I manage a nod.
He moves us through a short round of breathing exercises, and then partnering with me, Beau leads me through the Two-Step slowly a few times without music, counting out each step.
As he does, I finally admit I was wrong about him. I had assumed, because we didn’t hit it off the day we met, that taking lessons from him was going to be a nightmare. That he couldn’t possibly be as good as Mr. Hebert. Or as patient.
Turns out he’s both.
“Let’s start with a nice slow rhythm before we pick up the pace.”
He must notice when my eyes widen at the thought of trying to do anything on the dance floorfasterbecause he shakes his head.
“Don’t think about that. You do a lot better when you don’t think.”
I’m stuck on his words—thinking obsessively about them—when he starts the same Cajun song we used during our first lesson. The one that I actually liked. But I tune out the duet, the only one I’ve heard with a female vocalist.
Instead, as though it’s a curse now, I think about thinking too much.
“What do you mean?” I ask, frustration curling in my gut. “I have to learn the dance, and to do that, I have to think about the steps.”
A little line forms between his brows, but his eyes glint with humor. “But it’s just two steps. What’s there to think about?”
I gape at him. “Which one comes next,” I say with exasperation, and then I promptly trip after cutting my left steps short.
Beau rights me as if on instinct and gives me a mystified expression. “I know it’s not the same thing, but how does it work with your lines and your blocking?”
I shrug. “I have no trouble remembering those.”
“Yeah, but do you have to think about each one while you’re acting?”
“No,” I say, tucking my chin. “I just do it.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. “So, you’renotthinking.”
“It’s not the same,” I tell him, and then I knee him—accidentally and not in the balls—when I go to the right and he goes left. The way he presses his lips together tells me it hurt, and I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” But his voice is strained, and I wince with guilt.
“I’m such a klutz.”
“You are not.”
I give him my snarkiest of looks, “Oh? You think I’m as graceful as a swan?”
He pulls a face. “Swans look graceful gliding on the water, but have you ever seen swans fight? They’re vicious.”
“You’ve seen a swan fight?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I blink in disbelief. “There are swans in Louisiana?”
Beau’s laughter seems to take him by surprise. “No. We have geese and ducks and even turkeys, but, sorry, no swans.”
I like watching him laugh. “Where did you see these ferocious swans?”
“I’ve only ever seen them in Switzerland and The Netherlands.”
I halt mid-step. “You’ve been there? Both of those countries?” My surprise is unchecked.
