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Laughter bursts from Izzy first, followed by the reporters.
‘That’s it. I’m done. This is ridiculous!’
Izzy comes to the middle of the room where I am. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I think it’s your stiff hips.’ She drops her hands to my waist and turns me to face her. ‘You need to get more rotation here when you’re doing Latin dances. It will help you keep your rhythm and it will stop you from looking like such a buffoon.’
I scowl down at her and see her amusement in her shining irises.
‘Put your hands on my hips.’ I do and she starts to salsa, her hip bones rotating under my palm. ‘Can you feel that movement?’
Yeah, in my groin.
She shifts position so she’s in front of me, her back pressed to my chest, her head against my shoulder. She takes my hands again and places them on her hips. I feel every movement through her yoga pants as if she’s wearing nothing.
‘Let’s do it together. Ready? Forward on the right. One, two, three, pause. One, two, three, pause.’
I move with her, my hips pressed to her ass, her shoulders moving over my chest, her scent filling my nose, her hair tickling my neck.
‘That’s it. You’ve got it.’
Her hands come up to meet mine on her hips and she interlaces our fingers as we dance.
‘Let’s take it to the side on the next count. One, two… that’s it.’
I’m lost in her. The roll of her hips. The feel of her soft skin; a contrast to my harsh, weight-lifting hands. We move easier, more freely. When she turns to face me, I keep my feet moving as she taught me and drown in her gaze, as if plunged into serene, warm waters, floating weightlessly through a new world.
When the track ends, we’re brought back abruptly to reality. A camera flash makes her squint and I remember the reporters.
Clearing my throat, I tell her, ‘I think I’ve got it.’
She wipes imaginary dust from her leggings. ‘Right. Yep. I’ll just be… you know… over there…’ She waves a hand through the air in no particular direction, then sets off for the right side of the room and turns, before switching to the left side with a nervous giggle.
Well, who knew? Dancing can be hotter than screwing. I really am feeling hot and sweaty now.
* * *
Yesterday’s argument seemingly did not have the desired effect because I’m sitting at my desk, trying not to stare at the delicate line of Izzy’s neck as she sits in the desk she never moved from my office. My stomach grumbles like a JCB picking up gravel.
‘Izzy, come on, I need something to eat. I can barely concentrate here.’
She checks her watch. ‘You can have carrots as a snack.’
‘I’ll take anything.’
‘I’ll ask the bistro to cut some up for you.’ She pauses. ‘And for me… It’s three in the afternoon – what am I supposed to be gorging on for my six millionth meal of the day?’
‘I’ll get Angie to fix you a strawberry protein shake.’
‘Bulk in a cup. How tempting.’
If only she could be the quietly sexy Latin-style dancer all the time.
‘Let me finish this e-mail and I’ll go down.’
‘It’s fine,’ she says, already standing. ‘I could use a change of scenery. I’m not doing anything anyway.’
‘Really? Not writing another blog about how I’m trying to cheat on your plan by ordering eggs on toast? Yeah, I saw that. I also saw the shitty pictures of my dancing yesterday. Thanks for making me look like a tool.’
‘You know what, I’ve changed my mind. You can get your own bloody carrots.’
