Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
The door to my Wednesday evening beginner ballroom class crashes open seventeen minutes after we’ve started.
I don’t turn around immediately. I’m in the middle of demonstrating basic frame with Roger Peabody—a retired postal worker with two left feet and an enthusiasm that makes up for his complete lack of natural rhythm—and professionalism dictates that I finish the movement before acknowledging interruptions.
But my students’ reactions give away enough.
Mrs. Lowell’s penciled eyebrows shoot toward her hairline.
Marissa Okonkwo, a thirty-something accountant who signed up “to finally learn something sexy,” goes completely still.
Even Roger stutters in his counting, which is impressive given that he usually bulldozes through any distraction with the single-mindedness of a man determined to conquer the foxtrot before his sixtieth birthday.
What in the—
I release Roger’s frame and turn.
The man standing in my doorway looks like he got lost on his way to a magazine photoshoot and accidentally stumbled into small-town Massachusetts.
Easily six-three with shoulders that strain the seams of what I’m certain is a very expensive charcoal suit jacket, currently worn with the collar open and no tie, in a way that somehow screams “I don’t need to follow dress codes because the universe makes exceptions for me. ”
His hair is dark and just slightly too long, the kind of effortlessly tousled that probably takes forty-five minutes to achieve. Strong jaw. Full lips quirked in a smile that says he knows exactly what kind of entrance he just made.
And his eyes - they’re the color of whiskey in sunlight, warm and brown with hints of amber and something darker that makes me feel like I’m being assessed and cataloged.
Don’t stare at his eyes. You’re a professional.
“Terribly sorry I’m late.” His voice is smooth and pitched low, with an accent I can’t quite place. Vaguely Greek, perhaps? “Traffic was murder. Quite literally, in some realms, but that’s neither here nor there.”
Realms? Traffic?
There is no traffic in Bellamy Cove on a Wednesday evening. There is barely traffic in Bellamy Cove on a Saturday afternoon. The fact that this man thinks that’s an acceptable excuse means he’s either delusional or not from around here.
Both options are equally likely.
“You must be Mr. Vexis,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Our new student.”
“The one and only.” He flashes a grin that transforms his face from merely handsome to devastating. “Unless you have others. Should I be concerned?”
There’s a ripple of laughter from my students. Of course there is. He’s charming. Effortlessly so, in that way certain people have that makes everyone else feel like they’re standing in warmer sunlight.
I am not charmed.
“Class started seventeen minutes ago,” I say, and I hear the precise clip to my words that has made more than one person describe me as “cold.” I prefer “focused.”
“I’ll catch up.” He waves a dismissive hand, as if the concept of being late is a minor inconvenience for lesser mortals. “I’m a quick study. Supernaturally quick, one might say.”
“Mr. Vexis—”
“Just call me Malachi. And you must be the famous Isadora Solis.” He executes what I think is supposed to be a bow but ends up looking more like an interpretive dance move.
“Famous?”
“In certain circles.” His eyes glitter. “I’ve heard wonderful things.”
I have absolutely no idea what circles those might be, but I don’t have time to interrogate him. My students are watching this exchange like it’s better than whatever Netflix series they’ve been binging, and we’ve already lost three minutes of class time.
Fine. Let him stay. He’ll either learn something or he’ll leave.
“Take off your shoes,” I say flatly.
One dark eyebrow arches. “Excuse me?”
“Your shoes. They’ll destroy my floors. There are practice shoes in the basket by the door. Find a pair that fits.”
Something I can’t read flashes across his face, but then that insufferable smile returns and he saunters toward the basket, shrugging off his jacket to drape it over the barre with a carelessness that makes me twitch.
“Practice shoes,” he murmurs, examining the collection of worn leather and canvas like they’re alien artifacts. “How... practical.”
I turn back to my students. “All right, everyone. Let’s pair up and work on the basic box step. Remember—slow, slow, quick-quick. Gentlemen, your frame is everything. Ladies, trust your partner’s lead but don’t forget you have a spine.”
The class shuffles into formation. Roger finds his regular partner, a nervous elementary school teacher named Beth who blushes every time their hands touch.
Mrs. Lowell pairs with Mr. DeLuca, both of them widowed, both of them pretending they’re not clearly developing feelings that extend beyond a dance partnership.
Marissa is left without a partner, which happens sometimes with odd numbers—
“Allow me.”
