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“That’s the problem.”
He’s stiff, I can feel it in his bicep when I reach up and squeeze his arm in reassurance. Today was surprisingly hot and Jenson has on a sleeveless T-shirt that looks somehow wrong and very,veryright on him. A few women from the office notice and can’t help little double takes as we reach the large room and line up with everyone else.
Salsa lessons.
The teacher is a small, lithe man with a booming voice surprisingly loud for his stature. He greets us all enthusiastically and herds everyone around into pairs if they aren’t already. Jenson and I practically clutch each other, spreading out with everyone else.
“Alright, everyone! The first thing we’re going to do is just listen to the music. Feel it. Let it flood your body, take over your hips, your chests. I want this music to be your heartbeat.”
Jenson and I exchanged amused, pained looks, and I have to stifle a laugh. But the teacher is right. After a few seconds I can’t help tapping a foot to the beat of the music, moving my shoulders a bit.
Jenson, on the other hand, is like a board. Stiff and upright. His eyes are locked on mine. He’s scared—it hits me suddenly and I smile up at him, taking his hands.
“We’re going to start out easy. There are only three steps for every four beats.” The teacher demonstrates and we all watch, some with confusion on their faces, others with curiosity. I find myself mimicking the steps in miniature, Jenson’s hands sweating in mind.
“Men, you’re leading!”
And just like that, he sweeps us into a salsa lesson.
At first, everyone is a complete mess, stepping on toes, laughing, wincing. Jenson barely moves. I have to step in closer than I probably should and encourage him quietly, pressing my hand to his upper arm, giving him a smile.
“You need to loosen up,” I whisper.
He sucks in a breath through his nose, shooting daggers at me. I can’t help laughing.
“Alright, you two. I can see you have a connection. If you didn’t, she would have left you by now for another partner.” The teacher laughs at his own joke, Jenson’s face flushing, before he guides us through the steps more slowly. Thankfully, Jenson catches on and starts to relax, enough that it feels like it’s starting to flow.
“There! You have it. Remember, sir, salsa is a sensual dance. And you two aren’t lacking in attraction.”
The tiny man gives us a wink before flitting off to help others.
“This is terrible,” Jenson deadpans, making me laugh again.
“It’s not—really. Now that you’ve loosened up, I think we’ve got it.”
After another half hour, we’ve conquered the basics and are laughing our way through more complicated steps.
I swing my body around his, arm dragging across his waist, and he spins me into a hold. Our feet match up almost perfectly, Jenson cursing with a chuckle when he missteps. With each cycle of the dance, I notice him more and more. The taunt pull of his muscles as we turn, the way his eyes stay locked on mine, the heat of his body.
Pull yourself together, Mel.
But it’s hard. So hard with his scent surrounding me. As he pulls me in close, pushes me away, steadies me with a touch when I overcorrect, we’re suddenly the only ones in the room.
Roy, a spectator today, is clapping along with the music. When it ends, he walks over to us, slightly bow-legged, and gives Jenson a sly grin. “If I’m not careful, I’m going to lose you two to professional dancing. That was wonderful. But try to keep it PG-13 next time.”
With a wink, he turns away. But even with the music gone, my heart is still pounding in my chest.
* * *
We get backto the suite late, close to eight o’clock, and I can’t look at Jenson once the door closes.
“Bet you’re happy you didn’t wear your Louboutin’s,” I joke, but shoes are the last thing on my mind.
Jenson looks at me and his eyes are dark, like a storm coming in. My breath catches; I know that look, what it means, and I need to get far, far away from it.
Making a flimsy excuse, I slip into the bathroom and close the door. Take a deep breath. Try to calm my heart.
It’s not working.
