Page 71 of Gym With Benefits

A surge of laughter bubbled in my throat. The sheer indignation mixed with pure terror on his face through the glass was simply too spectacular to ignore.

Stepping over to the passenger side, the door handle clicked under my grip as I yanked it open before he could logistically lock me out. “You're right on time.”

Dane kept his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, his head shaking in a slow, rhythmic bounce of absolute denial. “Nope. No way. Not happening, Jess.”

“Oh, come on,” a firm tug on his forearm did absolutely nothing to budge his posture, but persistence eventually won out. “Get your ass out of the truck. It'll be fun.”

“Fun is a relative term,” he grumbled, though he finally killed the headlights and swung his legs out onto the asphalt. He stood up, towering over the hood of the Bronco, before fixing me with a look that belonged in a corporate boardroom during a hostile takeover. “You told me you wanted to go dancing. Normal people hear that and assume a club with a DJ. Not an establishment that looks like it hosts retirement community mixers.”

A slow, appreciative appraisal traveled up his body. The man looked undeniably hot. He wore a crisp, tailored black dress shirt with the top button undone, the dark fabric hugging his shoulders in a way that should be illegal outside a fitness center. But letting him know that would ruin the established rules of engagement.

“And this is what you wear when you go clubbing?” a playful smirk curved my lips as I gestured to the pristine tailoring. “You look like you're about to audit the DJ.”

“Right. That's it,” Dane yanked his hand out of my grip, turning his torso back toward the leather seat. “I'm going home.”

An aggressive slide of my body wedged my hips directly between him and the open door frame, blocking his escape route. “Dane, please. You promised. I spent all afternoon at the archives looking forward to this, and you gave me your word in the spin studio.” The pout felt ridiculous, but tactical manipulation required sacrifice.

He looked down, his gaze dropping to the proximity of our chests before a long, defeated sigh floated out of him. “You owe me big time for this, Jess. If anyone from the firm sees mein a place with a pink neon sign, you're handling my public relations.”

“Deal,” the victory tasted sweet as we turned toward the double glass doors.

Crossing the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, my fingers snaked into his open palm, sliding between his knuckles until our fingers interlaced. The sudden physical intimacy caught him off guard. His neck snapped toward me, his dark eyes widening for a fraction of a second at the casual nature of the touch.

Then, the tension in his jaw melted away. A slow, genuine smile broke through his stubborn defense, and he squeezed my fingers tight against his palm.

The lemon wax on the floorboards did little to mask decades of collective dance-floor anxiety. Expectations for a delicate, bird-like instructor vanished the second a short, rotund man with a thick neck and a profound beer gut marched out to the center of the parquet. His faded green golf shirt stopped an inch short of his waistband, exposing a sliver of pale, hairy abdomen that independent wealth couldn't excuse.

“I’m Sandy,” he announced, his voice carrying the rasp of a lifetime tobacco habit. “We do the box step. We do the waltz. No talking, no shoes with rubber soles, no exceptions.”

Dane let out a tiny, choked sound behind his teeth.

The physical reality of Sandy's stocky, top-heavy build didn't line up with the absolute grace that followed when the needle hit the vinyl. The man glided across the floor, his feet floating over the oak slats with a precision that bordered on supernatural.

Around the perimeter stood four married couples radiating pure hostage energy and three awkward singles congregating near the water cooler.

“Find your partners,” Sandy called out, his eyes scanning the group with the scrutiny of a drill sergeant. “Box step. Left foot forward, side, together. Right foot back, side, together. Do not look at your feet. Your feet are not going anywhere.”

Dane stepped into position, his palms cold against my waist. The crisp cotton of his dress shirt crinkled under my touch as my hand found his shoulder. His entire torso felt like a concrete pillar.

“You're stiff,” my whisper barely carried over the accordion music. “Relax. The tiny man is going to judge us.”

“I am an analytical strategist, Jess. My body operates on physics, not whatever momentum this guy is generating,” Dane muttered, his eyes locked firmly over my shoulder. He took a huge stride forward, his leather dress shoe landing square on the toe of my sneaker.

“Ouch. That's a penalty.”

“Eyes on me, tall man!” Sandy’s voice boomed across the studio. The instructor pointed a stubby finger straight at Dane's chest. “The gentleman with the expensive haircut. You are driving a tank, not dancing the waltz. Light on the feet! Less muscle, more romance!”

I snorted, my forehead dropping against Dane’s chest to muffle the sound. His jaw clenched, cheeks flushing a dark color that made his blue eyes look incredibly bright in the dim studio lighting.

“Don't laugh,” he hissed, his hand tightening against my spine as he attempted the side-step again. “He's watching us like a hawk.”

The lesson progressed into the turning box step, a maneuver requiring actual coordination. Around us, the other couples bumped into each other with dull thuds, but Dane’s focusremained intense. He treated the dance like an intricate financial model that needed solving.

“So,” Dane muttered, keeping his rhythm as we navigated past a middle-aged couple in matching tracksuits. “The phone calls last night. You seemed worked up before Hunter ruined the mood.”

The memory of the crisp ivory envelope sitting on my kitchen counter surfaced. "Amberleigh’s wedding. The ceremony’s in Baltimore next month."

Dane executed a surprisingly clean left turn, his thigh brushing mine. “The ex-best friend? The one who treated your college boyfriend like an open bar?”