Waltz This Way (Ex-Trophy Wives Book 3) Page 10

  Or was that just because she was exhausted and that made her hypersensitive to everything Drew related?

  Mel gulped, closing her eyes to shut out his frame. What was that old saying— sometimes you get what you wish for? What had she been thinking when she’d wished Drew away? What was a little difference of opinion when it came to the arts?

  But it wasn’t like they disagreed on political parties or genres of music. He’d slammed the one true love of her life. Her livelihood.

  Her world.

  However, seeing him, hearing his voice, watching his deft movement with a hammer made a drink and those big strong thighs pressed against hers in a TGI Friday’s booth somewhere not such an unappealing thought now.

  Then she caught herself. She was doing it again. Getting all caught up in a man when what she should be caught up in was her and this new life she had no choice but to lead. Isn’t that what Max and the divorce minions had said? She should find out who she was and whether she liked to spelunk or scuba dive— or whatever.

  Yes, that’s what they’d said, and instead, for the past week, she’d spent her time thinking about a man. God, she was pitiable. She wouldn’t know a healthy relationship if it cha-cha’d right over her.

  She had to have a healthy relationship with herself before anyone else. She needed to learn what her boundaries were— her lines in the sand.

  And that meant she absolutely would stop focusing on Drew.

  Just then, Drew glanced over his shoulder and caught her looking at him. “No. Don’t say it. I have a way with wood. I can tell by the way you stare. Your admiration comes off you in waves,” he teased.

  Mel scoffed, pivoting on her sore heel to face the barre and begin plies. She bit her lip hard to prevent the high-pitched scream she wanted to wail at the tearing of her inner thigh muscles. But the hell she’d show any signs of weakness.

  “Morning, Ms. Cherkasov,” Johann said, rushing into the room just seconds before the bell went off. As the boys filed in, Mel asked them to line up.

  Today was the day they’d dance with a real partner.

  Her.

  Her in all her muscle meltdown. Fighting the wince her heel hitting the floor brought, she glided toward them. “So are we ready for today? It’s your first pop quiz.”

  Moans— lots of them. She’d grown used to their moans. They always followed the mention of a quiz.

  “Oh, quit with all the moaning. I bet you don’t moan when Mr. Linky says it’s time to dissect the lifespan of the cockroach or calculate the distance between here and Jupiter.”

  “I know the answer to that,” Emilio said.

  Mel couldn’t help but chuckle. “I bet you do, but the real question is do you know the steps to the waltz because that’s your test today, and guess who you’re going to be lucky enough to dance with?”

  “Strippers?” Hank Wong shouted then looked embarrassed. She’d noticed that Hank had a habit of speaking long before he thought.

  Another chuckle followed from the other end of the room, deep but muffled.

  Mel gave him her stern eye even as she wanted to laugh until she cried. “Hank Wong, you know that was inappropriate, but I’ll give you it was a little funny, too. Now no more stripper talk. You’re dancing with me, gentlemen, and I’m no stripper. Line up, prepare your frame, and remember to count in your heads, not out loud. Soon, the waltz will be second nature.”

  Shuffles of reluctant feet dragged across the floor, forming a line.

  Mel nodded her head to signal R. J. to begin the music. Holding her arms up, she awaited her first victim, Nate, fully aware his father’s eyes were on her back.

  At least she hoped it was her back—not her ass. That was a tragedy in her wraparound skirt and V-neck, royal blue leotard.

  Nate took her hands in his, pulling his spine upward from his core. Mel, at five-two, was almost four inches shorter than him. Yet, Nate’s carriage, the way he took command without even moving, gave him the illusion of someone who stood six foot.

  When the first beat of the music began, Nate’s innate ability to lead his partner at such an early stage of the game brought a genuine grin to her face. As their movement began, and this tall, skinny, sometimes even awkward boy took command of the floor, Mel’s mouth fell open.

  Nate had an amazing musicality to his movement, his rise and fall with each step so beautifully in sync with the music made her heart thump with the possibilities he presented. His posture began to slump for a brief moment, but she didn’t have to remind him. As though he knew he’d made an error, he instantly caught it, then smiled a question at her.

