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Authors: Celia Bonaduce

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Erinn noticed that he said “come work with us,” not “come work with me.”
That says it all, doesn't it?
Erinn stirred her coffee and reached over to pat Caro. She didn't look at Jude and tried to keep her voice steady.
“I can't,” she said. “I'm moving back to New York.”
Jude almost lost hold of his cup, and set it down with a clatter. He put Caro on the floor and looked at Erinn.
“When?”
“Sooner rather than later,” she said.
“Why?”
“Do you remember Lamont?”
“George Washington?”
“Yes, George Washington . . . well, George Washington the first. Or, the first George Washington. Either way, yes. George Washington.”
“You hooked up with Lamont?”
“I'm not sure what you mean by ‘hooking up' . . . I had
lunch
with Lamont! If that qualifies as hooking up, then so be it. Just lunch. With some mutual friends from days gone by. With friends from back in the day, I suppose you'd say.”
“OK . . .”
“When I was visiting my mother, an article ran about me in
Celebrity
. I didn't think anything of it, but apparently, it caused a bit of a sensation. Anyway, our friends—who back Broadway shows—decided that it would be feasible to do a revival of
The Family of Mann
. It looks as if it's going to happen
.”
“Oh,” Jude said, not looking at her. He seemed to be fighting with himself, but Erinn couldn't decide what about. “Don't you want to stay in Santa Monica . . . now that you have a niece?”
Erinn was surprised at the tugging on her heart.
“Well,” she said, “I'll miss seeing her grow up. . . .” Erinn wanted to say, “But my work has to take priority,” but somehow the words wouldn't come.
Finally, he spoke again. “Oh.”
“I thought you would be happy for me,” Erinn said.
“Yeah, you'd think.”
“But you're not?”
Jude stood up. He still wouldn't look at her.
“Does it matter what I think?”
It was Erinn's turn to stare at the table.
“Seriously, Erinn. I'm asking you. Does it matter what I think?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what it is you think.”
“Wow, you can dodge better than Bill Clinton,” Jude said. “Now come on . . . would it matter to you . . . would you consider staying in Los Angeles if I told you that I . . .”
Jude stopped speaking. He absently picked up the camera and wouldn't meet her eye. Erinn wondered if he was stalling for time. He pushed the Rewind button and silently watched the video Erinn had just shot in the park.
The nerve!
She saw his expression change, and she looked over his shoulder to see what he was viewing.
The LCD screen showed the fire at the cabin in Valley Forge. She was sure she had deleted the footage! No, she hadn't! She'd just switched tapes! She couldn't believe she had left this evidence just lying around all these weeks. What if Baby Lizzy had seen it? She leaped for the camera, but Jude blocked her advance easily. He pushed the Play button, and the audio of their energetic lovemaking filled the kitchen.
Caro looked around the room, confused.
Erinn stared at her shoes for a moment, then took her seat. She willed herself to look at him. Jude was contemplating her in return. He shut off the camera. He stood up and started pacing, and Erinn grabbed the camera and pulled it to her as if it were an errant five-year-old throwing a tantrum in the center aisle of a grocery store.
“I think about you all the time, Erinn,” he said quietly. “I think about us. You've changed me. I mean, I know I'm not the smartest tool in the shed. . . .”
“Sharpest tool . . . it's a simile.”
Jude stopped pacing.
“Don't start.”
Erinn held up both arms in surrender. Jude continued to pace.
“But I swear, Erinn, you've changed the way I look at . . . at everything. You've changed the way I think. I'm using the Internet to look stuff up, not just porn.”
Erinn was startled by this admission, but merely shook her head sagely.
“I can't pull quotes out of my ass the way you do,” Jude said. “But I found a quote I really liked.”
Erinn waited. Jude seemed to have run out of steam. He stared out the back window.
