28 - Jess
Jess
The humid evening hummed with the sound of traffic from the avenue as the black Ford Bronco pulled into the curb.
Leaning against the brick pillar at the entrance, the view from the sidewalk offered a perfect angle of the driver's side.
The engine died, but the vehicle remained motionless.
Dane sat behind the wheel, his silhouette frozen as his gaze flicked from my position on the pavement up to the neon monstrosity buzzing directly above my head: Sandy's Ballroom & Salsa Academy.
The pink glow washed over his windshield in a garish wave.
A surge of laughter bubbled in my throat. The sheer indignation mixed with pure terror on his face through the glass was simply too spectacular to ignore.
Stepping over to the passenger side, the door handle clicked under my grip as I yanked it open before he could logistically lock me out. “You're right on time.”
Dane kept his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, his head shaking in a slow, rhythmic bounce of absolute denial. “Nope. No way. Not happening, Jess.”
“Oh, come on,” a firm tug on his forearm did absolutely nothing to budge his posture, but persistence eventually won out. “Get your ass out of the truck. It'll be fun.”
“Fun is a relative term,” he grumbled, though he finally killed the headlights and swung his legs out onto the asphalt.
He stood up, towering over the hood of the Bronco, before fixing me with a look that belonged in a corporate boardroom during a hostile takeover.
“You told me you wanted to go dancing. Normal people hear that and assume a club with a DJ. Not an establishment that looks like it hosts retirement community mixers.”
A slow, appreciative appraisal traveled up his body.
The man looked undeniably hot. He wore a crisp, tailored black dress shirt with the top button undone, the dark fabric hugging his shoulders in a way that should be illegal outside a fitness center.
But letting him know that would ruin the established rules of engagement.
“And this is what you wear when you go clubbing?” a playful smirk curved my lips as I gestured to the pristine tailoring. “You look like you're about to audit the DJ.”
“Right. That's it,” Dane yanked his hand out of my grip, turning his torso back toward the leather seat. “I'm going home.”
An aggressive slide of my body wedged my hips directly between him and the open door frame, blocking his escape route.
“Dane, please. You promised. I spent all afternoon at the archives looking forward to this, and you gave me your word in the spin studio.” The pout felt ridiculous, but tactical manipulation required sacrifice.
He looked down, his gaze dropping to the proximity of our chests before a long, defeated sigh floated out of him. “You owe me big time for this, Jess. If anyone from the firm sees me in a place with a pink neon sign, you're handling my public relations.”
“Deal,” the victory tasted sweet as we turned toward the double glass doors.
Crossing the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, my fingers snaked into his open palm, sliding between his knuckles until our fingers interlaced.
The sudden physical intimacy caught him off guard.
His neck snapped toward me, his dark eyes widening for a fraction of a second at the casual nature of the touch.
Then, the tension in his jaw melted away. A slow, genuine smile broke through his stubborn defense, and he squeezed my fingers tight against his palm.
The lemon wax on the floorboards did little to mask decades of collective dance-floor anxiety.
Expectations for a delicate, bird-like instructor vanished the second a short, rotund man with a thick neck and a profound beer gut marched out to the center of the parquet.
His faded green golf shirt stopped an inch short of his waistband, exposing a sliver of pale, hairy abdomen that independent wealth couldn't excuse.
“I’m Sandy,” he announced, his voice carrying the rasp of a lifetime tobacco habit. “We do the box step. We do the waltz. No talking, no shoes with rubber soles, no exceptions.”
Dane let out a tiny, choked sound behind his teeth.
The physical reality of Sandy's stocky, top-heavy build didn't line up with the absolute grace that followed when the needle hit the vinyl. The man glided across the floor, his feet floating over the oak slats with a precision that bordered on supernatural.
Around the perimeter stood four married couples radiating pure hostage energy and three awkward singles congregating near the water cooler.
“Find your partners,” Sandy called out, his eyes scanning the group with the scrutiny of a drill sergeant. “Box step. Left foot forward, side, together. Right foot back, side, together. Do not look at your feet. Your feet are not going anywhere.”
Dane stepped into position, his palms cold against my waist. The crisp cotton of his dress shirt crinkled under my touch as my hand found his shoulder. His entire torso felt like a concrete pillar.
“You're stiff,” my whisper barely carried over the accordion music. “Relax. The tiny man is going to judge us.”