  When he was able to navigate a small turn and still end up on the correct foot, Mel felt a tear sting her eye.

  It meant he’d been paying attention. That he had a rare, inbred gift for dance was secondary right now. Someone in her classes had been listening, watching, instead of calculating mathematical problems in their heads to amuse themselves in their boredom.

  A petty thought also occurred to her—Drew had just witnessed his son dance a waltz that was better than some who’d practiced for weeks just to get the basic steps. Drew McPhee’s son could dance. He didn’t just go through the motions because he had to. He danced. He felt the music. He allowed it to take over when it should and held back when it shouldn’t. His dancing had shades of light and dark she’d never experienced in her years of teaching.

  Score.

  When the music stopped, hope swelled in her. The hope that at least just a little of the joy dancing could bring had rubbed off on the boys— on Nate.

  The room filled with a silence and then all at once, the boys were sound and motion, clapping Nate on the back and guffawing like he’d just scored a winning touchdown.

  “Dude, you almost looked like one of those guys from Celebrity Ballroom,” Ahmed praised in his stoic, even tone.

  Mel stole a glance at Drew.

  If her mouth had fallen open in surprise before, Drew’s could catch softballs. Mel instructed the boys to practice their box steps before striding across the room. She clucked her tongue at Drew.

  “Tell me. What color tutu do you think would work for Nate? I say a sky blue. It’ll enhance his eyes, no?”

  Drew shoved a hand into his thick hair, ignoring her jab. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say he did a terrific job, and you’re proud of him. He has an intuitive gift for interpreting music and gorgeous natural lines. That’s rare.”

  “I don’t know where that comes from.”

  “Clearly, not you, caveman,” she muttered under her breath so her students wouldn’t hear her. “Do me a favor, okay?”

  “No tutu.”

  Mel smiled up at him cockily. “We don’t need your stinkin’ tutu. Don’t quash this, Drew. Please. Don’t make him feel like he’s somehow silly for being so good at the waltz. Scratch that. Even if he was putting on makeup and a skirt, make sure he knows you love him. Nothing beats that. I had parents like that. So, keep your archaic thoughts about girls and dancing to yourself. If you beat him up about just how good he is, you’ll beat the fun right out of it. You’ll embarrass him if he thinks you disapprove, and I won’t have it. Got that? Love him for who he is.”

  Drew’s nod was slow, his eyes still fastened on his son. “I think my outburst sent you the wrong message. I have no problem with him dancing—or any man dancing. I have a problem with him dancing if it takes away from his true passion, which happens to be his studies. There was never any question I’d love him—even if he wore makeup and a skirt.”

  “Then my work here is done.” Mel turned back to the class and clapped her hands. “Okay, guys. Let’s focus. That was good, but we have a long way to go. Nate,” she said once the ruckus had died down, “nice job!” She followed her praise with a curtsy. “That’s the way it’s done, guys. Johann, you’re my next victim.” She pointed to the floor in front of her and smiled.

  Johann took her hands in his, his palms sweaty, his tongue slipping nerv
ously along his bottom lip.

  As the music started back up, it brought with it a new sense of purpose, making her forget her aching shoulders and sore calves.

  Nate could dance. It just took one student. She’d done something right.

  Boo-yah.

  Drew caught up with Nate just as the last bell of the day rang. He clamped a hand on Nate’s shoulder, spinning him around in the middle of the crowded hallway.

  “Hey, Dad. You ready?”

  Drew looked down at his boy. A boy who’d glided across the dance floor with the alluring Mel Cherkasov like he’d always been doing it, and pride swelled in his soul. Sure, he’d like it if Nate could throw a football to victory— or hit a homerun. Those things he understood. He could relate better if his son enjoyed sports. But Nate didn’t like those things and unfortunately, Drew didn’t get half of the things Nate found interesting. For sure, he didn’t understand this dancing thing.

  He only understood, his son excelled at it and appeared to actually like it. Mel was right. Whether Nate was a garbage man or a brain surgeon, he needed to know his father loved him.

