Chapter Ten

Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. Walk, link, promenade, walk, link, rock—

Amara stopped abruptly and broke their hold. “Ryan, there’s a reverse turn after the promenade and walk. You’re skipping steps.” To make up for the practice he had missed the day before, Amara had arranged for them to rehearse in her apartment complex’s clubhouse. At least he’d had a day to somewhat recover from the mother of all hangovers.

He had known it was foolish to get drunk at a dive bar in Naples. Even more foolish to let a local goad him into a pool game where he lost a hundred dollars. But thankfully the owner of Chevy’s Bar & Grill cared about keeping drunks off the road and took Ryan’s keys from him.

As it was, he owed Doc a month of lawn care for driving across the causeway to pick him up, bring him back to Mimosa Key and dump his sorry ass in the bed. If that wasn’t enough, Cutter had asked him to sub the next day for a batting coach who was out sick. And for hours he had endured the crack of a fastball connecting with a baseball bat. Each hit had reverberated in his head, and by the time he got home, he was ready for a hot shower, a handful of ibuprofen and the bed. At least he hadn’t tweeted from Chevy’s.

Now he was trying to remember choreography and failing miserably.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll do better.” He still couldn’t stop thinking about hearing Amara at the church, teaching the program he had finally accepted that he needed. What were the odds? If he was worried about embarrassing the team management with his problem, that was nothing compared to embarrassing himself by admitting to this woman that he couldn’t do what every six-year-old could.

“Have you been practicing any at home?” she asked.

He lobbed his answer to her in a clipped tone. “I haven’t had a lot of spare time. I have a job you know.”

She cocked her head and a heated gaze shot from her eyes. “I have three jobs, and I always show up for practice on time and prepared. Try again.”

“Well…well…” Ryan dug deep for a plausible excuse. “I pulled a muscle, too. It hurts when I dance.”

“It hurts? It hurts?” Her voice rose with the second question. “I’m on my feet for twelve to fifteen hours every day. Do you hear me complaining about my feet hurting?”

She planted her hands on her hips as she scolded him, a move that only accentuated her curves and added to his already conflicted emotions. “No, you don’t,” she continued. “And do you want to know why? Because there’s no crying in ballroom dancing. I should get Jasper to show you his feet. He has bunions, ingrown toenails and blisters. They’re the mark of a professional.”

“For the record, I’ll pass on the foot inspection,” he added with a laugh. “And my hat’s off to you with the crying comment. How long have you waited to spring that one on me?”

She narrowed her eyes and glared, and she looked sexier than ever. Ryan wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. But he knew better. He had crossed the line before and now had to keep things on a strictly professional basis.

Cutter would slam him good if he behaved like a horndog and reflected poorly on the team. The Barefoot Bay Bucks had a stellar reputation in the league, and he was grateful for the opportunity they had given him. When his career had ended on the pitcher’s mound that day, Ryan had crawled back home and hidden away from the world until his father convinced him to come to work at the family farm equipment business. His celebrity status drew customers who might have otherwise shopped elsewhere.

With only a high school education his options were limited. He’d had a temp position with another farm team outside of Texas, and he had worked part-time at a car dealership selling trucks. Or trying to. And then out of the blue the Bucks had called and offered him the opportunity to return full time to the world of baseball. He had jumped at the chance.

“Did you whine and skip practice every time you hurt when you played baseball?” That question hit him with the force of a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball.

If he had whined at the appropriate time, he might not have pitched that day and incurred the injury that had ended his major league career.

“Oh, never mind,” Amara said, interrupting his thoughts. “You do remember about the tango club tonight, don’t you?”

He remembered. But he had hoped she’d forgotten. He couldn’t cancel since he had mentioned it to Cutter. If he cancelled and that Vonderleith fellow called the Bucks office, there would be hell to pay.

***

Ryan had parked three blocks from the cultural center that hosted the dance, and he could hear the music from there.

“That doesn’t sound like tango to me,” he commented as he pressed the key fob to lock his car doors.

“It’s not. That’s salsa.”

“I thought that was what you ate with chips down at South of the Border.”

