Chapter 5
Kaisa
Last night with Ledger wasn’t the good start I was hoping for.
I showed him the video of the choreography that I made with one of the other dancers from the show, but he just scowled the whole time. He even made noises of disgust and annoyance at some of the guy’s—soon-to-be his own—moves.
I can tell he doesn’t want to be here.
Things got worse from there. I was just starting to show him one of the basic steps when I got a call from the facility liaison here in Winterbrook about some problems with the set. Things escalated and I had to let Ledger go early while I put out fires.
Not ideal. Now, this morning, at our first real official rehearsal, I’m already having to play catch up.
It doesn’t help that I’m recovering from a late-night migraine—which I got when I was delivering the swag bags to the dancers.
It also doesn’t help that he’s late.
“What?” he says as he saunters into the ballroom, his duffle bag casually hanging off his shoulder, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “You’re already angry this morning?”
“I don’t know what football time is like, but in the professional dance world, saying a rehearsal starts at six means the rehearsal needs to start at six.”
He does that whistle thing, and it’s demeaning.
“I’m on time,” he says, checking his watch. “It’s six o’clock.”
“We start at six. That means you get here early and warm up.”
He sets his duffle bag down and begins to walk towards me. “Now I know. I’ll be early next time.”
I hold up a palm. “Stop and take your shoes off. We don’t need your sneakers defiling our dance floor.”
“Defiling…?” He places his hand over his heart while using his foot to slide his other shoe off.
“It’s nothing personal,” I counter. “I’m not against your shoes. They’re lovely,” I deadpan. “It’s just a thing. Dancers respect the space, okay?”
He takes the steps two at a time to join me on the wide platform stage. “So, I’m supposed to dance barefoot? That hardly seems fair.” He points to my open-toed, strappy Latin heels. “Those shoes have blades on them.”
“These are just standard rehearsal shoes.” I bend to pick up his plastic swag bag from the floor and toss it to him.
It’s not like the athletes have dance shoes, so the show’s production team got them shoes and some gear from the show.
He blanches when he sees the shoes inside the clear plastic sleeve. “These will never fit.”
“We know your size.” At his look, I amend. “Someone from the show found out your size, okay? They’re going to be great.”
He looks around for somewhere to sit, but when he sees that the ballroom really is actually for dancing, not sitting, he eases himself down on the floor with a groan.
Ledger is just so…large. I hadn’t recognized him when he burst in here yesterday like a grumpy pain in the butt. However, I Google stalked him last night like any self-respecting dance partner would.
And, I can admit, he’s quite the guy. He did, in fact, major in chemistry and got a perfect 4.
0, all while playing loads of football. There was even an article about him in Sports Illustrated after he got drafted for the San Antonio Wolves about his upbringing in a farming community in Indiana, his affinity for the sciences, and how he always won student athlete awards for his perfect GPA.
And his charity work since he started playing professionally?
More recent articles talked all about how much he does for the causes he believes in, like supporting girls in sports initiatives and STEM classes for student athletes.
Guess the writers of those articles didn’t realize—or refused to say—that socially, he’s a brute, huh?
Things seemed to have changed for him recently, though. There was quite a lot about a recent problem with the media. Something about how he complained about a children’s charity.
Wow, Ledger. Wow.
He gets the soft, black, suede-soled shoes on and heaves his football player body up off the floor, groaning again as he places a hand on his back. If he’s in pain, I’ve got no time for that.
It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that we have to be out of the ballroom by eight so the next partnership can rehearse. There’s much to get done.
I straighten my simple black leggings and adjust my ponytail again. “Let’s get started. We’ll be dancing the rumba, as you know.”
Fear crosses his face.
Good. Some healthy fear might help him take this seriously.
“To sum up the essence of the rumba,” I continue. “It thrives on emotion,
control, connection. It’s a slow and sexy game. It’s basically a conversation between two people who are trying not to fall for each other but who definitely are.”
A slow smile crosses his lips, and he seems to be pulsing with something I can’t name. Like the wheels are turning in that head of his.
“So we’re going to have to give an Oscar-worthy performance,” he says, challenging me with his raised brow.
“Can you handle it, Ledger?”
