Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Today, life in HR consisted of answering twenty-five emails, running three mediation meetings, and having a long phone consultation during which I listened attentively to Sam in sales complaining that the second-floor supply closet is haunted.
I made sure to calmly assure him that I’d ask management about performing a cleansing of the space and he seemed satisfied with that response, insisting that I make it a critical priority.
After that interesting experience, I took a break to check my Via Match profile.
Mom hasn’t responded yet, but my message to her is marked read.
Unlike Nicholas, she didn’t feel compelled to write a message about dating someone else, thus shutting down my advances.
Nope. She’s as open as a jar of pickles at a barbecue. Hope is alive.
There are only two places in town that offer dance classes.
One of them is geared toward children, with tap dancing lessons and Mommy and Me ballet.
But the other one, Reverence and Grace, posted a summer special for seniors a few weeks ago.
No one loves a good deal as much as my mother does. That’s got to be the one.
As soon as five o’clock hits, I shout a quick goodbye to Andy, who’s still laughing about what I told him about the supply closet ghost call—he even wants to bring in a Ghostbusters costume tomorrow and pretend management asked him to perform the banishment—and rush out the door and to my car.
When I get to the studio, a long single-story building with painted black brick and a gold sign, I park several yards away from the row of windows that deliver glimpses of the various rooms inside. There are a few people in the middle one, based on what I can make out from here.
I knew another opportunity for sabotage was bound to present itself eventually and I’m ready for it.
I take my disguise out of the backpack I keep in my backseat.
I gather my hair into a low ponytail and put on the platinum blonde wig and sunglasses I packed.
I slip on the baggy beige cardigan that everyday Lexi would never choose.
I don’t have a plan yet but I’m still going to focus on what Maren said about their astrological signs not liking drama. I’ll head into the studio, fully disguised and ready to stir up as much of a disaster as possible.
In my peripheral vision, I notice a car pulling into the spot on my right.
I turn slightly and see Zach, seemingly oblivious to the fact he parked next to me.
He tucks his hair under an old-fashioned-looking messenger cap and slips on aviator sunglasses that are way too big for his face.
He must feel me staring because he looks at me, then quickly looks away, then looks back again.
He bristles slightly but holds my gaze, grins at me, and mouths my name, leaving me wondering if it ever looked so good on anyone’s lips before.
Stop it, Lexi, I order myself. You are not your mother.
My pulse races, loud in my eardrums, and as I open the car door, the buzz of anticipation is so palpable, it feels like I could reach out and literally squeeze it. Zach comes around beside me, now wearing a trench coat, and slowly surveys me from head to toe.
I beat him to the comment. “Nice disguise.” I gesture at his coat choice. “You look like a serial killer.”
Zach smirks back at me. “Yeah? Well, you look like a serial killer trying to look like a librarian.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly. An overwhelming part of me wants to playfully punch his arm, take off his hat, and ruffle his waves. What the hell is wrong with me?
Zach studies my wig thoughtfully. “You look nice as a blonde.” One corner of his mouth creeps upward in a smile and the air between us sizzles. “I have to say, though, you’re still much prettier as a brunette. Brings out those amazing blue eyes.”
Whoa. Zach thinks I’m pretty? A wave of adrenaline sweeps over me. I try to keep the banter going so he doesn’t notice me reacting to that. “Thanks. The hat is very circa 1920s, if that’s the look you were aiming for.”
Zach nudges me playfully, which sends flutters coursing through my stomach. “How’d you find out they were coming here?”
“Facebook. You?”
Zach tilts his head. “Same. So, what’s our plan?”
“I was thinking of joining them in their dance class and acting really annoying so neither of them enjoys it.”
Zach rubs his beard and regards me thoughtfully. “Sounds so simple but it might work.”
“Oh, and I also have some news. My mom checked the Via Match message. She didn’t write back, but she also didn’t reject me.”
“Your mom didn’t reject you on the dating site? You realize how crazy that sounds, right?” Zach smirks. “Well, she’s at least weighing other options then. This is the perfect time to swoop in and annoy the shit out of them.” He holds up his hand for a high five and I reach up to meet it.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Do you think they’ll recognize us?”