  “Yeah, I’m ready, kiddo. But first, niiice job out on that dance floor. Knuck it up, pal.” He held his fist forward.

  Nate shot him an irritated look and rolled his eyes, craning his neck around the corner. “Knock it off, Dad. Everyone’s looking.”

  Drew let his fist drop. “So? You should be proud of what you did in there. You’re pretty good.”

  “How would you know? You hate to dance.” Nate said it with no malice, his tone simply matter-of-fact.

  Drew smiled at him. “I know because Ms. Cherkasov said so. I know because even someone who doesn’t get it could see you were good at it.”

  Nate’s slender shoulders lifted with nonchalance. “I was just okay. I almost stepped on her sore toe because I started on the wrong beat. But after that, it was no big deal.”

  “So you like it? Sure looked like you liked it.”

  Nate gazed up at him, his eyes pinning Drew’s as they walked.

  “Yep. You think she gives private lessons?”

  Drew stopped mid-stride. “Seriously?”

  “For serious.”

  “I guess we could ask.”

  Nate’s eyes were skeptical. “I bet you’d rather pay for football lessons, huh?”

  Drew stopped him in the hall, keeping his voice low so as not to do the unthinkable and embarrass his kid, he said, “I don’t care if you want to learn to plant tulips, bud. So long as you’re happy doing it, I’m happy, too.”

  Nate snorted. “I like daffodils better.”

  “Fine, then plant daffodils.”

  “So you’re okay with it? I thought you’d be mad.”

  “Dogs get mad. People get angry,” he corrected, using a line his own father had used when he was a kid.

  “Angry, whatever. You’ll ask her?”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah. Cool.” His heart tightened. And it wasn’t just because he was proud his son wasn’t afraid to pursue a hobby other kids would probably laugh at him for.

  It had a little something to do with the possibility he’d be seeing one sexy ballroom instructor— a whole lot more if he had his way.

  Boo-yah.

  Jasmine and Frankie waved to Mel from a corner booth at the diner they met at every Tuesday night. Frankie’s husband, Nikos, the owner of Greek Meets Eat, opened the door for her.

  After that morning and the utter bliss she’d experienced when she’d realized Nate had been paying attention in class, her day had gone downhill.

  She had not one, but two Band-Aids on her toes, and an ice pack in her purse for her eye—which David Hockenmeyer had bruised when he slipped and his head smacked into her face.

  But she had her first paycheck in the brand-new account she’d opened. What better way to celebrate than hangout with the divorce guru’s minions?

  “Heeey!” Frankie said with a smile, scooting over to invite her to sit. “What happened?”

  “Dance-class accident. I’m fine. Believe me, I’ve had worse,” Mel assured her.

  “So, you decided we’re more fun than a can of chocolate frosting? That deserves a toast.” She held up her glass of wine and clinked it with the beautiful Jasmine’s.

  “So how goes it, dance teacher?” Jasmine inquired, her gaze zeroing in on Mel.

  Even her bruised eye and sore toes couldn’t thwart the smile on her face. “I never thought I’d be this excited, but I got my first paycheck today, and I opened my first checking account, and it’s all mine.”

  Jasmine clapped her hands and held up her hand for Mel to high-five. “Give it to me, sister!”

  Mel clapped hands with her. “I feel ridiculously independent over something as simple as a checking account and a debit card. That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

  Frankie shook her head of lush auburn curls. “No, sweetie, that’s empowerment. Damn invigorating, huh?”

  A rush of pride settled in her chest. Yeah. “I can’t tell you how good it felt. Who knew?”

  Jasmine poured Mel a glass of wine. “We knew, darling. So tell us about this job. Is it all kinds of awful? Are the kids snotty little know-it-all’s?”

  “They’re definitely smarter than a fifth grader. It’s a little intimidating, and they hate to dance. Almost every one of them.”

  Frankie leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Then why do you look so happy?”

  Mel shrugged, taking a sip of her wine before speaking. “I think it’s because I feel like I’m actually doing something. I’m exercising again and eating better. I just feel better.”

  Jasmine arched her eyebrow. “We heard there was a man involved in the better.”