Malachi Vexis materializes at Marissa’s side, having somehow shoved his feet into practice shoes that are at least one size too small. He offers his hand with a flourish that would make a Victorian rake proud.
Marissa looks at me, eyes wide. I give her a tiny shrug. Your funeral.
The music starts, a gentle waltz chosen specifically because it’s nearly impossible to screw up completely, and I begin circling the room, making corrections.
“Roger, your left foot. That’s still your right. There you go.”
“Mrs. Lowell, lovely frame. Mr. DeLuca, stop looking at your feet.”
I deliberately save Malachi for last, hoping that by some miracle he’ll have figured out the basic rhythm on his own.
He has not.
What he’s doing bears no resemblance to a waltz.
Or a foxtrot. Or any recognized dance form in human history.
He’s moving Marissa around the floor with an energy that’s somehow both languid and chaotic, his feet doing things that seem to defy physics, his arms positioned like he’s preparing to wrestle a bear rather than guide a partner.
And yet, Marissa is laughing. Not the nervous laughter of a woman being manhandled by an incompetent partner, but genuine, delighted laughter that makes her whole face light up.
“Mr. Vexis.”
He spins—actually spins, a full one-eighty that nearly takes out Beth and Roger—and beams at me. “Yes, instructor?”
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing.” He says it like the answer is obvious. “Rather well, I thought.”
“That’s not dancing. That’s... I don’t know what that is.”
“Creative interpretation. The music speaks to me, and I respond.” He dips Marissa without warning, catching her with an ease that suggests his muscles know exactly what they’re doing even if his brain doesn’t. She squeaks with surprise but doesn’t fall. “See? Improvisation.”
Oh, for the love of—
“There’s no improvisation in beginner ballroom,” I say, and I can hear my mother’s voice layered under mine, all that rigid discipline I swore I’d soften but never quite managed to shed.
“There’s technique. There’s form. There’s learning the steps before you decide you know better than centuries of tradition. ”
Malachi straightens, bringing Marissa with him. His expression shifts, just slightly, that cocky smile dimming into something more curious. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s decided to solve.
“Show me, then.”
“What?”
“The proper technique. Show me.” He releases Marissa with a little bow and steps toward me. “Unless you’d rather just criticize from the sidelines?”
Every eye in the room is on us. I can feel the weight of their attention like a physical pressure, all those familiar faces suddenly watching to see how their instructor handles this disruption.
Don’t let him get under my skin. I’m the professional here.
“Fine.” I extend my hand. “Basic frame. Hand here.” I place his palm against my back, positioning it properly between my shoulder blades.
His fingers are warm, warmer than they should be, and there’s a moment where I catch a scent of something unexpected—smoke and spice and something darker.
“Your other hand holds mine. Elbow up. No, up. You’re not a marionette with cut strings. ”
“Such flattery.”
“Now. The box step. You step forward with your left foot while I step back with my right. Then we—”
He moves, and it’s completely, utterly wrong. He steps forward with his right foot, nearly crushing my toes, his frame collapses like a house of cards, and yet somehow he makes it look intentional. Like this is all part of some elaborate joke only he’s in on.
“Whoops.” He doesn’t sound remotely sorry. “Perhaps I’m more of a visual learner.”
I step back, reclaiming my personal space. My heart is beating faster than it should be. Irritation, probably. Definitely irritation.
“Then watch.” I grab Roger, who yelps in surprise. “Mr. Peabody, would you mind demonstrating?”
Roger is not a good dancer. He’s an enthusiastic dancer. He’s a determined dancer. But under my lead, he manages a passable box step, his face screwed up in concentration, his feet landing approximately where they should.
“See?” I release Roger and turn back to Malachi. “Simple. Clean. No improvisation required.”
Malachi tilts his head, studying me with an intensity that makes my stomach flutter. “You’re quite rigid, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Not an insult. Merely an observation.” He glances around the room, at the mirrors reflecting our cluster of students and the row of awards. “You run a tight ship. Everything in its place. Every movement controlled.”
“That’s called discipline. It’s how you learn.”
“Hmm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Or it’s how you stay safe.”
My spine immediately stiffens and my chin lifts—a defensive posture, my mother would call it. Never let them see they’ve hit a nerve.
“Let’s try again,” I say, and my voice comes out cold and flat. “Everyone back to your partners. We’re doing the box step until it’s muscle memory.”