stand still. No way am I going to shake my hips. I’ll do it wrong and look like an idiot.

  “C’mon, Iris,” he prompts.

  I shake my head. “No thanks.”

  “We’re just warming up,” Beau says, stepping in front of me, shaking those sexy-as-sin hips. “No big deal.”

  No big deal? Who is he kidding? Has he seen himself?

  He’s just standing there, barely moving to the rhythm, but all the movement, all the rhythm makes it impossible to look away. He’s the sexiest damn thing on two legs, and I am beyond intimidated. Frozen solid.

  That is, until Beau settles his hands on my hips. “Just let go, Iris.”

  It’s not that simple. It can’t be that simple.

  He looks down at me, his dark eyes soft and patient. I look away, over at my friends, who are hip-shaking like pros. For about two seconds, I let myself hate them.

  Scowling, I look back at Beau. His mouth quirks. If he laughs at me, I’m going to knee him in the balls.

  “Trust me, Iris.”

  The invitation is low, intimate. My throat goes dry at his words, and I swallow. The last couple of weeks have brought down my guard. I’ve gotten comfortable with the routine, even if I’m still awkward and clumsy and mess up more than I get it right. But he’s made it easy even when I botch it. The temptation to trust him is just unfair. It’s almost as if someone is offering me a chance to learn how to fly like a bird. Thrilling. And equally impossible.

  The shake of my head is involuntary.

  “No?” he asks, the question almost a whisper.

  Embarrassed, I don’t answer.

  He lifts a brow at me. “You can shake your head, but not your hips?” When he says the word hips, his hands press just a little harder into mine. My breath catches because I like the feel of them there.

  “Does that make me crazy?” The song asks.

  “Possibly,” I answer.

  Beau gives me an amused frown. “Let’s just give it a try. Put your hands on my hips like this.”

  I jolt like he’s told me to put my hand in his pants. But then I obey, and, oh God. It’s like taking the wheel of a revving sportscar. My hands hum with the power rolling off him. The steady rocking of his narrow hips is mesmerizing. I resist the urge to dig my fingers in or slide them back and grip his ass.

  “Just move with me,” he urges.

  I let go a breath and try to bounce. Just bounce to the rhythm. It’s all wrong.

  “Who do you? Who do you-who do you-who-do you-think you-are? Ha-ha-ha.” Gnarls Barkley laughs.

  I stop.

  Beau shakes his head. “Keep going, but this time, keep it out of your knees and let go here.” He squeezes my hips again, and a shock of pleasure arcs between his hands. It’s so strong my stupid knees nearly give.

  But I brace them and close my eyes. I don’t want him to see this effect he’s having on me, but with my eyes closed, the feel of my hands on him and his hands on me becomes everything. I feel the rhythm in his hips like a pulse, and his hands on my hips match that pulse.

  The rhythm washes all around me. Not just in my hands and hips, but in my ears and eyelids. In my chest and thighs. Something clenched tight loosens.

  “Ever since I was little, it looked like fun and it was no coincidence I’ve come.”

  “That’s it,” Beau says, praise lacing his voice. I don’t dare open my eyes. I’m just moving from a place I don’t even understand. I don’t know what to call it, but maybe its name is Freedom.

  I’m grooving out in this place, trying it on for size.

  And the song ends.

  I snap my eyes open and freeze. I have to. I can’t possibly move. Because Beau Landry is smiling like I’ve just shown him heaven’s driveway. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve met Henry Cavill. It was in the lobby at Shin Sushi, but still. The Man of Steel’s got nothing on Beau.

  Down, girl, my inner voice cautions.

  He’s not interested, and it wouldn’t matter if he were. This other voice sounds suspiciously like Moira’s, but that doesn’t make her wrong. Beau Landry isn’t interested. And what if he were? Like I have time to explore anything right now.

  Like there’s ever been time.

  It’s this sobering thought that allows me to drop my hands from Beau’s hips and step back.

  “Good. That was good,” Beau says. “Loosening up—even just a little—always helps.”

  I manage a nod.

  He moves us through a short round of breathing exercises, and then partnering with me, Beau leads me through the Two-Step slowly a few times without music, counting out each step.

  As he does, I finally admit I was wrong about him. I had assumed, because we didn’t hit it off the day we met, that taking lessons from him was going to be a nightmare. That he couldn’t possibly be as good as Mr. Hebert. Or as patient.

  Turns out he’s both.

  “Let’s start with a nice slow rhythm before we pick up the pace.”

  He must notice when my eyes widen at the thought of trying to do anything on the dance floor faster because he shakes his head.

  “Don’t think about that. You do a lot better when you don’t think.”

  I’m stuck on his words—thinking obsessively about them—when he starts the same Cajun song we used during our first lesson. The one that I actually liked. But I tune out the duet, the only one I’ve heard with a female vocalist.

