Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Could he be what I need tonight?
After dinner, the reception attendees flow into the ballroom for dancing.
Smart Vanessa marches the two of us to the table she scoped out during the cocktail hour.
Close enough to the action to people-watch, far enough away that folks won’t try to commandeer our spot if we wind up taking a turn on the dance floor.
Though if the dancing goes the same way as dinner, all the men will end up having two left feet and the sense of rhythm of a wombat.
Heaving the sigh of a woman whose plans to frolic adult-style continue to fizzle instead of sizzle, I drop into a padded chair.
“Thanks, Jeremy.” My friend discreetly passes our waiter a tip once he’s done placing the ice bucket with its fresh bottle of champagne just so. Another perk she planned ahead of time. “That’s perfect. We’ll signal if we need anything else.”
“Like a new brain,” I mutter once he’s far enough away not to overhear. “Why am I doing this again?”
“Do you want the full list or the executive summary?” She slides a champagne flute across the table toward me. “Toast.”
“What are we toasting?” I raise an eyebrow but dutifully hold out my glass.
“Your awakening. At the core, that’s why you haven’t called off the search for Mister Hit It and Quit It tonight. You’re done living in a box of no fun.” She taps the rim of my glass. “This is simply a reminder that good times are ahead.”
“They sure can’t get worse than dinner.”
“Between Captain Crypto, Monsieur Muscle, and Doctor Diet Pill Pusher, you seemed on the verge of getting stabby.”
“I doubt even a poke with a cattle prod would have shut them up.” I take a sip. “Thanks for handling Professor Pompous Ass.”
“Ask me anything about the rise and fall of the Roman Empire.” She points a finger at me. “I dare you.”
We snicker as the band strikes up for the first dance. The wedding couple glide through a waltz, so keyed into one another that the world could go up in smoke and they wouldn’t notice.
Oh, to be so young and naive. So sure that an antiquated pledge of care and constancy is the next right step for their future. I send a fierce flare of hope into the universe.
Marriage may have been a trap for me, but maybe not for them.
May it not be so for them.
The music segues from one song to the next and the newlyweds are joined on the dance floor by family and wedding party members for an old-fashioned quadrille.
“Someone’s been binge-watching historical romance on the telly,” I say, using the Cockney accent I learned for a role a couple of films ago.
“I’m here for it,” Van says, seeing my Cockney and raising with something vaguely Scottish. “I may be off the market, but there’s something scrumptious about a man who knows how to dance.”
“Agreed. The dance floor is like a discerning woman’s thresher, separating the wheat from the chaff.”
“Here’s hoping it helps you weed out the guys with no rhythm, no stamina, and no clue.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
We toast again and settle in to enjoy the lively display.
The line of men turns in our direction and my breath catches.
Johnny Mack. More than holding his own with the complex footwork, laughing and grinning and having a blast.
Still looking so hot he should come with a warning label.
Still taken.
Still the kind of guy willing to flirt with one woman while engaged to another.
Still definitely chaff.
Suppressing the ugly laugh of self-derision that wants to bubble up, I take a measured sip of champagne. All those profiles and interviews of him I gobbled up over the years, seeming to show a man of thoughtful integrity.
False.
No one knows better than an aging movie star how large the gap is between truth and fiction. The spin doctoring and sausage making necessary for crafting a public persona that will land you your next job.
I need to let go of the man I built him up to be in my head. Let go of that moment of connection.
It wasn’t real and I’m done living at the intersection of denial and fantasyland.
“The lady’s room is calling.” I stand, making sure my dress hangs straight by smoothing a hand over my hip. “You’ll be okay until I return?”
“Who says you’ll return? Maybe Senor Smash and Dash is lurking near the john.”
“Good point. I’ll text if I should be so lucky as to locate Sir Knight of Nut and Bolt outside the privy.”
Careful to keep the dancers out of my peripheral view—why push on a bruise if I can help it—I head toward the hall. A couple of minutes of fresh air and I’ll be ready to continue pursuing my grand reawakening.
I crash into a hard, warm obstacle and grunt at the unexpected collision.
“Shit, sorry. You all right, ma’am?” A human wall asks in a rich baritone, cupping my elbow to anchor my balance.
Looking up and up and up, I meet the gaze of a sun-kissed, tousle-haired Adonis offering up puppy dog apology-eyes and the most adorable smile of chagrin. He must be at least twenty-five years younger than me.
“Fine in body. Not sure I’ll recover from being ma’amed, though,” I say, deadpan.
He starts to laugh then gives me a classic double take. Realization breaks over his features, a slow-motion sunrise that progresses from nagging suspicion to “nah, it couldn’t be” doubt and speeds up to a mighty “oh fuck, what did I do?” dawn that tickles my funny bone, lightening my mood.
“Shit, shit. I nearly knocked over Evelyn Strong. My mother’s going to strangle me when she finds out. You were her favorite actress when I was growing up.”
“Ouch.”
“I’m not making things better, am I?”
“I managed to live through the reviews of my last film telling me I was too old to play my character, so I expect I’ll survive whatever you toss my way.
” I drop my voice into a conspiratory whisper, infusing my tone with humor to remove the sting.
“Still, generally speaking, it’s not a crackerjack idea to comment on a woman’s age, even obliquely. ”
He winces. “Can we start over? Please?”
