Chapter 1 #3
After gulping down my uncertainty, I offer him one curt nod. I can do this.
The piano, saxophone, and upright bass play the opening notes, and as the first words of “The Way You Look Tonight” roll out, I start to understand that we have actually made a mistake of epic proportions.
Clunky doesn’t begin to describe our movement.
Unsurprisingly, Harlan leads well. Yet he is about a quarter of a beat off every fourth step.
Our feet are dancing on different planets.
I lower my head and stare at our disastrous strides, unable to figure out how to fix this. We knock each other’s toes, our arms sway off-kilter, and if our proximity narrows, one or both of us will be in danger of a concussion.
Bam.
“Whoa. Sorry there, bud.” Harlan offers a chin lift to fellow A-list dancers caught in our path.
Pow.
“Nope. Not that way.” Harlan pulls me into him and scoots us around a tall couple, offering a dashing, apologetic smile as we pass.
Schmack.
I now fear we look like Batman and Robin participating in hand-to-hand combat.
“Harlan.” I lean toward him in laughter. “We’re terrible at this.”
Harlan bites his lower lip in concentration, looking over my shoulder. “Nah.”
Glancing around, I note we are now being given a wide berth. I catch the eye of a blond with hair big enough to rival the women of Texas. She smiles at me with a cross between sympathy and amusement. Her dance partner winks.
Wow, these people know he’s terrible. And it appears they choose to love him through it anyway.
The second I think we’re safe from another disastrous collision, my ankle falters.
In Harlan’s only smooth move of the night, he steadies me against his chest. “Gotcha.” He locks his eyes with mine. “Your hair smells amazing.”
“The lady at the salon said I needed a dash of vanilla in my milk-chocolate hair.” I close my eyes, lamenting my brilliant response.
When I look back to him, he’s still staring so I keep saying words.
“She used a lot of food items to describe my coloring and makeup. Strawberry-shortcake cheeks. Red-apple lips. This only made me hungry.” Oh my gosh.
Someone make me stop talking. “When she mentioned my eyes being the color of Twinkies, I asked for a snack break.”
Yes. Yes, I did just say that.
The left side of Harlan’s mouth twitches. “Your eyes seem more of a golden hazel to me than Twinkie yellow.”
The last few bars of Frank Sinatra’s song decrescendo, and, God help us, Harlan moves to dip me.
Jumping out of an airplane can’t be as terrifying.
After surviving the plunge, I pat my hair back down from the stratosphere and attempt an escape to my table.
However, he doesn’t loosen his grip. His grin sends me a silent invitation for a second whirl around the floor.
At least his abysmal dancing skills help me relax, causing me to almost forget his celebrity status.
But will I survive another go-around?
During the first few measures of “Come Away with Me,” I’m relieved at the musical choice of a straightforward waltz. However, as each set of three beats pass, it’s clear Harlan prefers to count to four.
The slower pace is in the best interest of crowd safety, but this new category of awkwardness makes me yearn for the earlier slam dancing.
“What brought you to Colorado Springs?” he asks.
Interesting that he thinks he can handle talking and dancing at the same time.
“I’m looking at properties in the area. A realtor from the Broadmoor sent me some options. I’m supposed to meet with her tomorrow.”
His dark eyes light up in what appears to be recognition. “Prissy? Prissy Prestidge?”
I smile my affirmation. Can there be another person in the world named Prissy Prestidge?
We continue to sway to the music in Harlan’s head. That is to say, I’m clueless when each movement will happen. But we’re dancing without violence, which I count as a victory.
“How do you know Prissy?” I ask.
His shoes scuff the edges of mine. “I grew up outside of Colorado Springs. Prissy’s one of my mom’s best friends. You’re in good hands. She’s a legend in the real estate world.”
Harlan continues to drop breadcrumb details of his life. But I don’t know if they lead to a safe home or to a mean lady who wants to eat me alive.
He uses gentle pressure on my waist to guide me sideways in a motion resembling quintessential awkward junior high dance moves. “Why are you looking for property here?”
What I want to say is I fell in love with this place the first time my husband and I visited. But what’s the protocol for talking about your dead spouse to someone you’re dancing with? “I guess I thought it would be a good place to start.”
