Two-Step

by Stephanie Fournet

  Soulful?

  “…grumpy,” Sally says finally.

  “He’s not grumpy,” I defend, a surprised laugh startling me. Because while he isn’t grumpy, he can be serious. Even stern.

  I sort of like it.

  I like a lot of other things too.

  Hours and hours of dancing have given me an up-close and personal view of his mouth. And plenty of time to imagine kissing him. Theoretically, I’m very much in favor of it.

  And his hands. When his hands are on me—wrapped around my hands or settled on my hips or holding my waist—I feel… cocooned. Like I’m protected by a sturdy fortress.

  It’s the letting go part that I really don’t like. When he lets go, it’s like I get this cold shock.

  Sally gives me an arch look. “He seemed pretty grumpy when he accused you of doing drugs.”

  “That was before we got to know each other.” Still, I feel color rise in my cheeks. “And he apologized for that.”

  Boy, did he ever.

  I think people who apologize are in short supply in this world. At least those who apologize and really mean it. Those who don’t qualify an apology with a but or an if.

  I’m sorry I hit you with my car, but you shouldn't have been crossing the street.

  I’m sorry if what I said hurt your feelings.

  I’m sorry, but is just a defensive smoke screen to put blame somewhere else and I’m sorry if means they aren’t really sorry. They’re only sorry under certain conditions that have to do with something else, not their actions.

  But Beau Landry’s apology that first night was seriously good. Probably the best apology anyone’s ever given me.

  Offending you hurts me… Please accept my apology.

  I mean, after that, how could I not? Even the look in his eyes made me soften. I could see hurt in them. Hurt for hurting me.

  Sally makes a face. “I almost never see him smile.”

  “You almost never stop looking at Ramon,” I quip. Seriously, the two of them are in a world apart during dance class. But then again, I might be in my own world then too.

  “He smiles,” I say, grinning in thought. Because he does smile. His smiles are just rare. And wonderful.

  She snorts a laugh. “If you say so.”

  I don’t tell her that I’m an expert on Beau’s smile after spending so much time staring at his mouth. Instead, I attack her motives.

  “So, are you trying to, oh, I don’t know… warn me away from a guy?” I ask pointedly.

  She jolts, and her gaze snaps back to mine. My question has caught her off guard. “Um… Uh… Noooo.”

  I nod. “Right, because that would make you a total hypocrite.” I’m rubbing her face in it, but even as I do, I know Sally is just looking out for me. Just like I do for her.

  “Exactly. Exactly.” She nods back, harder and more emphatically. “You won’t get any hypocrisy from me. You go on your hike with Mr. Crabby Ass and enjoy every minute of it.”

  “I will,” I say, accepting her blessing. “But just to be clear, it’s just a hike. Not a weekend getaway. Not even a date.”

  I’m absolutely clear on this. There was nothing skeezy about his invite. I’m pretty sure he just felt sorry for me because I can’t drive. And my two best friends are ditching me to have a Bacchanalian feast of sex and daiquiris in the French Quarter all weekend.

  And I have no other friends here.

  Does that mean Beau and I are friends now? The thought warms my belly like a sip of whiskey.

  Friends with Beau would be nice. And maybe I’ll be able to think of him in more friendly terms while we’re hiking today. Unlike dance class, there won’t be any touching, and being in the woods should be safe territory since it’ll mask his manly, verdant, rain shower scent.

  Not that I’ll be close enough to smell him. Safe distance. No touching. Wholesome activity.

  Just a friendly hike.

  He’s not interested and I don’t have time.

  I repeat this to myself for the fifth time this morning. For every time my stomach flutters when I check my watch and picture him on the way over.

  He’s not interested and I don’t have time.

  The front door opens while I’m snapping Mica into his harness. Ramon fills the doorway, rubbing his palms together. The guy is actually rubbing his palms together. And not because it’s cold. Because he’s practically vibrating with excitement.

  “Ready?” he asks Sally.