“Happy to. I’m Evelyn. Thank you for not letting me fall.”
“I’m Arlo. Thank you for not falling. Or bopping me in the nose.” He makes a slight bow, hand over heart. “Mom has tried to knock it into my head that there are times when good manners actually get in the way and, woof, I’m going to stop talking now. Why the hell do I keep mentioning my mother?”
“I get it a lot. Occupational hazard.” I pat his forearm. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I can see how you being you might mean you’re on the receiving end of a lot of verbal diarrhea and—honestly? Just shoot me now.” He hangs his head with a moan. “First my mom and now poop. I am digging a really deep hole.”
“So stop digging. How about we take a turn on the dance floor instead?”
“Perfect. Dancing, I can do. Talking to a pretty woman? Not so much.” Engulfing my hand in his, he tugs me through the maze of tables like he’s on a mission to redeem his reputation and time is of the essence.
We reach the parquet, and Arlo launches us into a Cha-Cha, taking the lead with the skill of a master. The pace is fast enough to pull me out of my head and into my body. We flow into the next song and the next, laughing and being silly, settling into an easy, low stakes flirtation.
Enjoying each other’s company.
No pressure, no expectations.
The music slows to something sultry and hypnotic. Arlo gathers me close, and we sway.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I wouldn’t have pegged you for a dancer,” I say after my breath returns to normal. Note to self, increase cardio routine so the next time I go dancing I won’t huff and puff myself into an emergency oxygen mask.
“It’s the height, right? I look like I should be shooting hoops for a living.” His smile takes no offense. “Don’t get me wrong, I like a good pickup game, but once I learned how gaga chicks go for a guy who can dance, there was no turning back.”
“Basketball’s loss.”
“While I get to hang out with the ladies instead of a bunch of sweaty dudes.”
“A fair trade.”
“I haven’t come across a downside yet.” Grinning wide, he spins me out and back.
“And are you hanging out with any particular lady these days?” I ask, matching his grin and adding in a saucy, arched brow.
“Is that code for am I seeing someone? I feel like that’s code.”
“Maybe. Possibly.” I let out a short, rueful laugh. “If you haven’t been living under a rock for the last year, you’ve probably seen reports about some of what led to my divorce. You could say the ordeal left me allergic to cheaters.”
“I’m sorry. That sucks.” His simple acknowledgement, simple offer of compassion has me blinking back unexpected tears. “For the record, I’m single. My girlfriend and I—damn it. My ex and I broke up a few weeks ago. Turns out she likes ballers more than dancers.”
“Her loss.”
“That’s what my mom said. Aaand now it’s official. I am the king of the doofuses. I swear, I do not have a mother fixation.”
“Hey, you went, what, twenty minutes without mentioning your mom?” I give him a light, bracing punch on the arm. “A real King Doofus wouldn’t last that long.”
“It would be a true tragedy if you knew that from experience.”
“Oh, I’ve met all kinds of kings in my travels, including several with doofus DNA. Trust me when I say, you do not carry the gene.”
We continue bantering, never circling back to the sensitive topic of our exes. Never passing over the threshold of the door I opened when I asked about his relationship status.
Could he be what I need tonight? A kind and funny young man with a quick wit and a hard body? A guy who’s been kicked in the heart and, like me, could use a night of naked comforting?
Couldn’t hurt to test the waters, maybe find a quiet spot for a test kiss. See if his moves are as fun off the dance floor as on.
With twanged out chords introducing a country hit whose fresh take on partner line dancing went viral late last year, the band shakes the energy in the room back up to eleven.
I let the window of opportunity pass by. I can ask later, when my feet rudely remind me of my age.
“You know this one?” Arlo asks, pleased surprise washing over his features when I start bouncing on my toes.
“This will be my first time, but I’ve watched all the videos and I am here for it. How hard can it be?”
A massive influx of people swarms the dance floor, falling into loose rows with good-natured jostling and catcalls, everyone eager to follow the calls of the lead singer.
The challenge of mastering something new gets my blood pumping. Arlo and I grapevine, toe strut, pivot, chasse and shuffle our way through evermore intricate combos, laughing at our missteps, cheering on our triumphs.
“Hey now, let’s mix things up with a partner swap,” the lead singer says, receiving a roar of approval. “Gents, walk to your left four paces, ladies to your right.”
Blinded by the crush of bodies, I concentrate on where each of my steps lands, trying to flex with the push-pull of the crowd instead of against. Despite my care, I lose my balance, pitching forward as I attempt to claim the small, open piece of real estate ahead.
For the second time this evening, a pair of capable hands steadies me. Rather than fall, I’m guided with smooth surety into a waltz box step in the arms of someone who moves with liquid grace.
I raise my head. My smile of gratitude evaporates. My breath evaporates. My good sense evaporates.
Because I’m paired up with Johnny Mack.
Johnny, who’s an even better dancer than Arlo. Johnny, with his illegal blue eyes and stupid hot facial hair and that half-smile I want to lick off his face.
Because I’m not going to make a scene by walking off the floor.
No, instead I’m going to chisel this moment into rock for the express purpose of tormenting myself at some later date over all the things that were never meant to be.
And because I am a dumb bunny cursed with an apparently undying zombie crush.
Awesome.