He looks at me for a moment, then leans over and kisses me until I feel a little limp. I can’t even speak for a moment.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice husky. “We’re not supposed to do that in public. I know that.”
“Well,” I glance around, “if there are any spies from work around, we’ll just have to assassinate them.”
He takes a slow breath. “Let’s go back and dance. I know what to say if she talks to us.”
“You’re ready?”
“I’m ready.”
He takes my hand. Sure enough, as we walk back to the dance floor, a petite woman with golden skin and dark, straight hair walks toward us. She has the perky look of a 1960s flight attendant, and she’s dressed in a flowing sundress and ballet flats. She looks much more put-together than I did when I had a young toddler at home.
“Ollie,” she says. “Hey.” Her expression is earnest, wide-eyed, faintly apologetic.
“Hi, Phoebe.” The weight of the unspoken hovers between them like a raincloud.
“Good to see you.” She glances at me nervously and then back again.
Ollie takes a breath. “Phoebe,” he says, “I’d really like to forgive you at some point, but I haven’t yet. I’m sorry. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go dance.”
Her face falls. “Okay. Sure. Of course.”
Ollie leads me onto the dance floor just as a Tracy Chapman song starts playing. He takes my hand and leads me into the throng. I can tell that his mind is elsewhere, but he is still wonderful to watch. He has an indefinable quality that I love in dancers, the ability to let each movement flow outward, carrying it all the way, letting each gesture hang for a moment with an intuitive sense of suspense. I wonder if his ex-wife is watching us. I wonder if she’s noticing that I’m not nearly as good as he is.
After a moment, his eyes refocus. He’s back with me. His face lights up in a little smile. I smile, too.
After another song, he leans over to me. “She left, I think.” He glances around. “I feel a little guilty. I should have been calm enough to introduce you, but I can’t quite yet.”
“Don’t you dare feel guilty,” I say. “You just told her how you felt.”
He looks like he wants to kiss me again, but then another song starts up, this one a little faster. We dance to a Rihanna song, and I think about the bride-to-be from my intro class, learning to dance to a Sinatra tune approved by her mother. We dance to a Lorde song and a song by Coldplay. We dance to Billie Eilish and Salt n Pepa, to Hozier and Sam Cooke.
My first impression of Ollie’s dancing comes back in full force. Ollie is sexy. I can’t help but notice every time he pulls me into his arms and then sends me away again. I am making mistakes, but I can’t even worry about them. All I keep thinking is that I want him alone. Maybe he doesn’t love me, maybe he is obsessed with his ex, but I still want to go to bed with him. I want him like I’m a teenager who’s never gotten my heart broken.
He catches my gaze. “What time do you need to get back?” he asks in my ear.
“I still have three hours.”
He nods. “Can I take you to my place?” He winces a little at the words. “I know how that sounds, but I want to be where I don’t need to worry about being seen with you.”
“Let’s go.”
“Now?”
“Now.” He looks amused as how fast I answered.
“Right now?” he asks, teasing now.
I roll my eyes, and he laughs, then squeezes and releases my hand. We walk away together, carefully not touching, carefully not looking like we’re all over each other. As soon as we’re inside a taxi, I meet his eyes and am caught again in his gaze. I could kiss him right now. No one would see. He smiles and leans a little closer. I lean a little closer, too. He puts one hand to my chin and rubs a thumb along my jawline. A careful delay, a hesitation. His eyes look vulnerable and then his gaze shifts out the window.
He is going to break my heart.
When we arrive on his street, I discover that his apartment is in a four-story brownstone in the West 80s near Riverside Drive. It is the first time I’ve really registered the fact that he must have a lot more money than I do. This neighborhood is all understated elegance and ten-foot ceilings.
“I’m on the third floor of a walk-up,” he says apologetically as he gives me a hand out of the cab.
“I can’t make it,” I say. “Too tired. You’re going to have to carry me.”
