“You look so fine in a fancy shirt,” Henley says, running a red fingernail down the buttons of my navy blue shirt. “And this is perfect for class.”

Shockingly, I’ve never taken a dance class, so I asked Google what to wear, and this is the result. Nice jeans and a dress shirt.

More importantly, Henley is impressed both with my clothes and that somehow I don’t suck as a dance partner. She doesn’t, either.

“You’re not terrible at all.”

She shrugs. “I’m a fast learner.”

It’s a beginner’s class, and I’m eminently grateful for that. I’m even more grateful that Henley wears a skirt, a little flouncy purple one that spins when I spin her, showing off her fishnet stockings. Her arms are bare, on display in a silky tank top.

“Break forward with the left foot. Rock back on the right,” the instructor tells us, and with intense concentration etched in her eyes, Henley moves in time to the music.

I do something that possibly could be called that, if one was generous.

“You’re doing great,” she says.

“You lie.”

She giggles as she threads her fingers tighter in mine. So far, I’ve learned that salsa isn’t one of those dances where you can just hold her waist and she ropes her arms around your neck. Nope. My right hand rests on her back, and my left hand is raised between us.

“Fine,” she says, sarcastically. “You’re doing great for a big, brutish, bearish guy who’s covered in motor oil all day.”

“Hey. Watch that mouth,” I say, staring at the red of her lips. “I’m completely adept at washing off all the grease that makes me dirty.” When I dip her, her hair waterfalls along her back. “And you like me dirty.”

When I pull her back up, she curls her fingers over my shoulder. “Dirty and clean.”

“And you wonder why I’m addicted to the tub and shower,” I say, as we move around in the midst of other couples. About a dozen pairs of dancers fill the room, and since none are Fred and Ginger, I don’t feel too bad about my lack of skills. Besides, I’m holding my own at the most important job—being her partner so that no one else can be.

“Is that your deep, dark secret, Max?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “An addiction to soap?”

“I have a whole array of them. Many flavors, many kinds.”

She makes a purring sound. “You lure me with hot chocolate. Now you try to entice me with yummy-smelling soaps.”

As the couples in the room execute spins, I follow suit. Her skirt twirls up as she turns, and I yank her back to me in time to the music. “Did I say I was luring you back?”

She gives me a pout. “Fine. I don’t want to see your soaps. I don’t want to smell them. I don’t want to get in the shower with you and run my hands down your naked, wet chest,” she says, punctuating those last few words so sexily that my dick has no choice but to betray me.

She knows it, too, because she presses her body against me, so my erection presses against her hip. I suck in a breath as she grins at me like the cat that has eaten the canary’s whole damn family then finished them off with a dish of cream.

The instructor says something about a wave, and out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman near us sort of undulate her backside against her partner. Henley does the same, but with her front pressed to me.

“Good,’’ I grit out, loving our game, loving that it doesn’t seem to stop. “I don’t want you under the hot shower, where these big, brutish, bearish hands would wash your gorgeous hair. Want to know why I don’t want you there?”

She raises her chin, that defiant little gesture that is so her, and such a turn-on. “Why?”

“Because I’d lift you up, wrap your legs around my hips, and make you feel so fucking good you’d cry out my name again.”

The smallest little hiss of breath escapes her ruby-red lips. I want to catch that sound in my cupped hands. Catch it, record it, play it back. It’s the same sound she made the night I first kissed her. I want to kiss her so badly right now.

But the game continues. Her eyes turn to slits again, and she digs her fingers into my shoulders as we follow the music once more. “It’s a good thing you won’t do that, because then I won’t get into your bed after, and let you wrap your big, brutish, bearish body around me.”

“I’d hate that,” I say with a sneer. I squeeze her fingers tighter. She squeezes back.

“I could tell.” She moves her body even closer to me. “You’d detest every second of it.”

“Every single second.” I stare into her eyes as flames lick up my chest. I’m not sure if it’s the heat from the room or the blaze between us. Maybe both. Maybe everything. “I don’t want you back there tonight. Under the covers in my king-size bed.”

She shakes her head as she licks her lips. “I’d hate feeling you against me all night long in that big comfy bed.”

I try to stifle a groan. I want her so much. I want her in my shower. I want her in my bed. I want her to spend the night with me. And as she shimmies her hips, and we try mightily to salsa dance, it’s so patently clear to me that I don’t just want her with me so I can sleep with her. I want her with me so I can be with her.

I press my forehead to hers and say her name. “Henley.”

It’s a relief to say it like this. No teasing. No agenda.

She raises her hand and brushes her fingers through my hair. I sigh because it feels so good. It feels even better when she brings her mouth to my ear and whispers my name. It sounds different now. This isn’t how she says it when she’s mad, when she teases, when she flirts, or when she comes.