  She bats her eyes and nods like a bobble-head. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  I stifle the urge to give them one final warning. One more chance to reconsider. But just looking at them convinces me that any lecture I could give would do absolutely no good. I’ll just have to be prepared for the awkwardness that’s bound to descend tomorrow evening when they return.

  I swallow my sigh. “You two be careful,” I say, meaning on the drive. Out on the town. In the sack. Whatever. And then because I don’t want to be a total killjoy. “And have fun.”

  “We will,” they say in unison.

  And then Sally hikes her purse onto her shoulder, puts her hand into Ramon’s outstretched one, and they’re out the door. I’m surprised they didn’t leave skid marks.

  “And, thus, the disaster begins,” I tell Mica.

  He tilts his head to the side, trying to decide if I’ve mentioned any of his favorite words, like treat, walk, Frisbee, or hike.

  “Almost time to go, buddy.”

  He wags. Go is another word he understands perfectly. He follows me to the kitchen where I take the lunches I packed out of the fridge and tuck them into the top of my fast pack. I test its weight. Even with a full Camelbak, a picnic blanket, bug spray, first-aid kit, Mica’s Frisbee, his collapsible water dish, treats, tick-repelling bandana, and my SPF lip-balm and sunscreen, it’s still pretty light. Nothing compared to the pack I carry on the AT. The picnic blanket and bulky homemade lunches are luxury items that aren’t permitted on thru-hikes.

  The thought of thru-hiking with Beau gives me another tummy flutter.

  “He’s not interested, and I don’t have time,” I say aloud this time, hoping it’ll stick if I hear it.

  Mica huffs a soft bark.

  I eye my dog. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He barks again, startling me, and then tears off for the front door—just before the doorbell rings.

  When I open the door, I find Beau Landry standing there, transformed. He’s wearing an olive green T-shirt that fits him like a second skin and a pair of khaki cargo shorts that show off muscled legs.

  Holy God.

  Oh, yeah, and light brown hiking boots. What can I say? Hiking boots do it for me. Seriously. Can footwear for a man get any more manly than hiking boots?

  It hits me then that I’m also wearing hiking boots, which, conversely, are probably the least sexy of footwear options for a woman. But it’s not like I could go into the woods in a pair of Louboutins. Besides…

  He’s not interested, and I don’t have time.

  “Morning,” Beau says with a nod, making me realize I’ve been openly ogling him for a good ten seconds.

  “Morning!” My greeting comes out more like a shout—as if shouting makes up for the ogling.

  It doesn’t. It just makes me even more of a weirdo, but Beau has the good grace to grin, and then Mica, as always, comes to my rescue, nosing Beau’s knee.

  “Bonjour, chien,” he says, offering Mica his knuckles, who sniffs with unchecked interest.

  “This is Mica,” I introduce. “He doesn’t speak French.”

  Without missing a beat, Beau says, “All dogs speak French.”

  I laugh. “Thanks for letting me take him with us.”

  “Sure,” Beau says and then gives my dog a friendly scrub between his ears. “He’s a beauty. What a great coat.”

  Mica is merle-coated, a mix of white, gray, and tan that make parts of his fur look blue. The coat, his speckled face, and blue eyes make him the handsomest bo
y I know.

  “Thanks. He’s a good egg.”

  Beau chuckles. “You look like a hiking dog,” he tells Mica, who wags in reply.

  “Oh, he is,” I affirm. “Mica has logged a good three hundred miles on the A.T.”

  Beau’s eyebrows climb, and he looks from Mica to me. “That’s a lot of miles.” He straightens up, frowning a little. “How far were you planning to go today?”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. I just want a chance to slip into nature. Unplug for a while.”

  His frown eases. “You won’t be disappointed if we have to head back midafternoon? I have a class at five.”

  Now it’s my turn to go bug-eyed. “No! Oh my gosh. I didn’t know you had to work.” I suddenly feel like a selfish twit. “Am I totally ruining your day?”

  “No,” Beau says. Rather firmly, I might add. “This is going to be fun. We’ll just have to head back at about three.”

  But I still bite my lip. “You sure? If Sundays are better—”

  “Sundays aren’t better.” His mouth flattens into an unhappy line. “You ready?”