“I am an analytical strategist, Jess. My body operates on physics, not whatever momentum this guy is generating,” Dane muttered, his eyes locked firmly over my shoulder. He took a huge stride forward, his leather dress shoe landing square on the toe of my sneaker.
“Ouch. That's a penalty.”
“Eyes on me, tall man!” Sandy’s voice boomed across the studio. The instructor pointed a stubby finger straight at Dane's chest. “The gentleman with the expensive haircut. You are driving a tank, not dancing the waltz. Light on the feet! Less muscle, more romance!”
I snorted, my forehead dropping against Dane’s chest to muffle the sound. His jaw clenched, cheeks flushing a dark color that made his blue eyes look incredibly bright in the dim studio lighting.
“Don't laugh,” he hissed, his hand tightening against my spine as he attempted the side-step again. “He's watching us like a hawk.”
The lesson progressed into the turning box step, a maneuver requiring actual coordination. Around us, the other couples bumped into each other with dull thuds, but Dane’s focus remained intense. He treated the dance like an intricate financial model that needed solving.
“So,” Dane muttered, keeping his rhythm as we navigated past a middle-aged couple in matching tracksuits. “The phone calls last night. You seemed worked up before Hunter ruined the mood.”
The memory of the crisp ivory envelope sitting on my kitchen counter surfaced. "Amberleigh’s wedding. The ceremony’s in Baltimore next month."
Dane executed a surprisingly clean left turn, his thigh brushing mine. “The ex-best friend? The one who treated your college boyfriend like an open bar?”
“The very same. Brock and Hunter told me to ignore it. They went on this whole speech about how I'm perfect as I am, how I'm way better than her, and that trying to one-up her is a waste of energy. The greatest love story in the history of ever, right?”
“That's terrible advice,” Dane said. “Screw that skank. You wear the best dress in the city. You spend a fortune on hair, makeup, and jewelry. Do whatever it takes to make her sorry she ever fucked with you.”
A loud, sharp clap echoed right next to my ear.
“Silence!” Sandy stood two feet away, his golf shirt straining against his stomach, his face a picture of absolute professional outrage. “You two! Stop talking during my class! Stop laughing during my class! This is the waltz, not a cocktail lounge! Pay attention or get out!”
The pure, concentrated malice coming from a man who barely reached Dane’s chest was too much to handle.
Dane bit his lower lip so hard it turned white.
The sheer absurdity of getting scolded by a rotund ballroom dancer in front of eight strangers broke something inside us.
We stumbled through the next three steps in a state of absolute hysteria, shoulders shaking with silent, painful laughter that made it impossible to breathe.
Every time Dane caught my eye, the giggles returned, leaving us in stitches until the final chords of the track faded out.
The cool evening on the sidewalk felt incredible after the stifling atmosphere of the studio. The pink neon sign buzzed merrily above us as we walked toward the parking lot, the tension of the previous twenty-four hours evaporated.
“Well,” Dane said, pulling his keys from his pocket as we reached the side of his Bronco.
He leaned back against the driver's side door, his thumbs looping through his belt loops. He looked down at me, the playfulness in his face shifting into something more calculating. “Now that I survived Sandy’s boot camp, I have a burning question. Are you going to this wedding by yourself, or...?”
“Actually,” a slow smile curved my lips as I leaned my weight against the front fender, enjoying the upper hand. “I've been running a specific test between you, Hunter, and Brock. The one who performs the best over the next few weeks becomes my official date.”
Dane’s posture locked. His jaw dropped slightly, his eyes widening in total disbelief. “You're testing us? A comparative analysis? I didn't know I was actively competing for a position.”
“The best candidates always face rigorous screening.”
“I demand a rematch. Or an immediate performance review,” he insisted, taking a step toward me, his bulk cutting off the light from the streetlamp. “Where do I stand on the leaderboard?”
“You passed tonight with flying colors,” my hand reached up to adjust the collar of his shirt, my fingers brushing the warm skin beneath. "Almost."
"Almost?" Dane’s hand came up, his fingers wrapping around my wrist, holding my hand against his chest where the steady thud of his pulse felt strong beneath the cotton. "What do I need to do to nail it, Jess? Give me the metrics."
"I'm hungry," I admitted, my stomach letting out a timely growl. "Specifically for those grease-soaked street tacos from the food truck near the avenue. If you buy me dinner, you might secure the lead."
Dane looked at me in a way that made a delicious ache bloom in my lower abdomen.
"I'm hungry too. But not for tacos." The Bronco’s door clicked open. "Get in the truck. We're going back to my place."