“Your shoes. They’ll destroy my floors. There are practice shoes in the basket by the door. Find a pair that fits.”
Something I can’t read flashes across his face, but then that insufferable smile returns and he saunters toward the basket, shrugging off his jacket to drape it over the barre with a carelessness that makes me twitch.
“Practice shoes,” he murmurs, examining the collection of worn leather and canvas like they’re alien artifacts. “How... practical.”
I turn back to my students. “All right, everyone. Let’s pair up and work on the basic box step. Remember—slow, slow, quick-quick. Gentlemen, your frame is everything. Ladies, trust your partner’s lead but don’t forget you have a spine.”
The class shuffles into formation. Roger finds his regular partner, a nervous elementary school teacher named Beth who blushes every time their hands touch. Mrs. Lowell pairs with Mr. DeLuca, both of them widowed, both of them pretending they’re not clearly developing feelings that extend beyond a dance partnership. Marissa is left without a partner, which happens sometimes with odd numbers?—
“Allow me.”
Malachi Vexis materializes at Marissa’s side, having somehow shoved his feet into practice shoes that are at least one size too small. He offers his hand with a flourish that would make a Victorian rake proud.
Marissa looks at me, eyes wide. I give her a tiny shrug. Your funeral.
The music starts, a gentle waltz chosen specifically because it’s nearly impossible to screw up completely, and I begin circling the room, making corrections.
“Roger, your left foot. That’s still your right. There you go.”
“Mrs. Lowell, lovely frame. Mr. DeLuca, stop looking at your feet.”
I deliberately save Malachi for last, hoping that by some miracle he’ll have figured out the basic rhythm on his own.
He has not.
What he’s doing bears no resemblance to a waltz. Or a foxtrot. Or any recognized dance form in human history. He’s moving Marissa around the floor with an energy that’s somehow both languid and chaotic, his feet doing things that seem to defy physics, his arms positioned like he’s preparing to wrestle a bear rather than guide a partner.
And yet, Marissa islaughing. Not the nervous laughter of a woman being manhandled by an incompetent partner, but genuine, delighted laughter that makes her whole face light up.
“Mr. Vexis.”
He spins—actually spins, a full one-eighty that nearly takes out Beth and Roger—and beams at me. “Yes, instructor?”
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing.” He says it like the answer is obvious. “Rather well, I thought.”
“That’s not dancing. That’s... I don’t know what that is.”
“Creative interpretation. The music speaks to me, and I respond.” He dips Marissa without warning, catching her with an ease that suggests his muscles know exactly what they’re doing even if his brain doesn’t. She squeaks with surprise but doesn’t fall. “See? Improvisation.”
Oh, for the love of?—
“There’s no improvisation in beginner ballroom,” I say, and I can hear my mother’s voice layered under mine, all that rigid discipline I swore I’d soften but never quite managed to shed. “There’s technique. There’s form. There’s learning the steps before you decide you know better than centuries of tradition.”
Malachi straightens, bringing Marissa with him. His expression shifts, just slightly, that cocky smile dimming into something more curious. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s decided to solve.
“Show me, then.”
“What?”
“The proper technique. Show me.” He releases Marissa with a little bow and steps toward me. “Unless you’d rather just criticize from the sidelines?”
Every eye in the room is on us. I can feel the weight of their attention like a physical pressure, all those familiar faces suddenly watching to see how their instructor handles this disruption.
Don’t let him get under my skin. I’m the professional here.
“Fine.” I extend my hand. “Basic frame. Hand here.” I place his palm against my back, positioning it properly between my shoulder blades. His fingers are warm, warmer than theyshould be, and there’s a moment where I catch a scent of something unexpected—smoke and spice and something darker. “Your other hand holds mine. Elbow up. No, up. You’re not a marionette with cut strings.”