  Instead, as though it’s a curse now, I think about thinking too much.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, frustration curling in my gut. “I have to learn the dance, and to do that, I have to think about the steps.”

  A little line forms between his brows, but his eyes glint with humor. “But it’s just two steps. What’s there to think about?”

  I gape at him. “Which one comes next,” I say with exasperation, and then I promptly trip after cutting my left steps short.

  Beau rights me as if on instinct and gives me a mystified expression. “I know it’s not the same thing, but how does it work with your lines and your blocking?”

  I shrug. “I have no trouble remembering those.”

  “Yeah, but do you have to think about each one while you’re acting?”

  “No,” I say, tucking my chin. “I just do it.”

  The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. “So, you’re not thinking.”

  “It’s not the same,” I tell him, and then I knee him—accidentally and not in the balls—when I go to the right and he goes left. The way he presses his lips together tells me it hurt, and I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry.”

  “No problem.” But his voice is st
rained, and I wince with guilt.

  “I’m such a klutz.”

  “You are not.”

  I give him my snarkiest of looks, “Oh? You think I’m as graceful as a swan?”

  He pulls a face. “Swans look graceful gliding on the water, but have you ever seen swans fight? They’re vicious.”

  “You’ve seen a swan fight?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  I blink in disbelief. “There are swans in Louisiana?”

  Beau’s laughter seems to take him by surprise. “No. We have geese and ducks and even turkeys, but, sorry, no swans.”

  I like watching him laugh. “Where did you see these ferocious swans?”

  “I’ve only ever seen them in Switzerland and The Netherlands.”

  I halt mid-step. “You’ve been there? Both of those countries?” My surprise is unchecked.

  “Keep dancing,” he instructs. “You were doing great.”

  I start dancing, but then look down. “I was?”

  And then I wallop him again.

  Beau pinches his eyes shut.

  “Oh God,” I mutter.

  Eyes still closed tight, he gives a taut shake of his head. “No, no. It’s fine. What’s a few bruises?”

  “Oh God.”

  He clears his throat and shakes like a dog after a bath. “We were onto something,” he says, eyes on me again. Beau sets his hands on my shoulders, and I stop moving.

  “What? What were we onto?”

  “You. Not thinking.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out his phone. “Let’s start over. This time don’t think.”

  The music restarts, and I’m immediately off on the wrong foot, but at least I don’t knee him.

  “It’s okay. Keep going.”

  I botch it again. If someone were filming this, it would be the world’s longest blooper reel.

  “Are you thinking about your steps?” Beau asks, a touch of accusation in his tone.

  “What else am I supposed to think about?” I try to throw my hands up, but I only manage the one at his waist. The other’s trapped in his hand, and he isn’t letting go.

  “Don’t think about anything,” he says, dark brows drawing together.

  I look at him like he’s crazy. “I have to think about something.”

  “You can’t just clear your mind?”

  My eyes nearly fall out. “Are you serious?”

  His face clears, and his lips shape into a smile. “Yes. I know exactly what the problem is,” he mutters.

  The way he’s looking at me makes me nervous. Well, more nervous. “What’s the problem?”

  Intrigue sparks in his gaze. “You’re stuck in your head.”

  “I thought we established that,” I say, no less confused.

  Beau shakes his head, looking pleased with himself. “No, you’re completely stuck in your head, which means you’re out of touch with your body.”

  I want to shake my head in denial because I’m constantly thinking about my body—if my butt looks fat, if my belly is too big, if my clothes look too tight—but I don’t say this.

  “How can I be out of touch with something I’m stuck inside?” I blurt.

  It’s only after Beau’s face flashes with shock that I hear myself.

  Stuck?

  “Stuck? Why would you say it like that?”

  Why would I say it like that?

  I wave my hand like it’s nothing. “If you were five-three, you’d say stuck too.”

  He frowns at me for another long second. “I don’t think so.”

  “Forget I said anything. You said stop thinking. How am I supposed to do that?”

  His frown clears. “Right.” He takes out his phone and restarts the music again. “Listen to the song,” he says as the music plays.

  I listen. It’s the same song I’ve heard half a dozen times now, opening with the cheerful wheeze of an accordion.

  At the second measure, Beau grabs me, and we begin to dance at the same time he asks, “What do you hear?”

  I grip his hand and waist, holding on as he leads. “W-what do you mean?”

  “What do you hear?” he repeats.

  Right-together-right-together.

  Left-together-left-together.

  “Music,” I answer dumbly.

  “What’s it made of?”

  I move, trip once, but Beau steadies me. “Instruments?” I look up at him like he’s crazy.

  He grins down at me. “What kind?”

  “Accordion.”

  “What else?”

  Right-together-right-together.

  Left-together-left-together.

  I listen to the music. “A violin.”

