He's dressed in what must be his interpretation of "casual small-town attire": jeans that probably cost more than my monthly rent and a charcoal-gray henley that looks like it was personally tailored to showcase exactly how much rock climbing and extreme skiing he does.
Mrs. Johnson from the flower shop actually stops watering her sidewalk display to stare. Traitor.
"Good morning." His rich baritone voice carries the same smooth self-assurance as last night, but today there's a hint of wariness. Good. "I made it with a whole minute to spare."
"I'm shocked you even own a watch, considering you've clearly spent the last decade living life in the fast lane." I gesture to the Ferrari, which is single-handedly lowering the property values of every sensible vehicle on Main Street.
His lips quirk. "Would you prefer I borrow one of the vineyard tractors next time?"
"I'd prefer a time machine, but I'll settle for you following instructions. You won’t need the car anyway. We're walking to our first destination."
He glances down at his undoubtedly hand-crafted Italian boots, the kind probably advertised as "rugged luxury" but which have clearly never encountered anything more challenging than Manhattan sidewalks.
"Six blocks," I add, not bothering to hide my smile. "Unless you'd like to forfeit already?"
"I've trekked across Patagonia," he says, locking the car with a beep that sounds unnecessarily smug. "I think I can handle Mattichogue's downtown."
"Patagonia doesn't have Mrs. Fielding's Yorkshire terriers. They're very judgmental of outsiders."
This startles a genuine laugh out of him. "Are you serious?"
"Deadly." I start walking, forcing him to catch up. "They once reduced the UPS guy to tears. He had to be transferred to another route."
"Sounds terrifying. Should I have brought avalanche gear?"
"Would that be before or after your personal stylist picked out your 'casual small-town' ensemble?"
He falls into step beside me, those long legs easily matching my pace. "You know, most people are impressed by the car."
"Most people don't know you used to put gum in my vocabulary quizzes."
His expression dips, regret or surprise, gone too fast to parse, before the easy smile returns. "Fair point. Though I have to say, you've changed, Darcy."
"That tends to happen in ten years. I notice you're still making quite the entrance."
Finn glances back at his Ferrari, now the subject of several tourists' Instagram photos. "Some habits die hard. Though I have to admit, the coffee shop on the corner looks exactly the same."
"That's just what we backwards small-town folk do. Maintain traditions while you big-city types disrupt industries and jump out of perfectly good aircraft."
"Sounds like you’ve been keeping tabs on me."
I snort like he couldn’t be more wrong. Even though he’s right. Dammit. "I couldn’t care less what you’ve been up to all this time."
"No? Because I’m an open book, Darcy. All you have to do is ask." He gestures toward our apparent destination. "Is that a dance studio?"
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "It is indeed, Mr. Bardot. Hope those extreme sports reflexes are ready for something really challenging."
"I’m ready for anything, Gable. How hard can a little dancing be?"
"I’m glad you feel that way," I reply sweetly, pushing open the door to Jules's studio.
I wish I could frame the look on his face when he realizes what's waiting inside. The interior of Jules's dance studio manages to be both quintessentially small-town and unexpectedly elegant. Glossy hardwood floors gleam under soft morning light streaming through tall windows. Mirrors line one wall, reflecting the five men standing in loose formation. Men who all turn as one when we enter.
"Darcy!" Jules bounces toward us, her blonde hair pulled into a perfect dancer's bun. "You're right on time. We've been short a partner for weeks."
Understanding dawns on Finn's face as he takes in the scene. Five men ranging from mid-thirties to late sixties, all dressed in casual athletic wear, and not a woman in sight. His mouth opens, then closes, that practiced charm faltering for the first time.
"This is our men's beginner tango," Jules explains, all professional enthusiasm. "Where even the most alpha of males learns the art of following someone else's lead for a change."
