“Such flattery.”
“Now. The box step. You step forward with your left foot while I step back with my right. Then we?—”
He moves, and it’s completely, utterly wrong. He steps forward with his right foot, nearly crushing my toes, his frame collapses like a house of cards, and yet somehow he makes it look intentional. Like this is all part of some elaborate joke only he’s in on.
“Whoops.” He doesn’t sound remotely sorry. “Perhaps I’m more of a visual learner.”
I step back, reclaiming my personal space. My heart is beating faster than it should be. Irritation, probably. Definitely irritation.
“Then watch.” I grab Roger, who yelps in surprise. “Mr. Peabody, would you mind demonstrating?”
Roger is not a good dancer. He’s an enthusiastic dancer. He’s a determined dancer. But under my lead, he manages a passable box step, his face screwed up in concentration, his feet landing approximately where they should.
“See?” I release Roger and turn back to Malachi. “Simple. Clean. No improvisation required.”
Malachi tilts his head, studying me with an intensity that makes my stomach flutter. “You’re quite rigid, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Not an insult. Merely an observation.” He glances around the room, at the mirrors reflecting our cluster of students and the row of awards. “You run a tight ship. Everything in its place. Every movement controlled.”
“That’s called discipline. It’s how you learn.”
“Hmm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Or it’s how you stay safe.”
My spine immediately stiffens and my chin lifts—a defensive posture, my mother would call it. Never let them see they’ve hit a nerve.
“Let’s try again,” I say, and my voice comes out cold and flat. “Everyone back to your partners. We’re doing the box step until it’s muscle memory.”
The rest of the class passes in a blur of corrections and counting and the steady one-two-three of waltz music. Malachi continues to be terrible. He trips over his own feet. He holds Marissa too close, then too far away, then at an angle that suggests he’s attempting some form of interpretive modern dance. He asks questions that make no sense—”What if the music is lying?”—and ignores my answers entirely.
But he doesn’t leave. And worse—far worse—he keeps making my students smile.
Mrs. Lowell, who has barely cracked a grin in three weeks of lessons, actually laughs when he accidentally tangos past her. Mr. DeLuca claps him on the shoulder during a water break like they’re old friends. Even Roger, sweet earnest Roger who takes everything too seriously, loosens up enough to attempt a little flourish at the end of the final dance.
By the time I dismiss the class, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion.
The students trickle out, calling goodbyes and “see you next week” and, in Marissa’s case, shooting a lingering glance at Malachi that he either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore. I busy myself with the stereo, resetting the playlist, not looking at him.
Please just leave. Please just?—
“That was educational.”
His voice comes from right behind me. I spin, heart lurching, and find him leaning against the barre, his arms crossed and that infuriating smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Glad you found it enlightening,” I manage. “Class registration is online. If you’d like to come back next week?—”
“I was thinking something more... intensive.”
I narrow my eyes. “Meaning?”
“Private lessons.” He pushes off the barre, moving toward me with a predator’s grace—smooth, unhurried, and utterly confident. “One-on-one instruction. You and me, no distractions.”
Ha. “Mr. Vexis?—”
“Malachi. Please. Or Mal.”
“Mr. Vexis,” I repeat firmly, “I don’t know where you got the impression that you can just waltz in here—pun absolutely intended—and demand special treatment, but that’s not how this works. I have a waiting list for private lessons. There’s a process. An application. References.”