“Do I get to hear it?” she asked.
Jude turned to face her.
“Oh, yeah. Sure,” he said. He stared at his shoes. “In the arithmetic of love, one plus one equals everything, and two minus two equals nothing.”
“But,” Erinn said, “two minus two does equal nothing. That's not the arithmetic of love, that's just arithmetic.”
“Aw, shit! I knew I'd blow it. Wait . . . it's one plus one equals . . .”
Erinn glimpsed the video on the LCD screen and memories flooded back. She thought about how alive she'd felt—and how easily she'd slipped back into her old habit of shutting out the world once she got home.
She made an instinctive decision . . . and went with it. She stood up and put her hands on Jude's cheeks.
“Before you venture into calculus,” she said softly, “why don't you just kiss me?”
There was no hesitation. Both of them came to the kiss with an acute longing, as if they were saving each other from drowning. The kiss continued, until Caro, who had leaped up on the counter, roughly patted Jude's backside. Erinn and Jude broke apart and looked at the cat, who seemed to be glaring at Jude.
“Don't worry about him,” Erinn said. “He's just hoping that ‘This too shall pass.' ”
“I hope he has to wait a long time.”
They kissed again. Breathless, they stopped kissing long enough to embrace.
“I wasn't expecting that,” Jude said.
“Nor I.”
“I mean, I was hoping . . .”
“Go to the refrigerator and get some champagne,” Erinn said, fearing words would ruin the moment. She was surprised by this. Words had always been her salvation. “I'll get the glasses. I guess we should celebrate!”
Jude popped the cork and poured the sparkling wine into the flutes in Erinn's hands.
“To what shall we toast?” Erinn asked.
“Dude . . . you're the one with the words.”
“All right then,” she said, raising her glass. “
Coincidence
is the word we use when we can't see the levers and pulleys. To coincidence.”
“I don't know what the hell that means, but I'll drink to it.” Jude kissed Erinn and headed toward the living room. “I'll start a fire—for old times' sake.”
Jude started the fire, and Erinn curled up on the couch. It was dark, but she was loathe to turn on the light; the darkened room was much more evocative of the cabin.
“Just so you know,” Erinn said, “I am smarter than the average bear. I did see the levers and pulleys.”
“What does that mean?” Jude said, as he continued building the fire.
“Just that, unlike you, I was not born yesterday.”
“As you've pointed out a zillion times.”
Caro jumped onto Erinn's lap. She petted the cat contentedly, feeling the warmth of the fire on her face. She closed her eyes and sipped the champagne.
“I don't mean to brag, but I can see plot points when they are literally laid at my feet. I don't have all the pieces, of course, but I'd venture it goes something like this: I'm guessing that you've known I've been in town for a while, but have been lying low . . . until the time was right.
“And why now? Did my sister call you and tell you my defenses were probably down after the shower tonight? Was I supposed to think it was a
coincidence
that you showed up in the park this evening? I'll bet you memorized that little gem about the hugging at the same time you researched quotes on love. Am I right?”
“You're good. I'll give you that.”
Erinn continued to stroke the purring Caro, who was kneading her lap.
“I was secretly hoping she would call you. But I couldn't be sure. I didn't know exactly where you stood, if you know what I mean. But I thought the best I could hope for was—you would let a day or two go by, just for show. I got nervous when I didn't hear from you. But—here you are!”
“You figured it out. Good for you.”
“I wasn't positive at first. But then you mentioned that they called the baby
Lizzy.
Someone would have had to have told you that. So then, I knew I was right.”
She toasted herself.
“And that's all that matters to you, isn't it? That you're right.”
Erinn heard the shift in his tone. Alarmed, she opened her eyes. He was still kneeling by the fire, but he was looking at her. She met his gaze and was alarmed at what she saw.