“I’m going to blow you away with my emotion, control, and connection,” he says slowly, stepping to me, his chocolate eyes boring into me.
I clear my throat. “Glad to see you were listening!” My tone is light, but there was nothing light about the way he was looking at me. I need to focus hard so I don’t let his eyes get to me. I have to remind myself that he’s been rude ever since I met him.
“Here’s the basic step of the rumba.” I join him in front of the mirror, cringing as the memory of yesterday and my kissing it floats into my consciousness.
Sidenote: I cleaned the kiss mark off, okay?
His gaze meets mine in our reflection. He’s wearing an oversized, green San Antonio Wolves t-shirt that’s been cut off at the waist. It hits right at the waistline of his black athletic shorts, so that means, whenever he raises his arms, I get a glimpse of his large, celled, washboard stomach.
Smooth but with a few whorls of dark hair. Hard. Healthy.
My cheeks flame hot and I look away.
“You’re the lead and I’m the follow, okay?” I place my hands up in the air to show him how, my left arm bent at the elbow and my right arm making a low circle, as if it’s around his waist.
“So this is what you’ll do,” I continue.
“In the basic step, we don’t start moving until the two count.
Never the one. So it looks like this, “Four…hold…TWO, three, four. Hold, TWO, three, four.” I move my feet in the basic box step, my hips swaying to the rhythm.
“Ready to try it with me?” I ask, willing myself to smile.
Just by how he walks, heavily, I can already tell this could be…bad. Ledger isn’t light on his feet. His legs are stick straight—there’s no give there. I love a good challenge, though. And over my dead body will this performance flop like my last two seasons on the show.
Getting out so early in both seasons dinged my confidence.
And I don’t even want to think about what happened in season one.
I stare at Ledger. I mean, if I can get him to lower and anchor his shoulders and put some flex in his knees, maybe we can make this work.
Maybe.
“Okay, you’re getting it.” I offer more enthusiasm than I feel. “Remember the rhythm is four, one, two, three, four, one…” I clap to the beat and then turn to face him. “Let’s go through the basic step some more and then we’ll listen to the music.”
“These shoes do not fit.” He winces as he jams his toes into the floor and rotates his heel back and forth. “They hurt.”
I get on my hands and knees in front of him and press my fingertips along the top of his shoe. It’s like I’m a shoe salesman waiting for him to wiggle his toes.
“You’re fine. They’ll stretch. Just give it a day or two.” I look up at him, his domineering presence looming above me.
He presses his lips in a line.
And, okay, the shoes do seem sort of tight, but they should be alright after his ginormous feet stretch them out.
Hopefully.
We work on the basic step some more and after a few more times, he’s starting on the two count instead of the one about half the time.
Okay then. Half the time is progress, right?
“Grab a drink of water and I’ll queue the music.” I pull it up on my phone. Like the music for the pro’s opening act, I didn’t choose it. The show’s director makes all those decisions and a bunch of lawyers, too, to make sure we’re not infringing on any copyright laws.
But their choice, a slow, bluesy, instrumental version of “Please Come Home for Christmas” sounds different than I remember it.
I’m hearing things in the song I didn’t worry about when I listened during my last-minute choreography back in L.A.
Like how sensual it is.
And of course it is. It’s the rumba. The rumba is the sexiest dance in all of ballroom, so it has to be hot. But oh my goodness, the way the saxophone and bass guitar drag out the notes like they’re on a mission to melt the senses of everyone who listens, well…it’s borderline obscene.
I’m not a prude, especially when it comes to dancing, but after we play the song through twice and I step into closed position, guiding his hand around my waist, and locking eyes, I feel…a little…scandalized. The music is downright…sensual.
What was Wynn thinking?
Thankfully, Ledger steps on my foot.
“Ow!” I say, turning to the music stand where I store my phone that’s connected to the sound system. “We start on two, remember?” It did hurt, but not terribly. Being stepped on is a good reminder to keep my wits about me because the zing I feel as I’m near him is just…bad.
It’s unprofessional and I have to snap out of it.
His eyes are wide. “I’m so sorry. It’s just different now that…the music’s playing.”
I could add, and now that we’re touching each other. Because I know that’s part of it. Of course we’re touching. I’ve danced with hundreds of men in my ballroom career. It doesn’t mean anything.