  “A man?” Did the divorce minions have mind-reading skills, too?

  How could they know about Drew? What was it with these women?

  “Oh, my God—yes, a man. Only the sexiest man ever,” Frankie cooed, twisting a strand of her hair with her finger.

  “Hey!” Frankie’s husband, Nikos, dark and gorgeous, gave her a playful tap on the head from the booth behind them, where he and his brother sat with the baby. “I thought I was the sexiest man ever?”

  Frankie tilted her head back and blew him a playful kiss, leaving Mel with a lingering stab of envy for their obvious affection for one another. “You are, honey. But the second sexiest man ever is on TV. You know, Celebrity Ballroom? Neil Jensen?”

  Jasmine purred. “Hmm-mmm. How do you know him, Mel? If I wasn’t already wildly in love and newly married, I’d sink my cougar claws into a piece of that.”

  Mel laughed, hiding a sigh of relief they didn’t know about her new obsession with Drew. “Neil’s my old partner from my competition days. He’s here to beat me back into submission.”

  “I’d let him beat me into anything,” Maxine commented, slipping in beside Jasmine and giving her a quick peck on the cheek. She gave Mel a pat on the hand. “You look terrific, Mel! I’ve heard only great things from Dean Keller and the rest of the staff. I’m so glad it seems to be working out.”

  Mel couldn’t help but grin. Today’s coup with Nate couldn’t be tarnished by a swollen eye. “The boys are awful dancers. They hate every second spent in my classroom. I know they’d rather be finding the cure for cancer, but I’m actually kind of getting into the swing of it—even with all the bitching and moaning.”

  “So this Neil—is he the reason for the happy? Any chance of a little romance in the air?” Frankie asked.

  Mel placed her order with the waitress and shook her head.

  “Never. First, I’m not ready for anything more serious than a hang-nail. Second, Neil and I will always be nothing more than friends. We’ve always known that. He’s like a brother, and lately, the reason I hate five in the morning. But the real question is, how did you know he was even here?”

  Maxine laughed, handing her menu to the waitress. “Nothing gets past the Villagers. Surely you
didn’t think you could wow the seniors with your fancy footwork and it would go unnoticed? My mother and Gail gushed about that demo you gave them until I was almost compelled to hit Arthur Murray’s and never look back. I won’t even tell you what she said about Neil and his back end. It isn’t fit for polite company.”

  “I’ll tell you what Gail said about Neil,” Frankie offered with a sly grin. “She said, and I quote, ‘Bet a man like that doesn’t need a penis pump.’ ”

  “Well, so far there’ve been no complaints, but I’m not getting any younger,” a voice drawled from over Mel’s shoulder.

  Frankie hid behind her napkin while Maxine’s face turned red and Jasmine, unabashed, stared Neil down. “Oh, look, a yummy man,” she snickered, motioning him to pull up a chair.

  Neil held up his hands, shaking his head. “You ladies carry on. I’m just here for some of that infamous takeout meatloaf.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Neil,” Mel chided, tossing her napkin at him. “There are three gushing females here. You don’t want to pass up the chance to add more admiring fans to your posse, do you?”

  Neil smiled his dazzlingly white Hollywood smile and chucked her under the chin. “I’m afraid I have plans, girls. Maybe another time?”

  “You’re here in Jersey two minutes and you already have a date? Jesus, Neil.” Mel whistled.

  “ Neil—Neil Jensen?” a young man, dressed in a dark suit with a plaid tie called from across the diner, making his way toward them.

  Neil stood in front of Mel in a defensive stance. “That’s me. You are?”

  “I’m Fierce Parker, the entertainment reporter from Jersey Every Morning. Do you mind if I ask you some questions about your ex-partner, Melina Cherkasov?”

  Mel shrank behind Neil, praying Fierce wouldn’t see her. He’d called her father’s, looking for her side of the story about her and Stan’s breakup a few months ago.

  Thanks to Jackie and her anonymous tips to one gossip venue or another, no one had found her yet. Frankie shot her concerned eyes, while Max narrowed hers in the reporter’s direction.