Sadie
Iwaited in my leggings and tennis shoes under the awning at the hotel’s front entrance.
My sweatshirt was almost too thin for the breeze coming off the ocean and the gray clouds overhead.
I was running through my second round of, Where the fuck is Jamison?
When a white Jeep with a black top came to a stop in front of me.
Jamison leaned across the center counsel and extended one long arm to push the passenger side door open from the inside.
I tightened my jaw willing myself to not find every fucking thing about him sexy—not his tousled sandy brown hair, or the sunglasses on his long straight nose.
And definitely not the lopsided quirk of his lips like he was unsure if it was okay to smile at me.
Which, annoyingly, I didn’t know if it was okay either.
Maybe if he hadn’t ruined my fucking night with that . . . kiss. Could I even call it that? When just the memory of it shot electricity through my body and made me gasp.
On one hand, clearly he wanted me. But on the other, he didn’t want me the way I had wanted him.
He wasn’t yearning for a relationship or partnership with me.
Maybe he’d ached for my body the way I did his—I’d had to unpack my vibrator to fall asleep, and even then, I’d woken up in the middle of the night from a dream that was part memory, part fantasy.
I still could not believe that that man and the older brother to the man my sister was marrying was one and the same.
Mike’s description of the loyal brother who had given up an education at his dream Ivy-League school to be more help to their mom, did not line up with the same guy that claimed to have “an early morning” in order to not spend the night.
Texting Alicia as soon as my alarm went off that morning to report the man from the airplane and Fuckboy Lawyer were the same, was quite the reveal.
But then admitting how he’d kissed me and I’d lost my damn mind had been equivalent to my most embarrassing walk of shame.
I could tell that she was pulling a lot of best friend love and patience—and probably empathy considering the roles had been reversed not too long ago—when she warned me to be very clear about what I wanted. Can you trust him? she’d texted.
I didn’t have an answer for her.
I slid into the passenger seat instantly greeted by the rich scent of coffee filling the car.
“Sorry I’m late.” He ran his hands up and down the steering wheel before gripping it. “I grabbed us lattes.”
I had never seen him behave with any uncertainty. Usually, he was abrupt and direct. He held a command of every room.
Yet, I had him on his back foot.
The question was, did I care?
I took the cup he held out to me, careful to not let my fingers brush his. “I only had time for the little single serving machine in my room this morning.”
“I kinda wondered that.” Rounding the drive, he started for the road following the trip directions on the dash screen. He reached for a bag in the backseat and handed it to me. “There’s a Brie and bacon croissant in there.”
Around my heart, the thin layer of ice melted the slightest bit.
“Thank you,” I said. I pulled the pastry out of the paper bag, reminding myself that a little bit of thoughtfulness or human decency didn’t absolve him of anything. I did not have to be cool with him. That didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy the little breakfast he’d gotten me.
“You’re welcome. The café does use tree nut products, but that is nut free. That’s good enough, right?”
“Yes.” I snorted. “Again, I’m not that allergic.”
His tone was strained, as if he was struggling to keep from sounding annoyed. “I want to be careful. I don’t want you to get sick—”
Shushing him, I held my hand out. “Just let me enjoy this.”
He rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything else.
The first bite of savory, flaky pastry wrapped around candied bacon and Brie cheese crunched between my teeth. I sighed, and he shifted in his seat. For a few moments, I considered whether baked goods was good enough to cause me to abandon my plan to stomp on Jamison’s toes during our dance lesson.
Taking a drink of the latte he’d gotten me, the welfare of his toes definitely looked better.
Then the memory of his body pressing me against the wall flashed so brightly in my mind that I could practically feel the force of him. I had to resist pressing my fingers to my suddenly tingling lips. A groan vibrated in my chest.
Setting my jaw, I turned to look out the passenger window.
I was gonna get dem toes.
***
Jamison turned into the little parking lot for the dance studio.
It was in a row of old buildings that had been renovated, at some point in history this area was probably considered “downtown.” I hurried through the light rain to the front door and came to an abrupt stop when he reached from behind me to hold the door open.
That was something I had liked when we would go out; he was always getting doors for me.
Always making sure that I had a seat in a busy bar. Always seeing to my comfort.
Without wanting to, my eyes landed on his thumb resting at the top of the handle.
The curve of square, clean fingernails, and the meat of his palm, the soft skin on the inside of his wrist. And I wondered if I’d ever touched my lips right there.
Had I ever felt his pulse as he kissed me?
Did I make his heart skip the way he did mine?
I swallowed, but I couldn’t get rid of the bitter taste in my mouth.
No, he didn’t feel for me what I used to feel for him.
So, he opened doors. So what?
He wasn’t rotten, and that was why I’d fallen for him in the first place.
Stepping through the door, I was greeted by the reflection of my damp image in the mirror.
I swiped a hand over my hair in its ponytail, hoping to calm the frizz around my temples.
Behind me a wall of red brick warmed the room and contrasted the light hardwood floor.
On the other end of the mirror wall, an office door opened and a petite Black lady stepped out.
A silk scarf was wrapped around her hair, and a flowing skirt trailed around her knees.
She grinned at us. “You must be Sadie and Eugene.”
