“References.” He sounds amused. “You require character witnesses for dance instruction?”
“I require knowing that my students are serious about learning.”
“Oh, I’m very serious.” For a moment his playful mask slips just enough to show something harder underneath. “I need to learn to dance, Ms. Solis, quickly and properly. And I’m willing to pay handsomely for the privilege.”
“Handsomely?”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a checkbook. An actual, physical checkbook, like something out of a period drama. “Name your price.”
“That’s not how?—”
“Five thousand dollars.”
I stop.
He’s writing as he speaks, heavy silver fountain pen moving across the check with elegant strokes. “For a month of private instruction. Let’s say three sessions per week, an hour each. I’ll work around your schedule, naturally. Whatever time suits you best.”
Five thousand dollars. That’s my entire marketing budget for the year. That’s half a new HVAC system. That’s?—
“You’re joking.”
“I never joke about money.” He tears the check free and holds it out. “Well. Almost never.”
I don’t take it. My hands stay at my sides, clenched into fists I’m only barely aware of. Five thousand dollars, and this man canbarely tell his left foot from his right. Five thousand dollars, and he looks at me like I’m a challenge to be conquered rather than a teacher to be respected. Five thousand dollars, and something about him makes every instinct I have scream danger in a voice that sounds suspiciously like anticipation.
“Why?”
The question surprises both of us, I think. His eyebrows rise.
“Why what?”
“Why do you need to learn to dance so badly? And why here? If you’ve got money to throw around, there are studios in Boston with award-winning instructors and actual facilities. Why come to—” I gesture around at my beautiful, shabby, hopelessly outdated studio. “Why come to me?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. The silence stretches, filling the space between us. Outside, I can hear the distant crash of waves against the pier, the cry of seagulls, the ordinary sounds of Bellamy Cove settling into evening.
Then he smiles. Not the cocky grin he’s been wearing all night, but something softer. Almost genuine.
“Let’s just say I have excellent taste in teachers.” He sets the check on the barre beside him. “Think about it. You know where to find me.”
“I absolutely do not know where to find you.”
“Then I’ll find you.” He heads for the door, pausing with one hand on the frame. “Same time tomorrow?”
“I have a class tomorrow at six-thirty. Intermediate salsa.”
“Perfect. I’ll be here at five.” He actually winks, like a character in a romantic comedy who doesn’t know he’s insufferable. “Wear comfortable shoes, Ms. Solis. I have a feeling we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”
And then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving nothing but the faint scent of smoke and spice and a check for five thousand dollars sitting on my mother’s barre.
I stare at it for a long time.
My phone buzzes. My accountant again, probably. The Showcase registration deadline is in three days. Momentum Dance Academy is opening in eight weeks. And a stranger with too much money and no discernible dancing ability just offered to solve at least part of my financial problems.
This is a terrible idea.
I pick up the check and find a business card underneath it. The paper is thick and expensive, the kind of stationery that comes from an actual stationary store. Malachi Vexis, Acquisitions and Negotiations. The print is a shade of red so dark it’s almost black. No company name. No address. Just a phone number and an email that ends in an extension I don’t recognize.
The check is also written on heavy, expensive paper. His handwriting is old-fashioned, all elegant loops and flourishes, like something out of another century. The signature at the bottom is almost illegible but somehow still manages to look smug.