“No!” she said. “Not at all! It's just that . . .”
“It's just that you have to rub my face in it for this to be truly perfect.”
Jude stood up and headed toward the front door. Erinn jumped up, with Caro in her arms, and followed him to the door.
“No, Jude! My God!”
He reeled on her.
“You know what, Erinn? You
are
always right. You're right that this isn't going to work. What the fuck was I thinking?”
“No . . . I was wrong! I was very wrong. And I'll be wrong again, I promise.”
“Save it. I'm out of here. Have a nice life in New York.”
Jude slammed the door. Erinn tried to blink back tears. Why did she have to humiliate him? He was a wonderful, sensitive man and she'd driven him away. She was alone. She deserved to be alone. There would be no boy-gets-girl ending for her.
She put her head in Caro's fur and wept as the cat drooped sullenly in her arms.
Caro managed to leap out of Erinn's arms when the front door vibrated with a load banging.
“Erinn!” Jude shouted. “Open this door, goddamn it.”
She opened the door.
“I am
not
going to let you drive me away.”
Jude suddenly stopped and stared at her. Erinn drew herself up. She was not going to be confrontational but neither would she beg forgiveness. She had her pride.
God knows, she had her pride. She stared back at him.
“Yes?” she asked.
Jude tried to hide a smile.
“You have cat hair all over your face.”
Erinn, mortified, ran to the mirror, wiping the cat hair away as fast as she could. Jude was howling in the background.
“Stop laughing,” she said. “You've made me the fool.”
“Oh, Erinn, knock it off. You've made your own goddamned self the fool.”
As she finished wiping away her fur-encrusted tears, Erinn spotted her messenger bag. She took a deep breath and dug out her phone.
“Jude, I want to read you something,” she said, quickly scrolling through the phone's functions. “ ‘Dear Jude, Years ago, there was a song that reflects my feelings now . . .' ”
Jude put his hand over hers and snapped the phone shut.
“You don't have to read that to me.”
“I really want you to hear how I feel,” Erinn said, trying to pry the phone open.
“Then just tell me . . . just
talk
to me . . . don't read to me or quote at me.”
Jude pulled her toward him and breathed in the scent of her hair. He took the phone out of her hand and threw it over his shoulder. Erinn heard the phone clatter on the Travertine tile.
“My phone . . .”
Jude's lips traveled the length of her neck.
“You needed a BlackBerry anyway.”
Erinn melted into his embrace. She wasn't sure how much longer her legs would hold her. Jude suddenly pulled her away from him and held her at arm's length.
“Look, Erinn, I don't think you saved the footage from Valley Forge because you wanted to recycle tape. We both know that everything changed that night. You're a supreme pain in the ass, but we can have lots more nights like that.”
“But not tape them.”
“But not tape them,” Jude said. “Well, actually, that tape was pretty hot.”
Erinn looked alarmed, and Jude laughed.
“Chill, Erinn. I'm kidding,” he said, then turned serious. “Listen, if you have your heart set on going to New York, I'll go with you. I'm sure I can get a stupid reality job there, no problem.”
“I'm not going to New York,” Erinn said.
“What? But you just said—”
“They don't need me there. They can start the revival without me. That's a closed chapter. My new life is here.”
Jude brushed away a few of Caro's pewter-colored hairs and kissed Erinn lightly on both eyes.
“Dude,” he said.
“Dude,” she said.
They were jolted out of their kiss by banging in the kitchen. Erinn could make out the voices of Fernando and Carla.
“Yooo-hoooo,” Fernando called.
“Anybody home?” Carla asked.
“I am,” Erinn said, snuggling into Jude's embrace. “I'm home.”
Celia Bonaduce is a producer on HGTV's
House Hunters
.
This is her second novel. She lives in Santa Monica, California,
with her husband in a beautiful “no-pets” building.
She wishes she could say she has a dog.
You can contact Celia at:
www.celiab.name
 
