Dancing with Dalton. Laura Altom Marie

“For the record, I like your watch. And I’m sure you’re a fine banker—regardless of your lack of gold or a silk tie.”

      The waitress brought their sandwiches.

      “Well?” Rose urged, pastrami held to her mouth. “Say something.”

      “I’m not sure what to say. You apparently know everything.” He dug into his sandwich, glad he’d gone with the safe old standby.

      “Oh, now, don’t be like that. I said sorry. It’s just a game. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

      “Did I say you did?”

      “You’re sure acting like I did. Like I touched a nerve. If so, really, I’m sorry.”

      “Forget it. Just eat, so we can get on with our lesson.”

      “Wait…” Her big brown eyes widened. “Was I right? Do you secretly hate your job and feel guilty about it?”

      “Is it any of your business if you were right?”

      “No, but…” She nibbled her sandwich. “Again, sorry. But if I was right, then you couldn’t be in a better place. Not the deli, but starting dance class. Dancing is a wonderful way to release tension, and beyond that, to discover yourself. You know, really and truly—”

      “Look, I hate to rain on your dance parade, but can we just eat and get on with it?”

      “NO, MR. MONTGOMERY, I said walk, not romp.” Rose rolled her eyes and sighed. Had she really only a few hours earlier guiltily looked forward to dancing with this man? The same man who’d been a grump at dinner and had already broken half her toes and was now working on the other five?

      With dramatic flair, he raised his hands in the air, then smacked them against his thighs. “I don’t know what you want from me. First, you’re telling me to walk, then pivot. Go in a straight line, then a box. Honestly, woman, the only place I feel like going is straight out the door!”

      “Fine! Just do that!”

      “Okay, I will!”

      By this time, they stood toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, and while Rose’s fingertips itched to shake the attitude out of him, at the same time, their heated arguing had raised her blood pressure to an all-out boil that felt closer to passion than fury.

      Exertion had them both breathing hard, and as their gazes locked, the sight of this powerfully built man getting worked up over an easy giro turn sequence was all she needed to spark a giggle.

      “What’s so funny?” he asked.

      “You. Us.” She flopped her hands at her sides, then glanced at the studio wall clock. “It’s past nine. No wonder we’re both on edge.” Most evenings, she’d long since tucked Anna into bed and was well on her way herself. At least until her racing mind stole any chance for a decent night’s rest.

      Eyes closed, he arched his head back and sighed. “You’re right. Sorry.”

      “Me, too.” And she was. Mostly about the fact that if she were truthful, a big part of Dalton Montgomery’s dancing troubles weren’t caused by him, but her. She needed to loosen up. “We seem to spend an awful lot of time apologizing.”

      “I’ve noticed.” He dry-washed his face with his hands.

      “We don’t have to learn everything in one night. What’s your hurry?”

      “Heard of Miss Hot Pepper?”

      “Sure,” she said with a nod on her way to a compact fridge. Grabbing a bottled water, she asked, “That’s the queen crowned at the pageant held in conjunction with the Hot Pepper Festival, right?”

      He eyed her drink. “Got another one of those?”

      She handed him a bottle. “Well?”

      “What?”

      “Your hurry?”

      “I have to dance at the pageant. During that awkward downtime while the judges tally their scores. It’s really stupid, and—”

      “Why do you say that?”

      “What?”

      “That it’s stupid? The tango. There you go again, insulting a beautiful art form out of ignorance, or—”

      “I’m not insulting it. I just don’t want to know it. I resent like hell being told I have to waste Lord only knows how many nights in this studio when I could be home—”

      “What?” she challenged, hands on her hips. “What sounds more fun than dancing?”

      “Digging ditches.”

      Rolling her eyes, she said, “You haven’t even given tango a chance.” Why do I even care? The smart choice would be to let him walk. But if he chose to make a buffoon of himself in front of the entire town, so be it. “For that matter, there are things I’d rather be doing than standing around here arguing with a guy who’d rather be waist deep in muck.”

      “Who are we kidding?” He set his water against the baseboard, then massaged his temples. “I don’t have a dancing bone in my body. Not even a dancing cell. Do you really think it’s even possible for me to learn to tango?”

      His admission of vulnerability not only surprised her, but warmed her. She knew all too well what it was like to feel incapable of learning something. Only in her case, it’d been basic life skills. After John’s death, she’d handled things like paying bills and scheduling car maintenance. Being able to sleep alone in her and John’s king-size bed—that she hadn’t yet tackled.

      “I not only think it’s possible for you to tango,” she said, warring with her stinging eyes to keep tears at bay, “I know.”

      Sashaying to the stereo, she selected a favorite Latin CD, then cranked the volume. When the walls pulsed with the music’s life, she held out her arms. “It is customary for the man to ask the woman to dance, but since you seem to be feeling a bit shy, how about it? Care to escort me on a trip around the dance floor?”

      She didn’t give him a chance to answer.

      In the time span of two beats, she placed one hand on his bicep and held her other up, palm out for him to meet. Her palm kissing his, Rose willed her pulse to slow. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, she listened for the beat. Remembered what it used to be like onstage with John in the moment before the curtain rose…

      Earlier, admitting she found her new student attractive had been easy. Being held in his unexpectedly capable arms while the beat she and her husband had so loved pulsed all around them was proving impossible.

      Stopping, hands to her forehead, Rose said, “That’s enough for tonight.”

      “But—”

      She marched to the stereo, turning it off. The resulting silence was deafening.

      “Everything okay?”

      “Of course.” Turning her back to him, Rose swiped a few sentimental tears. Though she’d danced the tango with other men since John’s death, something about this man’s provocative hold made the dance different. Special.

      “Then why are you crying?”

      He’d crept up behind her. He stood close enough that his radiated heat scorched her, but he didn’t touch her. For that she was vastly relieved. It’d been so long since she’d shared another human’s—a man’s—touch. Oh sure, she hugged Rachel and Anna all the time, but somehow it wasn’t the same. In her new student, she sensed a hidden gentle quality she suspected he preferred to hide. But that was dance’s magic. It stripped a man—or woman—to the soul, baring innermost secrets for even a casual partner to see. Dalton’s touch had been tentative. Soft. Respectful. All of which was good, but at the same time bad. For those qualities were the very things urging her to spin around for a hug.

      “Rose?”