Chapter 6
DARCY
The ancient mortar of Main Street Books has witnessed nearly two centuries of Mattichogue gossip, but I'd bet it's never seen anything like this.
Me, Darcy Gable, the town's AP English teacher, dedicated librarian's daughter, and the girl who once hid in the library during three consecutive homecoming dances, waiting outside to begin my weekend of revenge on Finn Bardot.
As if summoned by the thought, an obnoxious red Ferrari roars down our sleepy main street, shattering the peaceful Saturday morning like a yacht crashing into a duck pond. Actual tourists stop to take photos as it rolls smoothly to the curb and stops on a short squeal of its racing tires.
Because of course Finn Bardot couldn't just drive a normal car like a normal human being. Not when there's a chance to announce his billionaire status to the entire town.
When he unfolds his tall frame from the driver's seat, I'm hit with the unwelcome realization that ten years has done Finn Bardot nothing but favors.
In school he was good looking, athletic, always ready with a million-dollar smile.
Now that smile has accumulated several extra zeroes, and the fit teenager has become a muscled, gorgeous man.
He's dressed in what must be his interpretation of "casual small-town attire": jeans that probably cost more than my monthly rent and a charcoal-gray henley that looks like it was personally tailored to showcase exactly how much rock climbing and extreme skiing he does.
Mrs. Johnson from the flower shop actually stops watering her sidewalk display to stare. Traitor.
"Good morning." His rich baritone voice carries the same smooth self-assurance as last night, but today there's a hint of wariness. Good. "I made it with a whole minute to spare."
"I'm shocked you even own a watch, considering you've clearly spent the last decade living life in the fast lane." I gesture to the Ferrari, which is single-handedly lowering the property values of every sensible vehicle on Main Street.
His lips quirk. "Would you prefer I borrow one of the vineyard tractors next time?"
"I'd prefer a time machine, but I'll settle for you following instructions. You won’t need the car anyway. We're walking to our first destination."
He glances down at his undoubtedly hand-crafted Italian boots, the kind probably advertised as "rugged luxury" but which have clearly never encountered anything more challenging than Manhattan sidewalks.
"Six blocks," I add, not bothering to hide my smile. "Unless you'd like to forfeit already?"
"I've trekked across Patagonia," he says, locking the car with a beep that sounds unnecessarily smug. "I think I can handle Mattichogue's downtown."
"Patagonia doesn't have Mrs. Fielding's Yorkshire terriers. They're very judgmental of outsiders."
This startles a genuine laugh out of him. "Are you serious?"
"Deadly." I start walking, forcing him to catch up. "They once reduced the UPS guy to tears. He had to be transferred to another route."
"Sounds terrifying. Should I have brought avalanche gear?"
"Would that be before or after your personal stylist picked out your 'casual small-town' ensemble?"
He falls into step beside me, those long legs easily matching my pace. "You know, most people are impressed by the car."
"Most people don't know you used to put gum in my vocabulary quizzes."
His expression dips, regret or surprise, gone too fast to parse, before the easy smile returns. "Fair point. Though I have to say, you've changed, Darcy."
"That tends to happen in ten years. I notice you're still making quite the entrance."
Finn glances back at his Ferrari, now the subject of several tourists' Instagram photos. "Some habits die hard. Though I have to admit, the coffee shop on the corner looks exactly the same."
"That's just what we backwards small-town folk do. Maintain traditions while you big-city types disrupt industries and jump out of perfectly good aircraft."
"Sounds like you’ve been keeping tabs on me."
I snort like he couldn’t be more wrong. Even though he’s right. Dammit. "I couldn’t care less what you’ve been up to all this time."
"No? Because I’m an open book, Darcy. All you have to do is ask." He gestures toward our apparent destination. "Is that a dance studio?"
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "It is indeed, Mr. Bardot. Hope those extreme sports reflexes are ready for something really challenging."
"I’m ready for anything, Gable. How hard can a little dancing be?"
"I’m glad you feel that way," I reply sweetly, pushing open the door to Jules's studio.
I wish I could frame the look on his face when he realizes what's waiting inside.
The interior of Jules's dance studio manages to be both quintessentially small-town and unexpectedly elegant.
Glossy hardwood floors gleam under soft morning light streaming through tall windows.
Mirrors line one wall, reflecting the five men standing in loose formation. Men who all turn as one when we enter.
"Darcy!" Jules bounces toward us, her blonde hair pulled into a perfect dancer's bun. "You're right on time. We've been short a partner for weeks."
Understanding dawns on Finn's face as he takes in the scene. Five men ranging from mid-thirties to late sixties, all dressed in casual athletic wear, and not a woman in sight. His mouth opens, then closes, that practiced charm faltering for the first time.
"This is our men's beginner tango," Jules explains, all professional enthusiasm. "Where even the most alpha of males learns the art of following someone else's lead for a change."
"I see." Finn's voice is carefully neutral, but I don't miss the side-eye he gives me. "And I'm assuming Darcy has graciously volunteered me as a student?"
"Absolutely." I don't bother hiding my satisfaction. "Men’s tango. A full two-hour class. The perfect start to your weekend of service."
The look he gives me is equal parts respect and challenge. "Well, I do pride myself on being adaptable."
Before he can say more, a deep voice booms from across the room. "Jules! Is this our fresh meat?"
Ernie Howard strides toward us, all six-foot-four and two hundred eighty pounds of former football glory. At sixty-two, he's still built like the defensive tackle he once was, with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and hands the size of dinner plates.