  “Um…” What did I just say? All the butterflies in my stomach just dropped dead. “Look, Beau, it’s really nice of you to offer to take me hiking, but if you don’t want to go—”

  He frowns at me. “Of course, I want to go.”

  My insides twist. If he wants to go, why is he frowning? Maybe Sally was right. I could sure use one of his rare smiles now.

  His gaze narrows on me. “Iris, are you okay?”

  “I’m… just—” I hedge, reaching for the hem of my top and plucking at a loose thread.

  “Just what?”

  Pluck. Pluck. What am I doing?

  “Being awkward because it doesn’t seem like you want to go.”

  His frown softens. Just a little. “Why would I offer to take you hiking if I didn’t want to go?”

  He’s got me there. “I don’t know. But—”

  “I’m not usually in the habit of doing things I don’t want to do. Are you?”

  My jaw drops. “All the time!”

  His forehead wrinkles, and he looks at me like I’m crazy. “My God, why?”

  Is he serious? “Because that’s what people expect.”

  Beau crosses his arms over his chest, his expression unchanging. “People expect you to do things you don’t want to do?”

  A jaded laugh leaves me. “I’m from Hollywood.”

  The you’re-crazy look is gone, but the frown is back. “Right.” He looks down, and I watch his throat move as he swallows. It’s just swallowing, I try telling myself. But something about it makes my lungs empty.

  The man can really swallow.

  “Right,” he says again. Then he looks up at me. “You don’t know me yet, but for the record, I don’t do things because people expect me to.”

  I’m listening, but I don’t know what part of the sentence to focus on more: the I don’t do things because people expect me to part, or the you don’t know me yet part. Yet is a word with untapped potential.

  It’s my turn to swallow. “Okay.”

  “So if I offer to take you hiking, and I’m here to take you hiking—” The left side of his mouth tugs up, and his eyes glint. “It’s because I really want to take you hiking.”

  “I’ll just get my pack.”

  Five minutes later, we’re backing onto Cherry Street in Beau’s truck, with Mica secured in the backseat. Yes, my dog has his own seat belt attachment that clips to his harness. That does not make him bourgie. It makes me careful, okay?

  Mica is excited. I am cautiously optimistic. And Beau?

  Beau is quiet.

  Yeah, he’s one quiet dude.

  And even though I like my down time—porch swings and bubble baths and walks through the forest—I cannot handle road trips in total silence. Not even short ones.

  “So, how far is Chicot?” I hope I’m pronouncing the name of the state park correctly. I can spell it correctly because Ramon made me text him the name and Beau’s phone number and my Share My Location just in case.

  If my PA/bodyguard/nutritionist/personal trainer is really worried about Beau slitting my throat in the woods, then he shouldn’t be going to New Orleans with my best friend. But I digress.

  “About an hour’s drive,” he says, then he reaches down to the footwell in front of me and pulls up a paper bag. “Have you had breakfast?”

  I eye him like he’s grown horns. And buck teeth. “When I could sleep all the way until seven?” I roll my eyes. “No, but I packed a protein bar.”

  He drops the bag in my lap. It’s warm. “There’s two breakfast burritos in there. Would you unwrap them for us?”

  For us?

  “You got me a breakfast burrito?”

  He shrugs. “I was hungry. Figured you would be too.”

  I blink, speechless.

  Beau takes his eyes off the road, finding mine. “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  His lips curl like I’ve made a joke. “Hungry.”

  “I’m always hungry.” The bald admission lands like a belly flop.

  “Then get busy unwrapping.”

  I don’t hesitate. I reach in and grab the first, tight bundle, peel back the foil, and hand it to him.

  “Merci,” he mutters.

  I grin and grab the second one. I unwrap and find a steaming burrito cocooned in a flour tortilla. Under normal circumstances, I’d just eat a bit of the tortilla and hollow out the middle with a fork, since I don’t need all those carbs, but there’s no fork handy.

  “When in Rome,” I say under my breath and take a bite.

  Mmm. Heaven in a wrap!

