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“Dude, what the hell?” Reed yells. “Mrs. Bradford, Owen is a ringer.”
“Sorry,” he says, stopping us in the middle of the dance floor. He shrugs. “My mom owns a dance studio. I’ve been dancing since I was small. I’ve got a couple of trophies back home to prove it.”
My jaw hits the floor. What? What? No wonder his ass has a six-pack. He has a dancer’s ass. Well, great. Now I want to touch it. The last thing I need is one more thing to focus on. Jeez.
“Wonderful. You can help me with the class,” Mrs. Bradford informs him. So much for my professional dance partner. Now I have to share him with the whole class.
“I appreciate that, ma’am. But I’m just here to dance with Eliot,” he answers.
WHAT? The room of women, and several of the men, swoon in unison. My mind fills with that emoji of the yellow guy with a bomb coming from his head.
“Very well,” she says and starts the music again. Owen pulls me back into his arms. We start around the room again.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Why did you bid on the dance lessons if you can already dance?”
“Because I wanted to dance with you. Remember, you said if I bought them, you would accompany me all six weeks.”
“I know, but you don’t want to dance with me. I’m horrible at it. I have two left feet. You’re going to get hurt.”
“You don’t have two left feet. And if I can’t lead you around this dance floor, well then Mom should strip me of my thirteen and under Illinois all-state ballroom championship.” My jaw drops to the floor again.
“Oh my god. You’re not just good, you’re a champion?” I shriek.
“Are you impressed?”
“I’m rendered speechless, and that’s not easy to do.”
“Good. That’s what I was aiming for.” Before I can analyze that to death, Mrs. Bradford stops the music.
“Excuse me, Mr.…” She points at Owen.
“Steele or just Owen,” he answers.
“Please come demonstrate how to lead. This is like being at a junior high dance.” Did I mention my dance teacher is also a ballbuster? That must be why I’ve always liked her.
“Okay. Guys, you can’t lead properly if you dance out here.” He pushes me to arm length. “Don’t watch your feet. Remember, dance tells a story. Frame your partner between your arms.” He pulls me to him suddenly, and I gasp. I can’t help it.
“She needs to be flush against you unless you’re doing something like the Viennese waltz. If it’s Latin, your leg is between hers like she’s grinding on it.” He pushes his thigh against my nether regions. Great, now I get to dance in wet panties.
“For a simple two-step, she wants us in a simple closed position. Four points of contact.” He counts them out as he demonstrates, using me as his muse. “Don’t forget, you want to be near her, and there’s no principal here to tell you otherwise.” Everyone laughs.
Mrs. Bradford starts the music again and moves around the room correcting students. She never even approaches us.
“You’re amazing,” I tell Owen.
He smiles. If this was all to impress me, he’s succeeded. “Why did your mother think you needed to learn to dance so well?”
“To impress the right woman,” he answers. My face burns again at the compliment. Damn, he’s on his game tonight.
“And what did your dad say about it?”
“It’ll help get me laid.” I laugh. “He’s a cop, but he supported whatever decision my mother made. Still does. He’s wrapped around her finger.”
“Really?”
“Yep. He’s a burly desk sergeant in Chicago, but he’s completely gone for my mom.”
“A real cinnamon roll then,” I observe. I like his parents already.
