Right now, staring out at the darkening sea, I honestly can’t tell which one is more likely.
I’m going to sign up tomorrow. First thing. Before I can talk myself out of it, before the numbers can whisper their warnings,and definitely before the ghost of my mother’s voice can remind me that I’ve never quite been good enough.
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?”