It’s new, and it’s warm, and it feels like a shot of liquid gold in my heart. I need her to spend the night with me again. She has to know the “I don’t want you in my bed” routine means “the only thing I want is for you to stay the night.”

But I freeze when the instructor drops his hand on her shoulder.

“Very nice work,” he says, and it’s like he appeared out of nowhere. I pull back so I’m not so obscenely close to her.

“Thank you, Marco.”

Marco is tall, trim, and toned. His hair is dark, and Henley was right—he has that Latin lover look about him. I clench my fists.

“You have a good partner,” he says to her, then he turns to me. “Good work for a first class. It is not easy when a man has to both lead and show off a woman’s skills. You did well.”

“Thank you,” I say, deciding I don’t hate him.

“Will we see you again?”

I meet Henley’s eyes, searching for the answer in them. She offers a small shrug then the most perfect answer when she says, “I hope so.”

I hope so, too.

But as he walks away, something about what Marco said sticks with me for the rest of the class. Show off a woman’s skills.

That’s what I tried to do with Creswell and David earlier today. That’s what I tried to do tonight. But it’s something I failed at five years ago.

I failed because of what’s happening here now. Because of what’s been happening ever since I met this woman. I’m so attracted to her it’s clouded my mind. It’s messed with my judgment. I’d like to think I did the right thing by never saying a word, by choking down all these feelings when she worked for me.

But I might have done her a disservice.

When class ends, I take her hand and ask her to get a drink with me at the hotel bar. After we order, she tilts her head inquisitively. “Hey, you okay? You look serious.”

I rub a hand across the back of my neck. “I was thinking about the Mustang Fastback.”

She sighs. “The Mustang. The stupid Mustang. Can we move on? I messed up the color. You got pissed that I didn’t listen. I got upset. You didn’t promote me. I got mad and assumed it was because I was a woman. We fought. I lost my temper and called you names. You fired me. Here we are.”

I nod, agreeing with the basic facts. “Yes, that’s all true. But I don’t think I was fair to you.”

She blinks, as if I’ve just said I want to snowshoe naked in Central Park tonight. Maybe my comment is that unusual. “What do you mean?”

I swallow. My throat is dry. I grab the water glass the bartender brought to me. “This thing,” I say, pointing from her to me.

“Yeah?” she asks cautiously.

“I felt it long before the Challenger. Long before the car show. I felt it the second I met you.”

The look in her eyes tells me it is stranger than snowshoeing in the park. I’ve just said I want to cartwheel down Fifth Avenue.

“You did?” she asks, as if she’s testing out speech for the first time.

“I was attracted to you literally in an instant. It never stopped. It never went away.”

“You never let on when we worked together.”

“Good,” I say, somewhat relieved. “I wanted to do the right thing and be your mentor. I wanted to teach you everything I knew and help you become the best.”

“You did teach me. You were incredible.”

“And so were you. But what I’m trying to say is it became difficult near the end, and that’s not fair to you. I wanted you so much, and I didn’t realize this at the time, but when I gave you the assignment on the Mustang, I should have made sure I helped you more. I should have made sure it was done properly. I should have checked in with you and double-checked that you’d taken the codes down properly and that we were on the same page. Instead, I fucking left because it was so hard being near you. I didn’t even call while I was out of town to check on the work.”

“Max,” she says softly, her hand wrapping around my arm, “I made a mistake. I thought you said one thing when you said another. Besides, I think lime gold is ugly. I couldn’t imagine he wanted lime gold, so in my mind I figured it was champagne gold, and that’s what I painted the car. And that’s a big mistake because it takes a ton of work to strip it down and do it over.”

I sigh. “I should have been more involved. I should have made sure it was all clear. Instead, I barked instructions, and I just left. All I could think about was escaping the way I felt for you.”

She shakes her head. “I was hotheaded. I was stubborn. I was young. I was so damn sure that was what the client wanted. Don’t blame yourself.” Then she winks. “Entirely.”

I shake my head and grip her shoulders. “Don’t you get it? I take my time with the guys. I’m patient. I teach them. I make sure they know what they’re doing. I tried so fucking hard to do that with you, but the day I gave you the job I was looking at you in your jeans and your blue work shirt, and all I could think was how much I wanted you, and I had to get away from you.”

She tries to rein in a laugh.

“Why are you laughing at me? I don’t want to treat you any differently. You’re supposed to hate me. You’re supposed to hate me because you want to be respected. You don’t want to be treated differently, and I did treat you differently that time. And then I came back to town, and I was pissed.”

She laughs even more, and it’s the same sound as the other night. That sound like bells. It fucking hooks into me. It’s doing something to me. Everything about her is like a charm, from the way she dissects magic acts, to worshipping my tub, to needling me, to letting me into her warm blanket cocoon.

