8. Jake
8
JAKE
Iris Dixon is wearing black leggings and a long-sleeve athletic top under a fleece vest. She’s braided her hair, and twin spots of pink color her cheeks.
Based on how her gaze darts around the room, she looks about as excited to be here as I feel. But I was coerced. What’s her reason?
“Cheeky monkey,” Gloria whispers under her breath, and my mind immediately tries to connect the dots between the retired senator and Skylark’s current mayor.
“Iris, come and join us.” Char motions her forward. “We were just talking about the dancing prowess of your new partner. Have you met Jake Byrne? He’s Gilbert’s grandson and in town for...”
“A while,” I supply.
“We know each other.” Iris flicks a glance at me that has daggers shooting from it, her posture ramrod straight.
Grandpa clears his throat and grins. “Welcome to the class, Mayor Dixon. I guess surprises are the spice of life. That’s what I always say.”
“I’ve never heard you say that,” I tell him.
“I’m saying it now.”
Iris steps forward and offers Grandpa and the other members of the class a stiff smile. She avoids looking at me again. “Thanks for letting me join. This is going to be fun.” She nearly shouts that last word, and I think about what she said on the street about not being fun.
What the hell is her deal? One thing I know for sure is that partnering with me isn’t Iris Dixon’s version of fun. And while I don’t owe her a thing, some long-dormant spark of chivalry flares in my heart at whatever private struggle she’s clearly facing.
“Maybe this isn’t a great idea,” I say to Char. “I’m sure there’s somebody else with more experience who could join the class as Iris’s partner.”
My grandfather nudges me with his elbow. “You quitting already?”
“I’m not quitting. I’m being respectful of Iris’s feelings toward me.”
Iris chokes out a laugh. “I don’t have feelings for you. But feel free to quit.”
“I’m not quitting,” I repeat through gritted teeth.
A few more couples have entered the studio, and the back of my neck burns at the attention we’re drawing. This wasn’t how I planned my return to Colorado.
It’s too much—Iris glaring at me. Grandpa putting me through the paces of proving myself— and my stomach churns like it used to when Mike and I would sneak into the kitchen to stuff our faces with the leftover desserts from Dad’s fancy parties. I stand perfectly still and try to will away the nausea.
“Of course not.” Gloria’s voice is gentle but firm as she takes my arm. “Iris is here to have fun.” She raises a delicate brow at the mayor. “From what your grandfather says, Jake, you’re the life of the party everywhere you go. You two will be great together.”
I’m unsure if that last sentence is a wish or a command, but she continues, “The past should be left in the past,” and I definitely see Iris flinch.
Something’s going on, and I want to know what it is. Iris might be part of my past, but she’s never truly left me. Hell, I based Ellie Spaulding, the amateur sleuth in my bestselling series, on her. She’s with me every day, not that I plan to admit it.
“Then let’s get started,” Char says, clapping her hands. “Everyone to your places.”
The other students disperse until only Iris and I are left. Her hands squeeze into tight fists at her sides, and she looks like she’s about to bolt. Relatable.
If Char notices how awkward this moment is, she ignores it like a professional.
“How tall are you, Iris?”
“Five-nine,” she mumbles.
“And you, Jake?”
“Six-two?”
“That’s a perfect height differential for a balanced aesthetic. Of course, executing moves and the connection between the partners matters most in ballroom dance. That won’t be a problem, right?”
“Not one bit,” Iris lies.
“Works for me.” I offer a wide smile and a thumbs up, earning an eye-roll from my new partner.
“Great.” Char takes our arms and positions us in the center of the first row of dancers. “Remember, we’re all about having fun.”
Iris swallows, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s about to hurl. “I’m all about having fun too.” She sounds like a schoolgirl repeating a lesson, but elbows me in the ribs when I chuckle in response.
“Hey, now.” I lift my hands. “Everyone knows fun and I go hand in hand. I’m Fred Astaire to fun’s Ginger Rogers.”
Iris doesn’t look convinced, but at this point, there’s nothing she can do about having me as her partner.