Harlan stills our movement, pulls back, and stares down at me. “A good place to start what?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Start over.” Shifting my gaze to his shoulder, I swallow.
In the safe corner of a small dance floor in the heart of Colorado, I ask a complete stranger, “Do you ever wonder if there might be more to your life? A purpose? Something you’re missing, but it might be obtainable if you search hard enough? ”
The squeeze he gives my waist feels like a reflex. “Most days.”
His gravelly words draw my eyes to his, and I search the face of the man in front of me. “Charlie mentioned he’s glad you’re back,” I say. “What did he mean?”
“I guess I got a little off course.”
His words don’t make sense to me. “You saved someone’s life. You couldn’t be that far off course.”
In spite of our close proximity, the shadow in his eyes makes him look far away. He clenches his jaw. “I guess being a hometown hero isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. We can get a little off course too.”
I tip my head. “Is that what you’re doing now? Getting your life back on track?”
He takes a sidelong glance across the room. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess it is.”
His confession moves something inside me, but I don’t have time to reply because he schools his face into a charming smile. “But for now, I need an outlet to show off my mad dancing skills.” With dramatic flair, he swoops us back to the center of the dance floor to finish the waiting waltz.
We dive back into the anti-Fred-and-Ginger show, concentration imperative so as not to send anyone around us to the emergency room.
Once the song ends, Harlan takes my hand and leads me to my table.
I might be wrong, but I think I detect a collective sigh of relief from the other dancers when we exit the dance floor.
As I scoot into my booth, the adrenaline rush from the precarious waltz drains from my body, and I’m stumped as to what to say to this man who stands before me, larger than life.
“Thank you for the dance, Meredith.” Harlan bows his head, his glittering eyes never leaving my gaze. “Maybe I’ll see you around the hotel this weekend. But if not, enjoy your time in Colorado. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
He turns to leave before I can respond with anything resembling the English language.
Trying to process the wide pendulum swing of the last thirty minutes, I bring the edge of my glass to my lips. A shocking thought occurs to me, and I almost spill the drink.
The most surprising detail of the evening isn’t the botched dinner reservation, my sister’s scheme, or the handsome man with two left feet and a broken metronome in his head. No, the most surprising part of the evening is, by far, my desire to know what it is Harlan Holcombe is looking for.
Or maybe who it is Harlan Holcombe is looking for.
It’s unexpected and uncomfortable to be drawn to someone for the first time in four years.
But not altogether unwelcome.
A one-hour time change from Dallas, a five-course meal, and two life-threatening dances have zapped me of all energy. I enter my room hoping to drop into bed as soon as possible, but my phone buzzes with a text.
Molly
Did you survive your night?
I roll my eyes. The woman has a husband, a ten-year-old, and a fourteen-year-old. Surely she had something better to do tonight than to wait for my call.
Yes.
As I sit down to soothe my ankles, I come to the disturbing realization these shoes might be easier to walk in than remove.
I worried about you all night when I didn’t hear from you again.
If she only knew. Risking injury on the dance floor worried me too.
Even though she can’t hear me chuckle, my lack of answer must have stressed her out because my phone vibrates with another text.
Are you drunk? You should remember that your typical half glass of wine is more potent in the altitude of the mountains.
“No, I’m not drunk.” I grunt as I pry off the right high heel. The left shoe removal requires the same unfeminine sounds. I roll my ankles in the air, and once circulation returns to my feet, I text my answer.
Not drunk. Impeccable service, amazing food, and I danced with Harlan Holcombe.
That should get a good reaction.
Dress still on my body, I crawl into bed, pull up the covers, and enjoy my smug moment.
Harlan Holcombe?
You are drunk.
Sleep it off. Proud of you.
My life hasn’t afforded me many secrets over the last four years. I revel in keeping my death-defying dance with Hercules the Hometown Hero just for me.
Eyes drooping, breathing slowed, I glance at the new message.
Can you imagine? The thought of you meeting him is disastrous. You’re on Famous People Probation.
Snuggling into my pillow, hands nestled under my chin, I close my eyes and grin like an idiot. I am. I am one hundred percent on Famous People Probation.
Which is perfect because I won’t see him again.