He was being deliberately obtuse. And Amara’s harshly exhaled breath let him know he had gotten under her skin. He slung the bags holding their dance shoes over his shoulder and leaned against the car.

“I’m still not sure about this dance club thing,” he began. “I mean, dancing in front of a group of people…”

Her steely look was obvious even in the dim light of a street lamp. Her eyes flashed with anger, her lips thinned to a straight line. Why did she have to look so damned gorgeous when she was mad at him?

“Don’t say it. I know that’s what we’ll do at the contest, and this is sort of a dry run. I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.”

A lot nervous, really.

“Did you feel nervous the first time you pitched in a big game?”

He had. He had debuted in a home game. The thousands of pitches that had preceded his first one in Major League Baseball hadn’t seemed to matter. The team was depending on him. The fans expected perfection, and there was nothing perfect about trying to fire a baseball across home plate at top speed.

“Nervous as hell.”

“And how did you deal with that?”

“You mean after I threw up?” He laughed at the memory of losing his lunch in the bullpen, though at the time it has been anything but amusing.

“This is serious. At least it is to me. Very serious.”

“A dancing contest?”

“Not the contest per se,” she explained. “It’s what I want to use the prize money for it we win.”

Ryan gave a nod of understanding. “I have my eye on a new car.”

She said nothing for a few moments, then broke the silence. “My grandparents and my father came to America from Cuba on a rickety boat. It took five days to get here, and along the way people died. When they got here, they could speak a little English, but they couldn’t read it. Do you have any idea how hard it is to function when you can’t read?”

Ryan made every effort not to react to her question.

She exhaled loudly. “Of course you don’t. But lots of people do know, and I bet you’d be surprised to learn it’s not just people for whom English is a second language. Plenty of native speakers can’t read. And that’s why I can’t practice with you on Thursday nights. That’s when I teach adults to read at the church. I do it to help just like someone helped my grandparents. That’s why this is serious. If we win, I’ll donate the prize money to that program.”

Well, damn. The silver convertible was far less important by comparison. Shallow, even. Amara was suffering through his bad attitude in an effort to make a real difference in the world. A difference he should make as well.

“Then by all means, let’s go dance,” he said with resolve. “But first let’s do a selfie so I can tweet it.”

He put his arm around Amara’s shoulder and pulled her to his side. “Say tango,” he suggested before snapping the shot and then stepping away to send it to his followers.

“Shall we?” He held out his arm, and after she hooked hers through it, he led her down the street.

After changing their shoes and leaving their everyday ones with the coat check, they made their way toward the music. Amara greeted a few people by name as they wound their way through the large room to an empty table. Ryan took in the crowd – old and young and in between. Obviously this activity was ageless. They sat in silence while several songs played, all the time watching the dance floor, which was full of dancers at all times.

When their competition song began, albeit a different arrangement, Amara tapped his arm.

“Ready?”

His brain screamed no, but it had done the same thing that day in New York when he’d first been tapped to pitch. He nodded and pushed to a standing position. He pulled out Amara’s chair, then held out his hand.

She wore a bright blue dress with a full skirt that hit in the middle of her calf. The neckline was modest, but the body of the dress left none of her curves to the imagination.

As they walked to the dance floor, the skirt swung around her legs. She pulled gently on his hand until they were in the crowd, in dance position and…dancing. He chuckled, and Amara raised an eyebrow in inquiry, never breaking rhythm.

“I’m doing it,” he whispered against her ear. “You were right. The steps came without thinking.”

She sent him an I-told-you-so look, and by the time the song ended, they had travelled twice around the large dance floor. Not one soul had pointed a finger to single him out as a novice. The DJ segued into another tune, again with the now-familiar tango rhythm.

“Again?” Amara asked.

“Why not?” Ryan wasn’t sure what surprised him more – that he was actually dancing or that he enjoyed it. Of course, what part of having a gorgeous woman in your arms wasn’t enjoyable?

When the tune ended and a rapid fire number began, Amara tugged him off the dance floor to their table.

“Salsa?” he asked, leaning close to her so she could hear him over the music.

“That’s the samba. It’s a Carnival dance from Brazil. Jasper’s dancing the samba in the competition.”