Char curls her long fingers around my wrist. “Jake, would you help me demonstrate the steps we’ll focus on today? I’m sure you and Iris will catch on quickly.”
I’m sure of no such thing, and Iris looks like she might be grinding her teeth to nubs behind that placid smile she’s wearing.
For as much time as I’ve spent over the years courting attention—mostly from ill-advised rebellion, pranks, and random hijinks—having everyone’s eyes on me, particularly Iris’s dark gaze, makes me weirdly self-conscious. No one who knows me would guess I have a self-conscious bone in my body, and I’m not about to give away that fact now.
Char positions me where she wants me, which feels like being manhandled in a not unpleasant way. The dance instructor is gorgeous, and when she fits her body inside the arc of my arms, I expect mine to react. I like women of all shapes and sizes, but I’m about as turned on by Charlotte as I would be by my ancient housekeeper.
She demonstrates a few easy turns, then moves us into something a little more complicated, giving me soft words of encouragement and praise as I follow along.
I never took formal dance lessons, but my grandmother insisted on teaching both Mike and me some basic moves. I’m coordinated, and my body seems to know the steps better than my brain. I’m also used to ignoring my brain, so letting myself go is not a stretch. I can tell Char is surprised at how easily I follow while making it look like I’m the one leading, which is her intent.
We continue for a few minutes, and when we stop, there’s an enthusiastic round of applause from the rest of the students.
“My grandson’s a natural,” Gilbert calls out.
Char offers a deep curtsy. “I concur,” she says. “Now, everyone get with your partners, and let’s work on those steps as a group.”
She resets the music, but Iris continues to stand a few feet away, not coming any closer. I walk to her instead.
“How did you do that?” she demands, her arms ramrod straight.
“I didn’t do anything other than follow Char’s lead. I told you I’ve got moves.” I wink. “My moves have moves.”
“I want a different partner,” she tells Char when the instructor comes to see why we’re not starting. Everyone else is practicing the steps.
Char looks as confused as I feel. I know Iris doesn’t like me, but the woman is a perfectionist, and I just proved I’m not going to embarrass her.
“Trade me out,” she continues, pointing across the room. “I’ll take that guy.”
The man in question is possibly a hundred and fifty years old, and he’s shuffling through the dance with a woman wearing brightly colored scrubs who looks to be in her mid-fifties.
“That’s Louis Johnson,” Char says. “He takes the class with his home health care aide.”
“Great, just my speed. Give him to me and let the aide dance with John Travolta here.”
“Is that John Travolta circa Saturday Night Fever or Pulp Fiction ? Because either one is a compliment.” I add a wink for good measure
Iris looks like she wants to kick me in the shin.
“I’m a beginner,” Iris says when Char shakes her head. “I need somebody who’s also a beginner.”
“If you don’t count clubbing in Vegas as everybody’s favorite groomsman and coordinator of bachelor parties, I’m also a dancing newbie.”
“You’ll be fine.” Char reaches out to pat Iris’s shoulder, but pulls back when Iris makes a sound that clearly resembles a growl low in her throat.
“Char, can you answer a question about the step ball change?” Janie calls from across the studio.
“Of course. Jake’s got you, Iris.” She glides toward Tom and Janie, graceful even when walking.
The words of encouragement she left in her wake aren’t going to convince Iris. But when I assume the starting position with my arms out, she steps into my embrace.
Ah, shit. I might not have reacted to the dance instructor, but my senses go haywire with Iris this close. Not a good sign.
“Relax,” I tell her. Both of us, really.
She only stiffens more. “Do not tell me what to do.”
“Iris, relax,” Char calls out. “Your shoulders are grazing your earlobes. Okay, people, let’s take it from the top.”
The music starts over, and I begin the steps. It only takes a few seconds for me to realize why Iris seemed so discombobulated by my ability to pick up the rhythm of the dance so quickly. Skylark’s dedicated mayor has two Sasquatch-sized left feet. Perfect Iris Dixon has zero rhythm.
She wants fun?
Oh, this is going to be fun.