“Hmm,” he says mysteriously. “I guess you’ll find out.”
“Should I wear my cowboy hat, too?”
His eyes light up. “Yes, absolutely. Thank you for thinking of that.”
I’m laughing as he drops me off at my building.
“I’ll be back to collect you in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”
He gives me another kiss before he leaves, only this time he adds a little butt squeeze, and I’m floating on air.
I get ready as fast as I can, taking my hair down and refreshing my makeup, but I’m stymied when I try to figure out what to wear. First, I throw on my standard country concert ensemble: jeans, denim jacket, cowboy boots and hat, but when I look in the mirror it resembles adenim-on-denim fashion crime not seen since the likes of Justin and Britney circa 2001. I could wear a dress—I’d love to look a bit more girly since all he ever sees me in is work attire—but I’m afraid I’ll freeze to death in the still-brisk April air. I decide to text him.
Me: Will we be inside or outside?
Ben: Inside. And no more hints.
It’s the only nudge I need, and I quickly replace my jeans with a flirty white sundress I haven’t worn in forever. When I pair it with the jacket, boots, and hat, I think I look pretty darn cute.
I’m fidgety with excitement and nerves by the time he walks into the lobby. When he spots me his stride falters, and he closes his eyes and gives his head a firm shake before coming the rest of the way.I’m so glad I wore the dress.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says simply once he’s standing in front of me. He leans over and kisses me lightly, his hand automatically finding mine at my side. There’s nervous energy in his kiss, same as mine.
“So, better thannice, then?” I tease when he pulls back.
“Nice, striking, beautiful, and gorgeous. And any other words you want to throw in there.” It’s his low, scratchy voice, and he’s looking at me like I’m something new.
“We’re matching too.” I finger the collar of his white button-down. “No green this time?”
“Gotta keep you on your toes. Besides, some stalker’s been stealing my clothes.” He grabs my hand and tows me toward the door. “Come on. We’re gonna be late.”
He leads me a little ways back up the street in the same direction we just came from work. The looks we’re getting from passersby arepriceless, both of us bedecked in cowboy boots and cowboy hats like a couple of country bumpkins. We’re as out of place on the streets of DC as ballerinas at a monster truck rally.
After we squeeze past a guy who gives me a leering once-over, Ben scowls and tucks me under his arm. “You’d think these morons would know better than to look at you when I’m standing right here.”
I can’t resist teasing him. “God forbid theylookat me. What are they thinking?” I bump my hip against his.
“Not funny,” he mutters. “You don’t know what I deal with.”
“Well, can you blame them? I’m a redneck woman.”
“You’re a country cutie, is what you are.”
“I’m Backwoods Barbie.”
“You’re a hot little hillbilly.”
We’re laughing as he stops abruptly in front of a glass door, and when he opens it for me, I know just where we are: It’s a dance studio, one I pass every day walking to and from work. I gawk at him. We’re goingdancing?
He laughs when he sees the shock on my face. “I knew you’d never guess this. I’ve passed this place a million times but never had a reason to go in. They have group classes a few times a week apparently, and they pick a different style of dance each time, like the tango or swing or whatever. When I called and they said they were doing country-western this week, I thought it was almosttooperfect.” He grins his boyish grin. “Surprised?”
Stunned, more like. “I never would have guessed,” I say, my voice a little unsteady with emotion. I can’t believe he came up with a date this charming on only a day’s notice. It seems I’m destined to be surprised by this man over and over again.
We take a look around, the interior much larger than it appears from the street. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors surround us on three sides anda parquet wooden dance floor spans the center of the room. Additional private rooms line a back hallway. A woman who must be the owner or instructor waves in greeting and heads toward us as Ben takes charge.
“Hi, you must be Clara? I spoke with you on the phone. I’m Ben, and this is Kate.”
She’s a sixty-something woman, her hair in a tight gray bun, and she moves gracefully as she shakes our hands. Yep—definitely the instructor. I watch her take Ben in, sizing him up, and I want to laugh. She probably doesn’t get many giants in here looking to square dance.