"Ernie, this is Finn Bardot," Jules says. "He'll be your partner today."
Finn extends his hand, recovering his composure admirably. "Nice to meet you."
Ernie pumps Finn’s hand in a shake that looks bone-crushing. "Hope you've got solid core strength, son. Following takes more muscle than most men expect."
"I scale cliffs before breakfast," Finn says, returning the grip. "I think I’ve got this, Ernie."
Every man in the room laughs. Not with him. Definitely at him.
"That's what they all say." Ernie claps Finn's shoulder hard enough to make him step forward. "Let's see how that billionaire balance holds up when you're doing backwards ochos."
To his credit, Finn meets the challenge with a smile. "Backward what now?"
Jules claps her hands. "Everyone, take your positions! Finn, you'll be with Ernie since he's our most experienced leader."
Finn glances at me, and I can't help my satisfied smile. "Enjoying your community service so far?"
"Immensely," he says, but the twitch in his jaw says otherwise.
I find a spot against the wall as Jules queues up the music, a modern tango with a driving beat. The men pair up, with Ernie practically engulfing Finn in proper dance frame.
"Remember," Jules calls out, "surrender control while maintaining your strength. It's the ultimate test of confidence."
The first few minutes are everything I hoped for.
Finn struggles with the basic steps, his natural athleticism at war with having to move backward.
Ernie doesn't make it easy, his leading style more commanding than subtle.
Whenever Finn tries to anticipate a step, Ernie deliberately changes direction, sending him stumbling.
"You're thinking too much," Ernie barks. "Feel it through the frame!"
"I am feeling it," Finn counters. "Mostly, I’m feeling your fingers digging into my shoulder blade."
The other dancers chuckle as they work through their own steps. One couple pauses to watch Ernie spin Finn in a tight turn that leaves him momentarily disoriented.
I should be enjoying this more. Should be savoring Finn Bardot's discomfort as he struggles with following. Instead I'm noticing how quickly he adapts. How each stumble lasts only a fraction of a second before he finds his footing again. How determination replaces frustration on his face.
Twenty minutes in, the fight goes out of him, and not in the way I'd hoped.
Finn stops battling the steps and actually starts following.
His natural grace emerges as he relaxes into the role.
By the time Jules calls for a water break, he's matching Ernie step for step, even adding subtle flourishes to basic movements.
"Not bad, city boy," Ernie concedes, releasing him from dance frame. "You've got decent balance. Good internal rhythm."
Finn rolls his shoulders. "Thanks. Though I think you've permanently rearranged my spine."
This draws genuine laughter from the group. As they break for water, Finn heads toward me, a light sheen of sweat making that henley cling to his chest in ways I refuse to notice.
"Having fun yet?" I ask, folding my arms.
"You know," he says, accepting a water bottle from Jules, "this wasn't exactly what I was expecting for my punishment."
I arch a brow. "Disappointed?"
"Surprised." He takes a long drink. "I'm guessing you had something more humiliating in mind than me actually enjoying myself."
Before I can respond, Jules calls the class back to order. "Partners switch! Everyone rotate!"
The men shuffle, and suddenly Finn's paired with Dave from the hardware store, a stocky former Marine with enviable rhythm. I watch as Dave explains something, demonstrating with precise movements that Finn mimics with increasing confidence.
This isn't going according to plan at all.
By the end of the first hour, Finn's not just keeping up, he's excelling.
His natural athleticism has kicked in, and the movements that made him stumble earlier now flow with frustrating ease.
The other men have accepted him as one of their own, sharing tips and inside jokes.
Midway through the second hour, Jules claps for attention. "Gentlemen, you've been following all morning. Time you felt what a clear lead feels like, and our newest student is the freshest example. Darcy, come lead Finn through the cross."
I gape at her. "I'm not participating. I’m supervising."
She waves me toward the floor. "You've taken six years of my classes. Up."
Which is how I end up in dance frame with Finn Bardot, my hand firm at his shoulder blade, his resting warm in mine, close enough to see the flecks of green scattered through the blue of his eyes.
"Don't anticipate," I tell him, because the follower's cardinal sin is the only thing I can think of that isn't his proximity.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, low, and for eight bars he gives me his total, unnerving attention, every signal answered a half-beat after I send it, nothing anticipated, nothing resisted.
Neither of us breathes quite right until Jules calls the rotation and I hand him back to Ernie like something borrowed.
"Good frame," Jules announces to the room. And to me, just barely audible: "Hmm."
The rest of the hour passes with similar betrayal. By the time Jules announces the end of class, Finn's danced with every partner, learned three different step patterns, and somehow managed to charm the entire room. Even Ernie gives him a grudging back-slap of approval.
"Same time next week?" Dave asks him, and I nearly choke.
"Afraid I'm just visiting," Finn replies, with a glance my way. "But it's been surprisingly educational so far."
As the men disperse, Finn approaches me with a gleam in his eye I don't trust. "So, taskmaster, what's next on the agenda?"
"High school drama club," I say, straightening my shoulders. "They need help with set construction."
"Perfect." He actually looks pleased. "I design adventure courses for a living. Building things is right in my wheelhouse."
Of course it is. I should have known dance class wouldn't break him. But the day is young, and I still have plenty of opportunities to make Finn Bardot regret every "Dictionary Darcy" joke he ever made.
Even if part of me is already wondering if I'm the one who's going to regret this weekend.