I give Zach a once-over. He looks like Zach, only with big glasses, a scientist coat, and a funny hat. “Yes,” I admit. “But maybe an idea on how we can annoy them without them seeing us will come to us once we’re in there.”
Zach reaches an arm out to me, and I look at it cautiously. He holds my gaze. “We should act like a couple for this, don’t you think?”
I silently urge my heart to slow down. This is just an acting role for a good cause.
“Okay. Good plan.” I link my arm through his, and we walk toward the building. Through the window of the middle studio, I spot Mom and Nicholas standing out in the crowd, twisting and spinning across the floor.
My mom, who claimed to have two left feet, appears to be doing a complicated-looking Latin dance. Nicholas is spinning her and she’s gracefully twirling. She’s stepping forward and backward and not falling on the floor in a clumsy heap. Who is this woman and what did she do with my mom?
“They’re really moving in there, huh?” Zach says. “Wait, wait, wait. New idea.” He raises his eyebrows. “We could do something to the studio floors, like rub butter or wax on them so they both slip and land on their faces.”
“I want my mom to break up with your dad, not break a hip,” I respond.
“Fair enough. Or . . .” Zach pauses dramatically. “Or . . . we could pull the fire alarm and put an end to their class.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“Okay, okay, nothing illegal. Fine.” He thinks for a minute, then holds up his index finger like the idea of the century just came to him.
“This one’s golden. My dad hates when people fart and don’t excuse themselves.
Maybe we could ask for a tour of the studio and I could play fart sounds on my phone, and he’ll think it’s your mom. ”
I laugh. “That’s officially the most immature sabotage plan I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, do you have a better idea?”
“No . . .”
Zach slowly runs his fingers through his beard. “Okay, so let’s at least get in there and see what ideas come to us. Maybe the perfect plan will hit once we see the space.”
I nod, and we head toward the door. Before I even have a chance to ask what our fake names are or what we’re supposed to say, he swings it open.
I guess he’s more of an improv guy.
We make our way to the front desk, where a woman with short curly hair sits, focused on a computer screen. After a moment, she looks over at us and her eyes go slightly wide when she sees our outfits.
“Oh, hello. How can I help you today?”
“’Ello,” Zach says, slipping into a painfully awkward British accent. “My wife and I just moved here from London and we’re hoping to brush up on our dance skills. We were wondering if you might give us a quick tour?”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing at his accent attempt. And also: Wife? Why did that word send zings of electricity racing through me, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head?
“Oh, how lovely,” the woman says—and apparently, she’s one of those people who unconsciously mirror accents, because now she’s talking with a slight British lilt too.
“I’m Brenda. I’d be happy to show you around.
I actually visited England once. I have friends on Chester Road. Where in London did you live?”
“The . . . uh . . . west end,” Zach says, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
“That’s nice. How wonderful to have you here. I’d love to show you around.” Brenda stands and smooths her pencil skirt, then gestures to the long hallway on our right. “Please, follow me this way.”
Brenda leads us toward a door, pushing it open to show us an empty studio with a long mirror and a barre. “In this room, we do a lot of ballet classes. There’s a youth class beginning in about an hour and they’ll be using this space.”
“How charming,” I say in the worst attempt at a British accent of all time. I expected it to come out as more posh and regal-sounding but that was pretty pathetic.
Zach widens his eyes and suppresses a laugh that comes out sounding like a choking noise. He pretends to cough several times.
“Oh dear, are you okay?” Brenda asks, her brow crinkled with concern.
“Fine,” Zach splutters. “Allergies.”
Brenda nods and continues down the hallway, gesturing to two doors side by side.
“These are the changerooms, and each has its own bathroom and showers. We’re newly renovated.
” She walks a little farther and points down the corridor.
“In Studio B, there’s a Latin dance class going on right now, and the last studio is usually where we hold our aerial and hip-hop classes. ”
The phone rings and she spins to look back toward her desk. “I’m sorry, but I’d better get that,” she says. “Feel free to check out the rest of the space and I’ll be at the front to answer your questions.”
Once she’s out of earshot, Zach turns to me with an amused grin. “Holy shit, you almost made me choke. Your accent needs some serious work.”
I poke his side, and heat rushes to my face the moment my hand grazes his toned abs. “Like yours is much better. I’m new at this. Give me a break.”