Chapter 15 Jamison
Jamison
Dance lessons. As if I didn't have anything better to do.
I arrived at Elegant Dance Studio fifteen minutes early, giving me enough time to second-guess my decision to come at all. Not that I really had a choice. Manuel had made it clear that coming was not optional.
"Dad, I remember you standing against the wall at every party we went to when I was a kid. You're not doing that at my wedding. You're dancing with Blossom."
In my defense, most of those parties were thrown by the Mexican side of his family, and I was no Latin dancer. I saved myself and Maria embarrassment by holding up the wall and occasionally moving my shoulders as if I were too cool to get out on the floor.
The main reason I was hesitant to be here tonight was because of what had happened between me and Tallulah a couple of weeks ago.
How was I supposed to be in close proximity to her and act like a normal, functioning adult when all I could think about were her lips and the softness of her skin when I unnecessarily wiped frosting from her cheek?
After a long delay where I watched couples arrive and go inside, I climbed out of my Lexus and shut the door. The studio occupied the second floor of a converted warehouse that housed a number of businesses geared toward the arts—among them an art gallery, a pottery studio, and the dance studio.
Staring up at the brightly lit windows from the parking lot, I saw two of the students already practicing their steps.
"I should leave," I muttered to myself.
As I plotted a plan of escape by feigning an emergency, Tallulah's orange bus pulled into the parking lot, and she parked two spaces away. When she stepped down from the vehicle, I had to remind myself to breathe normally.
Like every other time I had seen her, she wore a colorful outfit.
This time, it was a burnt orange skirt that landed right below her knees, paired with a cream tank top.
Her locks were gathered into a high ponytail and wrapped in a colorful fabric that matched her skirt.
Silver bracelets on both her wrists chimed against each other with each movement.
Turquoise earrings—which were actual chunks of turquoise suspended from silver chains, not the delicate studs I often saw other women wearing—hung from each lobe.
Along with the ring in her nose, her entire appearance was earthy and feminine—like a sexy Mother Earth. I should not be noticing this much.
She observed me from a few feet away. "You came."
"Manuel had a compelling argument for my attendance," I said, slipping a hand into the pocket of my slacks, trying to look casual despite tensing at her appearance.
"Blossom said I have no rhythm and suggested I would embarrass her if I didn't take lessons." She winced.
"You lack rhythm?" I couldn't believe it.
She cocked her head. "Why do you sound so surprised?"
"Because you're..." I caught myself before I said what was on the tip of my tongue.
One of her eyebrows arched higher. "Yes?" she prompted.
"Nothing," I mumbled.
"Is it because I'm buh-lack?" she asked, the same eyebrow stretching higher.
"I did not say a word about your ethnicity."
She stared at me for a second and then started laughing. I relaxed and breathed easier.
"I'm not offended. My daughter offended me, if I'm being honest, and apparently my entire family agrees I have no rhythm."
"At least you only have a lack of rhythm to contend with. Apparently, I'm a two-for. No rhythm and I don't know how to move my hips." I grimaced.
She covered her mouth as she laughed, and this time I arched my eyebrow.
"I can at least move my hips," she explained.
My gaze swept her body. The tank top clung to her breasts and torso, revealing womanly curves. My eyes traveled lower, to where the skirt draped over her hips.
Wouldn't mind seeing those hips move, I thought.
When I lifted my eyes, she was looking right at me. Instead of glancing away, I held her gaze. I was embarrassed but decided I wouldn't feel guilty for noticing she was an attractive woman with a great figure. I wasn't blind.
She looked away first. "Seems we're both here under duress."
"A unifying factor," I remarked.
Neither of us moved toward the entrance, and though several feet separated us, I felt her presence as if she were standing right next to me. The last time we had been alone, my thumb had been at the corner of her mouth, and I had been seconds away from—
"We should go in," Tallulah said.
"We should."
Instead of taking the elevator, we walked up the stairs.
The studio was much larger than I had appreciated when standing in the parking lot looking up through the windows.
The walls were made of exposed brick and the floors of hardwood.
Mirrors lined one wall, and a sound system was set up in one of the corners.