  “Cajun fiddle,” he corrects, his smile soft but still reaching his eyes. I feel it in my stomach.

  “Oh,” I breathe.

  “What else?”

  I make myself focus as we move. “Something metal? Like a tambourine?” I ask, homing in on the chank-chank sound.

  He gives a gentle shrug. “Maybe spoons and a washboard.”

  I blink. “Seriously?”

  He nods. “Cajun music has humble roots.”

  Beau shifts us, so instead of moving side to side, we’re angling back just a little.

  “W-what are you doing?” I ask, looking down at our feet.

  “Look up at me.”

  I do and stumble.

  “S’okay. Keep going,” he says softly. “What do you hear?”

  The woman has begun singing in French, but also not French. Nothing like the haut Parisian accented singing of Maurice Chevalier or Édith Piaf. This French is flatter. Gruffer. More humble, as Beau said.

  “She’s singing,” I say.

  A smile breaks over his face. “What’s she saying?”

  I gape at him. “I have no idea.”

  This makes Beau laugh, and I feel it under my hand on his waist. Holy God. His muscles there are lean and taut. I resist the urge to run my fingers up his side.

  I focus on the song instead. “What is she saying? You tell me.”

  “She’s saying,” The smile in his eyes dims just a little. “I’d like to feel like this at home.”

  I suck in a breath. “What?”

  “That’s the name of the song.” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “J'aimerais Sentir Comme Ca Chez Moi. I’d like to feel like this at home.”

  I suddenly remember the feel of his hand on my belly that first night. Startling me. Grounding me. Touching me in a place untouchable.

  I’d like to feel like this at home.

  “What does she feel like? I mean—” I stop and then swallow. “What does she mean?”

  Right-together-right-together.

  Left-together-left-together.

  Except now we are moving. Back-right. Back-right. Back-left. Back-left. Stepping counter-clockwise around the room. I’m dimly aware that Ramon and Sally are moving in a likewise rotation.

  “She’s saying, roughly—” He looks down at me, and it feels like he’s looking into me. “I’ve never been loved as you love me. I’d like to feel like this at home.”

  For a moment, my breath halts. The words are beautiful. Coming out of his mouth makes them even more beautiful. And the look in his eyes—

  The man’s voice chimes in, and I’m immediately desperate to know his response. “What’s he saying?”

  The corner of Beau’s mouth turns up, but the light of the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s saying, In your arms, it’s the refuge I was looking for. I’d like this at home.”

  “Oh,” I say, nearly breathless. “It’s a pretty song.”

  His brows draw together just a little. “Yeah, but it’s a sad one.”

  My eyes go wide. “It is? Why? Why is it a sad one?” I ask urgently. I’m instantly offended on behalf of the lovers. Why sad? Why can’t they be together and live like that?

  I’ve amused him. I can tell in the way he’s trying not to smile at me. Smile for real this time.

  �
�They say they’ve tried everything. Done everything they could,” he says, the smile fading again. “I will never have freedom. And you will not hope for me so long.”

  I frown. “Well, that sucks!”

  The outrage in my response makes him laugh again.

  And then the song closes with the two voices singing together. And this time I recognize the words as the title. J'aimerais sentir comme ca chez moi.

  “But they both still want each other!” I exclaim.

  Beau chuckles. “It’s true. That’s why it’s sad.” He’s smiling, but even in the smile, I see a little sadness.

  Damn.

  I’m smiling at him, and that’s just how I feel.

  Chapter Thirteen

  BEAU

  As soon as the song is over, I release Iris and take a step back. I have to. For a minute there, it felt nothing like a dance lesson. It felt…

  Intimate.

  And that’s not the way I should feel around a Hollywood actor—even if she seems far more innocent and guileless than I first believed.

  “Great,” I say, stepping away and putting my attention where it should be. On the lesson. “You did really great.”

  “Really?” She makes a face, wrinkling that adorable nose.

  I chuckle. “Yeah. You did. We made it three circuits around the room without any missteps.”

  Her hazel eyes go wide. “We did?”

  “See what happens when you get out of your head?” I hold my smile in place, but she wasn’t the only one out of her head. I was in my body and—how do my students say it?—in my feelings while we danced, and that’s not a good thing.

  Iris Adams—the real Iris Adams—caught me off guard. She’s nothing like what I thought at first. And I’ve been spending the last couple of weeks trying not to think about her.

  And the excited look she’s wearing? I won’t be able to forget that soon either.

  “Three circuits? If I can do three circuits, then I’ve got the first number.”

  “Almost,” I say carefully.

  Her excitement dims. “What do you mean, almost?”

  “Well, the notes Nonc gave me detailed a few other moves, but nothing too difficult.” I’m being vague. While this is true, if I listed out the arch-unders and brush offs right now, she might get overwhelmed. One thing at a time. For now, I just want her to focus on what she’s accomplished.