Fluffy(45)

“Are you kidding me? I’m not converting to a paid customer so David the Asshole can meet his quota!”

“No, no, no! Tonight’s lesson is one hundred percent free for you, Mallory! It’s just,” he says, looking around the group of dance students with eyes that dart as he clearly counts heads, “even including me, we have an odd number.” One super-old dude with an impressive Duck Dynasty beard appears to be comforting a crying older woman in a Chanel-style suit.

Is that going to be me in thirty years?

“So?” I challenge Philippe.

He looks at Will, then me. “It would be a much richer experience for everyone if we can pair up properly.”

“Do you have any idea what my day has been like, Philippe?” I start, winding up inside, ready to unleash a verbal whip that cracks with emotion. “It’s been kinda long. And very full.”

Will reaches up to gingerly touch the wound I gave him.

Philippe takes my hands in his again, an earnest expression on his face wearing me down. Exhaustion fills me, emotional and physical. My calves ache along with my heart.

“Do not let David win. Let your pain step aside and your soul take over, Mallory,” he says with a dramatic flourish, looking just over my shoulder as if the horizon beckons him to take a journey to the divine.

“Is that a corporate slogan for some advertising campaign, Philippe?”

“Just because it’s a commercial does not mean it isn’t good.”

I laugh in spite of myself. Will steps closer to me.

“C’mon, Mal. Stay.” His eyes watch me, face filled with expectation and, dare I think it–hope?

“You really want to be in a class with a woman who threw a football trophy at your head today?” I ask him.

Philippe jolts. “You two are married?”

“What? No,” Will says, frowning. “Why would you think that?”

“Only someone with years of great passion for another would fight like that!”

“It wasn’t–”

“That’s not–”

Will looks at me with a seriousness behind his mirth-filled eyes.

Two claps drown out our protests as Philippe turns to everyone else and says, “It is settled. Now we will start!”

“He doesn’t take no for an answer, does he?” I murmur to Will, who keeps looking at me.

“If my sister weren’t already marrying someone, I’d set them up. They'd make the perfect couple.” Finally breaking the gaze, he blinks, giving Philippe his full attention.

Setting my purse down on a chair, in a line with all the other purses, I take a few deep breaths, facing away from the class. Am I crazy? There is no date. David was a sleazy salesman at best, a con man at worst. I have nothing else to do tonight, and I did bash Will’s head in earlier.

Might as well stay and make the best of it.

“YOU! Uh, Mallory!” Philippe calls out. “It is time to DANCE! Find a partner and hold each other’s hands, facing one another.”

Five women start walking toward Will.

“Mal?” Shyness infuses his question, sending chills up and down my arms and legs. They settle at the base of my neck, riding shotgun next to the arousal centers of my nervous system. He’s adorable, one hand out to me, eyebrows slightly up, blue-green eyes asking to dance with me but hinting at more.

Or... am I inventing that part?

“Sure,” I say, instantly regretting my answer. Does it sound grudging? He doesn’t seem to think so as I take his hand and stand before him, tall in my high heels but he’s even taller. Looking at him from this height makes him even more human, more masculine, more real.

My heart skips a beat.

But the music sure doesn't.

“Now, the ‘man,’” Philippe starts, using finger quotes because there are several female-only couples in the class, “puts one hand on the woman’s waist. The right hand.”

Will complies.

It’s like sticking my finger in a light socket and orgasming at the same time.

His left hand takes my right hand and he holds it, strong and firm, smiling at me with a boyish grin that makes me feel instant remorse for hurting him today.

“I’m sorry I bashed your head in,” I whisper, moving near his ear, our mouths inches apart.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing.” His breath warms my cheek.

There is a gap between us. My lungs live there, in that space. They breathe. I don’t make a move. My autonomic nervous system works without intention. If it didn’t, I’d die.

Because I would hold my breath forever in Will’s arms.

Philippe is moving from couple to couple, adjusting positions, commenting and correcting.

“Closer,” Philippe says right behind me, the press of his firm palm against my lower back a shock as he pushes me into Will, closing that gap.

My autonomic nervous system gives up entirely.

“Look into each other’s eyes,” Philippe commands, his accent making this even sexier. “When you dance, you show your love with your hips, your eyes, your languid grace. You are making love in public with your bodies, fully clothed.”

Is Will holding his breath, too?

“Your hand goes here, Mallory,” the teacher says, taking my left hand and putting it on Will’s shoulder. My breasts brush against his chest, our breathing ragged. I try to look away, but we’re too close. All I can do is look at his eyes or his mouth, and right now, both are so, so tempting.