I didn't see anyone who appeared to be the teacher, but four couples were already ahead of us. They nodded and smiled as we entered. Two of the women greeted us with a soft "Hello."
One of the couples appeared to be younger than Tallulah and me by at least ten years.
They wore matching athletic gear. Another couple seemed about our age, but the other two couples were in their sixties, and one of them practiced their moves, gliding across the floor with the fluid ease of people who have probably been dancing together for decades.
It made me wonder why they were in this class, which was supposed to be for beginners.
A few minutes later, a woman entered the room, and I knew right away she was the instructor. She appeared to be in her early sixties, with a buzz cut of white hair and wearing a leopard-print leotard to show off her tight, lithe body.
She glided across the floor. "Good evening," she said.
"Good evening," we all chorused.
"Welcome, and thank you all for coming. I am Carmen Lundgren, and I will be your instructor this evening. Before we start, I'll tell you a little bit about myself, and then I'd like for each of you to introduce yourselves and tell me why you're taking this class."
She gave us a brief history of her career in dance, which she started as a hobby, eventually becoming a professional and dancing in the United States and around the world. When she retired, she opened this studio with her husband, also a dancer.
She pointed to each of us in turn, and we explained why we were taking the class.
Tallulah and I were the only ones preparing for a wedding.
I learned that the older couple I had seen practicing earlier was taking the class because they danced for exercise, but the wife had suffered an injury a month ago and they were taking it easy until she was back to normal.
"Now I understand why you're all here. Tonight you're going to learn the basics of the waltz. It's elegant and perfect for wedding receptions." She glanced in our direction and then clapped her hands. "We're going to start with the frame position."
She showed us the move and then instructed us to get into position.
Tallulah and I faced each other. I'm not sure my heart had ever beaten this fast in my life.
Rolling my shoulders, I forced myself to relax. This was fine. I could handle a little dance. We were two adults learning a skill for the benefit of our children. So what if I couldn't stop looking at her plump, red lips?
"Right hand on the shoulder blade," Carmen said, demonstrating with the younger couple. "Left hand extended, then you hold your partner's right hand. Ladies, please place your left hand on your partner's shoulder, and do keep some space between you. This is not a slow grind at the prom."
There was a little bit of laughter as we all moved into position.
I carefully placed my right hand onto Tallulah's back, on her shoulder blade. Her skin was warm through the fabric of her tank top. She lifted her hand onto my shoulder, and her touch branded me, searing through my dress shirt. Our other hands met in the air between us.
"Well done!" Carmen strolled between the couples, making sure everyone was in the right position.
"Now ladies, I must tell you that in this dance, equality goes out the window.
You must follow where the man leads. Gentlemen, she is following your lead, so you must know what you're doing, okay?
The waltz is a box step, which means you form a box pattern on the floor with your feet.
Watch me, please. One, two, three. Again, one, two, three.
First we'll try this without music, and then I will add the music.
On my three count: one, two, three, begin. "
Tallulah stepped back, and I stepped forward. My foot landed directly on her toes, and she grimaced.
"Damnit!" I said. "Sorry."
"It's fine," she said.
"One, two, three," Carmen was saying.
We waited until she restarted the count and jumped in. This time, I stepped to the side too quickly, and Tallulah stumbled trying to follow.
I gripped her hand, pulling her close to keep her from falling. Her soft breasts pressed against my chest, and I inhaled sharply before she quickly stepped back.
My dick jumped. Please don't let me get a hard-on in this class, I prayed.
"Don't think so hard," Tallulah said.
"I'm trying not to maim you." I smiled through the clenching of my teeth. And trying not to get a hard-on in this class, I mentally added.
"You're going to grind down your molars doing that all the time," she remarked.
Startled, I stared. "Doing what?"
"The fake smile thing you do when you grit your teeth."
"You noticed?" It was a bad habit.
"A blind woman could see what you're doing," she said.
My wife never did. "You don't miss much, do you?"
"I try not to."
We started moving again with stiff, awkward steps.
Carmen appeared beside us. "You two, stop."
We froze.
Uh-oh.