  Eggs, cheese, bacon, veggies. And heat. Spices smolder on my tongue.

  I hum in gratitude. “Thank you. This is really good. Where’d you get it?”

  I glance over at him and catch him mid-bite. I grin. He chews and swallows.

  “This little place on the river. Cafe 20.3.” He steadies the steering wheel with his wrist while he peels back the foil. “They make a boudin breakfast burrito too, but I thought that might be too much for you.”

  My eyes go big. “People around here eat boudin for breakfast?!” Then I cast my gaze into the middle distance for dramatic effect. “What kind of magical land have I stumbled upon?”

  He laughs. “Cajuns eat boudin every chance they get, but it’s not the breakfast of champions.”

  “No?” I tease.

  “Not unless you’re going for the By-Pass Triple Crown.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “What’s that?”

  He steers with the wrist holding the burrito and counts off on his free hand. “Boudin, Cracklin, and beer.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “What’s cracklin’?”

  “Pork skins fried in fat.”

  “Sounds healthy,” I deadpan.

  Beau shrugs. “Depends on who you ask. They have zero carbs.”

  “I demand cracklin’ now.”

  His laughter fills the cab of the truck. “Eat your burrito. If you’re good, we’ll get some on the way home.”

  His laughter and his promise have me smiling. If I’m good.

  Trouble is, I don’t want to be good around Beau. I want to take all my rules—about dating, flirting, eating, drinking, and, yes, sex—and throw them out the window.

  He brought me breakfast. He didn’t have to, and it’s so nice.

  I run my gaze over his chiseled profile. He looks hard. Imposing. Especially when he’s not smiling. Maybe that’s all Sally sees, but I’m beginning to suspect that his grouchy moments and sharp remarks hide something else.

  Something that makes me feel warm. Like a hand on the belly. And seen. Like up close. Not what shows up from behind a camera.

  Because Beau Landry might be good at scowling, but I also think he’s good at watching. He might even see things no one else does.

  It makes me wonder what I might see in him that no one else does.

  But I have to
be careful.

  Those rules, some mine and some Moira’s—okay, mostly Moira’s—are there to keep my career on track and keep me out of trouble. And trouble could mean anything from weight gain, to a bad Twitter post, to an embarrassing headline, to an accidental pregnancy, to a scandal, to a lost sponsorship, or a casting fail.

  I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to be careless.

  At least, that’s what Moira says. But she’s not wrong. Not about that, anyway. I’ve worked damn hard. And sacrificed a lot.

  High school. Real high school, I mean. The kind with prom, parties, dates, friends. And other things most people take for granted. Sleep. Food.

  Dignity.

  I picture my last waxing appointment and shudder.

  So, yeah, because I want more from my career than most people ever get, I usually have to say no to things most people wouldn’t pass up.

  Like buffets. Or happy hours.

  Or hot French teachers who moonlight as dance instructors.

  And when you put it like that, buffets and happy hours sound pretty lame.

  Chapter Fifteen

  BEAU

  Iris has gone quiet on me. Not her style.

  “You slowing down?” I nod toward her barely touched burrito.

  She jumps like I’ve startled her and then takes an enormous bite. “No,” she mumbles through a mouthful.

  This girl. I want to smile so bad my face aches. But she doesn’t need to know how happy I am to see her eating. It makes me even happier to see how at home she seems here. With me.

  When she’s conquered the bite, she swipes her lips with her knuckles. “So, what’s your usual Saturday morning routine? What am I keeping you from?”

  I blow out a breath and put my focus back on the road. “Nothing special. Coffee and breakfast with a few friends.” I don’t tell her I mean a Cajun Table gathering at Dwyers’s downtown.

  “Oh—” I hear alarm in her voice and feel her eyes on me. “I’m sorry to make you change your plans.”

  I shake my head. “It’s a big bunch of us. More of a standing date for whoever can make it. No big deal.”

  I also don’t tell her what I know without a doubt: if I were there with them, speaking French and eating biscuits and hash browns, I’d be thinking about her, wondering what she was up to this morning.