“I’m laughing because, fine, maybe you could have checked in and maybe you could have been a better teacher at times, but . . . C’mon. We’re not talking sexual harassment here. You gave me an assignment, and I completely botched it. And it cost you time and money. And then I lost my cool. Do you not remember the drama queen I was?” she asks, tapping her chest. No, she’s stabbing it. “I parked my hands on my hips and called you a cruel bastard. You want to talk about inappropriate behavior? I engaged in it, too.”

The knot of tension in me loosens. “You were kind of hotheaded and stubborn,” I say under my breath.

“And you were kind of a cruel bastard,” she says, playfully.

“So we were both kind of jerks?”

She laughs. “Total jerks. I think it’s safe to say, looking back, that we both could have handled our little work tiff differently. But it’s behind us. Okay? Let’s keep it there.”

“Sounds like a fair deal.”

She gives me a coy look. “But you were kind of a dick,” she says playfully. “And now I know why.” She leans closer and taps her fingers against my chest. “Because you wanted me.” She says it like a taunt, a little song you sing to egg someone on.

“I did. I wanted you then. I wanted you when I saw you at the show. And I want you now.”

“You wanted me then. You still want me now,” she says, and she’s singing again.

“Is this a new bubble-gum pop song?”

“Yes. I’m going to commission it to Belinda, and we’ll make gobs of money off it.” She shakes her hips and croons. “He wanted me then. He still wants me now.”

I roll my eyes, but I let her give it to me. Because I deserve it, and because she’s not mad. Because she’s singing a forgiveness tune.

“So we can move past the Mustang?”

Her lips curve up. “We already have. We’re past the Mustang. We’re onto the Lambo. Why don’t we talk about what car we’re driving to Milford tomorrow? That’s the car we should focus on.”

I lean against the counter as the bartender brings our drinks. I toss a twenty on the black metal and thank him. “I’ve got a black sports car I built myself—”

She cuts me off. “I would hope you built it yourself. You’re not impressing this car girl unless I know these hands made it from the ground up.” She reaches for my hand and slides her fingers through mine.

“And I have a Triumph TR6. Don’t tell the other cars, but the Triumph is my favorite, even though I didn’t build it myself. I added safety features and rebuilt the important parts, though, as in new electrical.”

“So it doesn’t blow up?”

I laugh, loving that she knows her cars. “I thought that would be a good feature—blow-up resistant. Plus, it has a hot new paint job.”

Her jaw drops, and she fans herself. “Color? What color?” She sounds as if she’s hyperventilating.

I bring my mouth to her ear and whisper as if I’m telling her what I want to do to her when I take her home. “It’s electric blue.”

She moans. It’s filthy and beautiful, and I want to hear that sound twenty more times tonight. Then tomorrow. Then the next night.

“Pick me up at two.” She nibbles her lip, and adds, “And there’s something I wanted to—”

I’m ready to tell her I don’t need to pick her up tomorrow because she’s staying with me tonight, but her phone beeps.

“Crap,” she mutters, as she grabs it from her purse.

She points to it. “John.”

I wave, letting her know to take the call.

“Hey there!” Her voice is bright and cheery. “How’s everything going?”

She pauses, and I take a drink of my Scotch.

“Oh yeah? We can talk about all that. I’m totally up for it.”

Another pause, and I arch an eyebrow.

“Absolutely.” Then she laughs, and it’s the same damn way she laughed with me. The goblin rears its head again. Stupid jealousy tornadoes through me.

I try to tell myself the woman is allowed to laugh with her fucking boss.

Boss.

Boss.

Boss.

That word reverberates.

That’s what I was to her once upon a time.

“We can meet tonight. I’ll be there shortly.”

She hangs up, and my heart fucking falls out of my chest. It lands on the floor in a discarded, depressed heap. She grabs her mojito, takes a thirsty gulp, then gives me a guilty smile.

“I’m sorry. I can’t stay. I have to take care of this.”

“Sure,” I say, keeping my chin up. “It’s business. He’s your boss.”

She nods. “I’ve just got to finish—”

I wave a hand. “Go. Take care of it. I’ll pick you up at two.”

She stands up from the barstool. “Sorry.” Then she leans closer and dusts her lips to my cheek. “Thank you for dancing with me tonight.”

When she leaves, I’m the sucker alone at the bar, watching the most beautiful girl walk away.

In some other story, I’d chase her. But I already told her how I felt, and whatever she was about to tell me was cut off when John called.

That name echoes in my head. John Smith. The other night she said she didn’t get involved with anyone in the business except for one time.

I’ve tried hard to not get involved with anyone in the business. Ever. The only time . . .

I didn’t push her to find out who he was. But could it be him? The guy she’s rushing off to meet at nine p.m. after we practically promised on the dance floor to spend the night together? After I told her I’ve always been attracted to her?

I grip the glass tighter, and when I look down, my knuckles are nearly white.

I set the glass on the bar and leave.