They watched as couples bounced to the music’s lively beat. “Should I be glad we didn’t draw this dance?” he asked half jokingly. “I didn’t know all those parts of the body shook, much less that you could shake them in public.”

Amara’s laugh was almost lost in the noisy room. “Yeah? Wait until you see Jasper. His costume is design to maximize the shake factor.”

Ryan shook his head, then pushed away from the table. “I saw a refreshment booth in the lobby. I need something to drink. Can I get you something, too?”

When he returned fifteen minutes later with a bottle of water for her and a candy bar and Styrofoam cup of cola for himself, he found Amara talking to a man he had noticed earlier on the dance floor. He stood out not only for his height, but his dance skills. If he was dancing in the contest, they would have stiff competition.

Amara had warned him, though, not to compare himself to anyone else. However, it was difficult not to feel like he had two left feet in comparison to the man standing before him. He placed the drinks and candy on the table and cleared his throat.

“Ryan Kidd,” she began, “this is Rafael Garza. We used to compete with the same dance team.”

The man held out his hand, and Ryan took it, squeezing a little harder than he should have. If the man noticed, he gave no indication. What the hell was he doing getting into a pissing contest like this? Aside from the childishness of it, he had no right or reason to act territorial around Amara.

“I was telling him about the contest we’re going to be in and—”

“And how you’re saddled with the worst partner imaginable?” he interrupted.

“Actually, she praised your progress,” Rafael replied, his speech slightly accented. “I saw you two dancing earlier and thought you did quite well for a novice.”

Of course Amara wouldn’t be critical of him publicly. She was too professional for that. Even at their rehearsals she had been even-toned with her criticism, and now that he thought about it, she always pointed out something he had done well too.

“She’s quite a good teacher,” Ryan said, jutting his chin in her direction. “I just hope I haven’t been too much of a problem student.” He thought back to the kiss and diverted his gaze to a spot on the floor.

She narrowed her eyes, and for a moment Ryan was afraid she would change her mind and air all his missteps both on and off the dance floor. Then the corners of her mouth turned up slightly, and suddenly he wanted to kiss that hint of a smile.

“No more of a problem student than anyone else who gets drafted against their will to dance the tango.”

He opened his mouth to volley back a retort but was interrupted by the DJ.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the Argentine tango. Grab your partner and get on the dance floor.”

Ryan knew he and Amara wouldn’t dance to that since she had explained the Argentine tango was a different animal.

“Do you remember our competition routine from the finals in Miami?” Rafael asked, holding his hand toward Amara. “Do you mind if I steal your partner for this dance?” he added, staring at Ryan.

Hell yes, he minded, suddenly feeling very possessive. He had no claim on her, however, and he couldn’t reasonably tell the man no.

“Be my guest.” He sank into his chair as Rafael led her away.

Once on the dance floor, Ryan watched as Rafael pulled her closer than the position they used for their tango. Their foreheads touched and his right arm wrapped all the way across Amara’s back, his hand curved around her waist. Her hand cupped the back of his neck. The music was sultry, slow, with a strong beat and a melody carried alternately by guitar and violin.

Rather than moving around the dance floor, the couple stayed in one spot. He guided her back and forth, their footwork complicated and accented by sharp kicks.

The melody rose in intensity, and their movements became more dramatic. Ryan noticed the other couples on the floor had stopped to watch. When the music ended, Amara lay across his outstretched arm, and everyone broke into thunderous applause. Everyone but him. Instead, his jaw was clamped tightly shut. His shoulders were corded from tension, and the empty Styrofoam cup that had held his drink lay crushed on the table.

He flexed his fingers, then moved his jaw and rolled his shoulders to loosen the tensed muscles. His reaction should have surprised him. But he recognized it for what it was – jealousy. Plain old green-eyed jealousy. He wanted to be the man with his arms around Amara. The man with his forehead touched to hers. The man with his hands on her body.

Her body under his in his bed.

“They dance brilliantly,” commented the woman at the next table. “Don’t you agree?”

The only thing Ryan could agree to at the moment was his need to get away from this place.

And maybe put his fist into the man’s face.