“Aw, come on, Beau. She feels terrible.”
I shrug. “I’m not saying she did it on purpose.”
“Then what are you sayin’?”
The question brings me up short. “Nothing,” I say finally.
Silence hangs between us. “You don’t like her.”
I wince at the accusation. “What is this, sixth grade?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask, shooting him crazy eyes.
“You made up your mind about her before you even met her.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I hesitate.
His low laughter fills the cab. “Glad to see you’re not lying to yourself, at least.”
I roll my eyes.
“Hey, she’s a sweet girl,” he purrs. “You’ll figure that out soon enough if you just give her a chance.”
I glance over at my uncle, his injured arm dangling in a sling. It’s late. He’s tired, and I can see that even though the meds have taken the edge off, he’s still in pain.
“I’m sure she’s a sweet girl.” I say this to placate him if nothing else. She might be sweet as pie. She might also be a nutter.
We pull into the drive behind his place.
“You sure you want to do this with your summer?” he asks, nodding toward the studio.
“Without a doubt.”Nonccovered for me last summer with Mom. Maybe not for as long as his recovery will be, but I’d never leave him high and dry.
“You gonna be nice toherfor the next two months?”
Shit. In all the fuss over his arm, the x-rays and the consult, and talking over the immediate plan for the studio, I hadn’t acknowledged the fact that I’d be covering her private lessons.
“Of course, I’ll be nice. I’m nice to all my students.”
Noncraises a brow. “I don’t think your kids at Northside would ever call younice.”
He’s right. At my schoolniceis a terminal illness. But I’m fair, and I’m a professional, and that’s the way I’ll treat Iris Adams—even if she has to bring a whole team with her or she looks at me like I have leprosy.
“Your Hollywood star won’t have anything to complain about.”
“Good.”Nonc’seyes turn earnest. “Because the only thing she’s complained about so far is her inability to dance.”
I frown. “It’s that bad?”
Suppressed laughter squeezes from his throat. He shakes his head. “I’ve taught stroke victims who had more rhythm. You’ll earn every penny of what she’s paying you.”
This notion hits me sideways. I don’t want her to pay me.
“I think you should keep it,” I say. We’ve already discussed this for his regular classes. He’s insisted on giving me a cut, but he needs to take the lion’s share to keep the studio open and cover his expenses. He can have it all as far as I’m concerned. I’m on a twelve-month pay schedule through the parish. I can cover his classes for free, but he won’t have that.
A gust of air whistles from his nose. “Not with that one.” His brows climb halfway up his forehead. “You set your mind on something you want. Somewhere maybe you wanna go in late July, and every time you’re ready to pull your hair out because she starts on the wrong foot or toe-heels instead of heel-toes, you picture that destination.”
