As she passes me I catch a whiff of her soothing sweet smell. I fight myself from inhaling it deeply. What it would be like to roll over and smell that on my pillow?
Whoa.Where did that come from?Get it together, man.Maybe Lincoln was right; I really need a girlfriend. Sure, and with all my free time I can pick up cross-stitching too.
“A Jeep?” I ask, surprised as we climb into the soft top.
“Yeah. I got it when I moved here a few years ago. Thought it would be good in the winter.”
“Very nice,” I say appreciatively.
“You seem surprised?” she asks.
“No—” I’m cut off by heavy bass and a gravely rapper telling people to sit down.
“Sorry,” she yells as she turns down the radio.
“Now, I’m surprised.”
“It’s just something I’m working on.” She flushes and looks behind her as she backs out of the parking spot.
“Working on?” I ask.
Julia isn’t exactly shy, but she never offers up information or talks about herself. And that’s kept her a bit of a mystery. Always at arm’s length from the rest of the team.
“It’s a dance. I tap dance. Well, sort of hip-hop and tap and jazz combined.” She shoots me a glance as though to gauge my reaction.
My first thought is justWhen does she find the time?It’s quickly followed byWhere does she tap?
“Tap, huh?” I nod. “Cool.” I don’t ask any of the questions flashing through my brain. But a follow-up falls out anyway. “To rap?”
She shrugs. “I like to mix it up with modern songs. This is Kendrick Lamar, but I use all types of music.” She points to the worn photo of a couple standing in front of ropes and pulleys. The woman is in a bedazzled bodysuit with an elaborate feather headpiece and a man leans on some scaffolding, his arm not touching the woman but protective and significant. “My Grandma Sue taught me to tap. She was a chorus girl on Broadway back in the day. It’s where she met my grandpa. He was a stagehand. I loved to dance and as I got older, I branched out on my own to hip-hop, salsa—all of the dances really. I couldn’t get enough.”
Unbidden, an image of her smiling coyly in a similar costume flashes into my mind.
“Will you show me?” Again, the words fly out. I need to have a long talk with my brain about what are and are not acceptable topics of discussion.
“What? Now?” She laughs, shaking her head.
“Maybe not this instant,” I say. Then I mumble, “Tonight?”
“What?” She turns the radio even lower.
“Nothing. There’s the bar.” I point to the small red brick building with a large outside patio.
“We really could have walked,” she says.
“But then I wouldn’t have learned you dance.”
A smile spreads over her features as she smoothly moves the car into a spot and shuts off the engine. “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret telling you?”
I grin at her and she shakes her head.
“I’ve never seen you at Beakers before,” I say.
“I don’t really drink craft beer.”
“There’s also Jez’s bar on the other side of town.” Why am I even talking about this? It’s not like I am ever going to ask her out.
She collects her bag. “I’ve heard of it. Just not been. I’m a homebody,” she says it casually enough but her shoulders tense slightly.