Touching him is still messing with my head a little.
An hour later, we’re both exhausted and my feet hurt from being stepped on. We’ve made some progress and he’s getting the hang of it, to a degree.
I’ve decided that his eyes are the shade of my favorite Finnish chocolate, Fazer Blue. They’re creamy brown, yet the faint line surrounding the iris is a rich, bright blue just like the candy’s packaging.
Not that I should be thinking things like that about my temporary partner’s eyes.
“Okay, so you’ve learned the Open Hip Twist and the Fan,” I say when we break position to grab water and take a breather. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a complete idiot.”
“What? No. You can’t say that. We have to think positively.”
He raises his brows. “I just don’t get it.”
“You don’t get what?”
“The whole point.”
“It’s for charity.” I almost add that I know giving back is important to him, but I don’t because then he’d know I looked him up.
“I don’t mean this event here in Winterbrook, I get that. I just mean ballroom in general. It’s stupid hard and…” He drags a hand through his dark hair.
“It is stupid hard.” I suppress a laugh. “But the point is to make it look effortless. To entertain the audience. We’ll get there.”
He raises his chin. “You sure about that?”
I sigh. “Look, I’m not happy about this either, but we have to make it work because this is my job. I wasn’t even supposed to dance with an athlete. Since I’m in charge of all the aspects of the performance, I was only supposed to dance with the other pros.”
“What happened to that plan?”
“The pro who was supposed to be your partner sprained her ankle.” I shrug. “So here I am, trying to make this work.”
“I don’t want to be dancing with you either, I’d rather play football.” He rubs his neck. “It’s not personal. I just don’t agree with my coach’s decision. Seems to me that bobbling and dropping a pass would mean I’d need to practice football more, not less.”
I breathe in and out to curb my growing annoyance. “I would love to have a partner who’s excited about this, but we don’t always get what we want, so deal with it.” I add an “Okay?” in as perky of a voice I can manage, as if to smooth over my saucy tone.
We start practicing the steps again, but instead of getting the hang of it, Ledger becomes more and more flustered. We’re just doomed, aren’t we? Maybe this is not going to give me the boost I need to make sure I’m in Wynn’s good graces.
“Watch your knees, make them light and bouncy,” I suggest after he screws up one of the sequences.
His jaw tightens, the muscles rippling. “Bouncy? Right now, I can barely focus on not stepping on your toes. I’m going to freeze up when there’s a bunch of people watching.”
“You’ll be fine, Ledger.” I massage my cheekbones. Please don’t let this stress cause another migraine. Please.
And while I’m in the business of wishing for things, please let my acne clear up quickly?
Seriously, I’ve been using every treatment and concealer I can get my hands on to fix my complexion.
“I doubt it,” Ledger says, shaking his head. “It’s going to go viral…my complete and utter humiliation is going to go viral.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I wave him away with a laugh. “It’s not a big deal. It’s supposed to be fun. It’s for charity. Come on, let’s go again.” I hold up my hands in position, ready for him to join me.
“It’s not a big deal to you because you’re a professional. You’re not going to embarrass yourself.”
“Do you think this is easy for me? Being paired with a football player? I’ve never danced with a football player before.”
“You say ‘football player’ like it’s a bad word.”
I don’t respond, and he gives a little gasp. “It is a bad word to you, huh?”
“What are you talking about? Of course not!”
“I’m not some fancy actor on your show. I’m sorry I’m hard to teach.” He throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know any of this stuff.”
“Ledger, you’re being a…a brute. Snap out of it and let’s go. If we keep working, it’ll get easier and your confidence will go up.”
“It’s hard when my teacher’s upset at who she has to partner with.”
He has me there.
“If I’m upset at who my partner is,” I say, stepping to him, going on my tiptoes so I can get closer to looking straight in those Fazer Blue, chocolate eyes, “it has only to do with the fact that you were rude to me yesterday, not with your less-than-ideal dancing abilities.”
For a split second, there’s a flash of something in his eyes, something like hurt. But he recovers quickly. Down goes the hand around my waist, down goes the hand holding mine.
“I need a minute,” he says before leaving the ballroom, letting the door close loudly behind him.