“Eugene?!” I snapped my head in his direction and slapped a hand over my mouth. I was actually trying to let the name thing go, but . . . Eugene?!
He raised a warning eyebrow that I felt low in the pit of my stomach. To our instructor, he held out a hand to shake. “I go by Jamison, if you don’t mind.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Her smile was all warm brown eyes, and white teeth, even as she cast a curious glance between us.
“I’m Miss Leslie, I’ll be your instructor.
The bride asked that I just help you feel more comfortable moving together.
So, we’ll do a couple of basic movements, and hand placements.
Throw in a couple of showy twists, maybe a dip, just make ya look good. ”
I managed a forced smile. “Fun.”
“Do either of you have experience with dancing?”
“Just at bars and stuff,” I answered.
Jamison crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the right. “I took two semesters of ballroom in undergrad.”
“You did?” I couldn’t make it fit in the image I had of him. “Did Mike and June know that?”
“Probably not.” He shrugged. “I like movement, and it’s really technical. I enjoyed it.”
“Well, look at you.” Miss Leslie clapped her hands together once.
A few moments later, she had us standing face-to-face directing Jamison to show her his frame. His eyebrow twitching and a slight hesitation were the only signs that he had any nerves before his arms came up in a firm pose with his shoulders straight and his spine slightly arched back.
“Very nice,” Miss Leslie commented. She directed me to take a step closer. I edged half a step forward.
“Closer still.”
I shuffled a few inches nearer to the strong arms waiting for me.
The memory of those arms, of his touch, was far too recent and bright.
I couldn’t imagine how it didn’t hit me sooner that Jamison and I would have to touch.
I would feel the shift of his muscles under my hands. I would be in his hold.
I should just walk right into it, make it less awkward, but I couldn’t.
She placed her fingertips on my shoulders and urged me the last few inches I needed to take.
I looked up and up to meet Jamison’s eyes, but his gold framed glasses caught the overhead light obscuring his brown gaze.
He fit his right hand just under my shoulder blade.
A nervous thread tugged from below my ribcage unraveling and fraying my control.
Due to Miss Leslie’s instruction, I straightened.
With only a little hesitation, I placed my right hand in his much larger one—curling my fingers over and pressing my palm to his.
My other arm used his as a guide until my hand rested on the bunched muscles of his shoulder.
“Now, this is just a starting place.” Miss Leslie used her hands when she spoke, and even those movements were graceful. “No one will be critiquing your frame. This isn’t a competition. Find what feels comfortable for the two of you.”
His throat worked, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
He let out a slow stream of breath, and some of the tension lessened beneath my palm, the arm supporting mine lowered, the hand on my back inched slightly toward my spine and down toward my waist. Even through my sweatshirt, my skin burned where his touch trailed.
Bending his elbow, he took our entwined hands closer to our shoulders but his grip didn’t loosen.
“That’s lovely,” Miss Leslie remarked. “You two look great together.”
I didn’t dare look for myself. Instead, I avoided the mirror wall by staring daggers into the day’s growth on Jamison’s jaw. It was lighter than his hair, it caught gold in the light. The feel of it under my touch, against my skin, between my thighs was a memory I couldn’t ignore but I didn’t want.
She turned her back to us striding to the stereo. “Let’s get some music and you two can just move together for a bit. Learn each other for a minute or two.”
I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t “Earned It” by The Weeknd to pour through the speakers.
I was no expert, but it seemed there were degrees to creating comfortability between two people’s bodies, and we’d just jettisoned past Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” into the deep end.
Was the next song “Like an Animal” by Nine Inch Nails? Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get it On?”
Jamison swayed, his movements guiding me to follow.
A sway that I didn’t have to think about, I almost didn’t register the tighter press of his hand on my back but then he took a step forward, his foot falling between mine.
On instinct, I hooked my arm around his shoulder for balance pressing my chest into his as I took a step back.
There was another step, followed by a side-to-side.
His hips leading mine with a gentle urging.
Then he took two steps backward. We swayed. Again, I followed.
It was so recognizable.
The way my body knew and understood his was muscle memory.
We had almost gone all the way through the movements a second time before I recovered enough to see through the fog in my brain and remember I wasn’t supposed to be following so easily. I’d been lulled into the comfort of his presence, but I wasn’t supposed to relax there.
I didn’t actually want to hurt him, just ruin his flow. So, I waited for the right moment to pick my foot up a bit too high and bring it down in the general vicinity of his toes.
I must have given something away—a new tension in my back, or a change in my balance—because as soon as I went to land my foot on his, he pulled me flush against his stomach.
His arm across my back was like an iron bar, I couldn’t have pushed away from him if I’d wanted to.
And even though I really should, at that exact moment, with every inch of his long torso holding me, searing my nerve endings, I didn’t want to.
Our joined hands extended over my head, and he lowered me into a dip.
For the first time since we’d gotten inside, I could see his eyes. They glared down into mine, a crease between his brows. His lips pinched in disapproval.
“Don’t,” he whispered a warning that I felt like a lightning bolt in the pit of my stomach.
He had to be able to hear my heart thundering.
God, being a little shit had backfired drastically.
I was a lit wire.