Her Perfect Affair by Priscilla Oliveras (20)

If you enjoyed Her Perfect Affair,
be sure not to miss the first book in
Priscilla Oliveras’s Matched to Perfection series,

 

 

Ad executive Tomás Garcia shouldn’t even be thinking about his daughter’s alluring dance teacher, Yazmine Fernandez. Burned by a shattering divorce, he’s laser-focused on his career—and giving his young daughter, Maria, the secure home she deserves. Plus, he’s certain that with her talent, Yaz will be leaving Chicago and heading back to Broadway as soon as she can. But Yaz’s generous spirit and caring concern are sparking a desire Tomás can’t resist—and doesn’t want to let go . . .

 

For Yaz, good-looking workaholics like Tomás simply can’t be part of her life ever again. She owes it to herself to get back her confidence and fulfill the dreams her papá could not. She’s glad to spend time with Maria—and taste the family life she feels she can never have. And she’s sure that she and Tomás can keep their attraction under control because there’s so much at stake. But each unexpected intimacy, each self-revelation, makes the fire between them grow hotter with every step—and every risk to their hearts . . .

 

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The hottest guy to ever hit Oakton, Illinois, lingered outside her dance studio doorway, bringing Yazmine Fernandez to a stutter-step stop.

Seriously, the guy was like manna-from-heaven Latino GQ—from the top of his closely cropped jet-black hair, down his six-foot muscular frame, to the soles of his shiny wing-tip shoes.

Behind her, seven pairs of dancers scrambled to remember the next step in the preschool father-daughter Christmas dance. But Yazmine couldn’t look away.

“Hey, a little help here?” One of the dads waved at her from the back row.

“Sorry.” Yaz listened to the music for several beats, then fell back into step with their “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” routine.

In the studio’s mirror-lined wall she caught the stranger’s flustered scowl. Even frowning, he still made her heart hop-skip in her chest.

Dios mío, she’d obviously neglected her social life for too long. Sure, her dance card had been pretty full with other obligations for nearly eighteen months now, but her lack of partner-dance practice shouldn’t account for the heat prickling her insides. In her line of work, hunky guys were always on the cast list.

Then again, drop an attention-grabbing, well-built man into a room full of suburban soccer dads, and a woman’s thoughts naturally wandered down a road better left untraveled.

Untraveled by her, anyway.

The newcomer’s gaze skimmed across the people in her studio.

Yaz brightened her smile, but he turned away without even noticing her. Disappointed, and strangely self-conscious, she tugged at the bodice of her camisole leotard as she led the group into a jazz square.

The song’s second verse transitioned to the chorus repetition, and Yaz wove through the front line to get a better look at the back row. “Left hand, Mr. Johnson—your other left.”

The dad groaned, his daughter giggling at his exaggerated grimace.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get it.” Yaz peeked over the child’s shoulder to the studio doorway again.

The hunk glared down at his phone, flicking through something on the screen. His mouth thinned as he slid the cell into the pocket of his suit jacket. Yaz’s stomach executed a jittery little sashay.

This guy had to be in the wrong place. No way she’d forget meeting him before at the dance studio.

Yaz dropped her gaze to his left ring finger. Bare.

Not that it should matter to her. She’d learned the hard way it was much better to look than to touch. Especially if a girl didn’t want to get her fingers singed, or her heart flambéed.

Besides, as soon as Papi’s oncologist gave him the all-clear, she’d be on the first direct flight out of Chicago, headed back to New York and Broadway. Nothing would stand in her way this time.

The holiday song drew to a close. Fathers bowed. Daughters curtsied. GQ stepped into her studio.

Anticipation fluttered a million, spastic butterfly wings in her chest. He probably needed directions to another business close by.

Yaz hurried toward him. “Excuse me, do you need some help?”

“Papá!”

Maria Garcia jumped up from her seat on the floor along the back wall, running to fling her arms around the man’s thighs. Everyone else in the class turned at the commotion.

Increíble. Apparently the hunk did belong here. To the usually subdued, adorable five-year-old who’d joined the class in mid-September.

At his daughter’s screech of delight, the worried scowl vanished from the man’s features. Relief and joy surged in. For a moment Yaz bought into his pleasure, savoring the smile that softened his chiseled face with boyish charm.

Then, with the stinging slap of a bitter Chicago wind, Yaz recalled the number of practices Maria’s father had skipped over the past two months—the number of classes when the child had sat alone in the back and the number of times she’d had to partner with Mrs. Buckley, her grandmotherly nanny, because her father had failed to show up as promised. Again.

The attraction searing through Yaz’s body cooled as fast as if she’d dunked herself into an ice bath after a marathon day of rehearsal.

Bendito sea Dios, the prodigal father, more focused on his advertising career than his child, had finally arrived—tardy, of course. Blessed be God, indeed.

“You made it!” Surprise heightened Maria’s high-pitched cry.

“I sure did, chiquita.” Mr. Garcia scooped up his daughter and spun her around, the picture of familial bliss.

Maria grinned with pleasure.

Still, Yaz couldn’t stop remembering the hurt in the little girl’s eyes over the past weeks because of her father’s absences. Legs shaking, she strode to the corner table at the front of the room and jabbed the stop button on her iPod speakers. “Everyone, let’s take a five-minute water break.”

Mr. Garcia and Maria stepped to the side of the room so the other class members could head to the lobby area.

Anger over the weeks of disappointment he’d brought on his daughter pulsed a heavy, deep bass beat in Yaz’s chest. She sucked in what was supposed to be a calming breath and counted to ten. Then twenty.

So much for her brief fantasy of a friendly night out with a hunky stranger. Her first since long before she’d left New York to come home. That definitely wasn’t going to happen. Not with this man.