 
 
 
 
If you enjoy the lives and loves of the Wolf sisters,
be sure not to miss Celia Bonaduce's
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE BEACH
 
An eKensington e-book on sale now.
 
 
 
 
 
PROLOGUE
S
uzanna tended to cut herself a lot of slack, but to say she was thinking about stalking a dance instructor put her in a bad light—even to herself.
Her chance encounter with an amazing man who (it turned out) taught dancing definitely needed some spin. She decided to think of it as the universe's way of saying she needed to get into shape.
Suzanna was standing in line behind him at Wild Oats in Venice, California. The first thing she noticed about him was that he didn't have his own grocery bag with him.
Was he actually going to use a store bag
? Suzanna wondered.
He was a rebel—no doubt! She could tell he was gorgeous, even though she could only see him from the back. He had long black curly hair slicked back in a shiny ponytail. Suzanna didn't go for ponytails as a matter of course, but she could have written sonnets to this ponytail.
Except she couldn't write sonnets. But if she could have, she would have.
She tried to stand as close to him as possible, to judge his height. She guessed he was in the almost-six-feet category, and he had broad shoulders. Fernando, her best friend and co-worker, would have been smitten as well. He loved what he called “those lean, long-limbed gods.”
Lean
was a good word, but to Suzanna's ear, it verged on
skinny,
which just wasn't sexy no matter what you called it. But this guy was not skinny. He was flawless. In the old days, she and Fernando would have spent hours giddily agreeing on the perfection of this man. They used to have the same taste in men. But their opinions about almost everything seemed to be going in different directions these days.
The man was wearing a white dress shirt—one that had been professionally laundered. You could have spread butter with the razor-sharp crease in the sleeve. He was also wearing black dress trousers . . . not pants, trousers. Suzanna was impressed. She always thought you could tell a lot about a man by his laundry. Eric, Suzanna's other best friend and other co-worker, probably would have said the guy was trying too hard and looked like Zorro. Suzanna could feel herself becoming irked with Eric for his snide comments, but she pushed the emotions back down. After all, he hadn't actually said that her fantasy man was trying too hard . . .she just figured he would.
What can you expect from a straight man?
There was a large, round security mirror in one corner of the store and Suzanna kept trying to angle herself so she could get a look at his face, but all she managed to do was knock over a display of organic oatmeal cookies. By the time she had finished paying for her groceries, he was gone. She sprinted, as casually as possible, into the parking lot, but he was nowhere to be found. Dejected, she hopped on her bicycle and headed out of the parking lot.
And that's where fate took a turn.
He hit Suzanna with his car.
Suzanna was sprawled on the ground, trying to catch her produce as it rolled by. She knew the man must be horrified by what had just transpired, even though he didn't get out of the car. He just opened his door and leaned out. Suzanna noted the BMW insignia on the hood. It was an older model, but very well-maintained, she noticed. She smiled at him to let him know that she was fine, but he didn't smile back.
He's just hit me with his car. Maybe he thinks it would be rude to look like he's taking the situation lightly.
Once Suzanna was on her feet, she realized he was as handsome as she'd imagined: deep-set, smoldering eyes and a slightly bored look. She was impressed that he could manage to look bored even though he had just hit somebody with his car.
Nerves of steel.
She walked over to the car window, showing off her hearty good health. By this time he had gotten fully back into the car, but he handed her his card and said in a mysterious accent:
“Call me if there is a problem.”
And he drove off. She stared at the card. It had no name on it, just DIAGNOSIS: Dance! and the studio's address and telephone number.
Suzanna stared after the car.
She was shaken
and
stirred.
PART ONE
VENICE BEACH
CHAPTER 1
S
uzanna knew she was out of her element as soon as she walked up to the dance studio. She couldn't help but compare the place to her own little run-down business on the other side of town. Her combination tea shop and bookstore was her pride and joy. Or the bane of her existence, depending on her mood. The place could have subbed as a location for
Fried Green Tomatoes: The Sequel.
A location scout had actually asked Suzanna about it. While the tea shop sat smack on the rundown boardwalk in Venice Beach, DIAGNOSIS:Dance! was on more ritzy Main Street—uptown in every sense of the word. Maybe not as uptown as Santa Monica, but Main Street was the best Venice had to offer.
As she walked into the dance studio, the wooden floors gleamed at her and the disco balls suspended from the ceiling threw off sparks of promise. The mirrors—the endless walls and walls of mirrors—showed nary a ghost of a fingerprint. Suzanna sneaked a peek at her reflection because, in all honesty, there was no escaping her reflection. She became instantly aware of the little muffin top peeking out between her T-shirt and jeans.
I look like someone who could use some dance lessons.
She hovered in the back of the studio and checked out the dancers as casually as she could. Some of them were clearly professionals, but Suzanna was relieved to see there were others who seemed like regular people . . .just ordinary folks who'd decided they needed to dance. Except even the regular people were beautiful. Everybody was in shape. Everybody had perfect hair. Even the janitor and the staff were fabulous. She could feel her nerve ebbing away.
Suzanna eyed the front door.
Too late for a graceful exit?
She started to leave, but caught sight of the gorgeous dance instructor from the Wild Oats entering through her escape route. He took her breath away, and she doubled her resolve to become a dancer as he glided past. She inhaled his exotic cologne, an intoxicating blend of lavender, peppermint, roasted coffee, tonka bean, and chocolate. Being raised in Napa Valley and running a tea shop gave Suzanna an edge when it came to identifying scents. She tried to focus, looked around, and located the front desk. She was determined to speak to a Beautiful Person in person.
This is going to be worse than signing up at a gym. That's not true. I don't think they are going to weigh me at the dance studio.
Dancers were swirling around in gaspingly ethereal pairs as she beat a path to the front desk. She felt like a colossus bushwhacking her way through gracefully swaying weeping willows.
The Beautiful Person looked up from her computer, looked at Suzanna, and screamed.
No, she didn't. But Suzanna was braced for it, and when it didn't happen, she was grateful for the woman's tiny benevolence. The Beautiful Person was so fragile, she appeared to be made out of lace. She looked like a faerie.
Suzanna started to swell.
“May I help you?” the faerie inquired in a whisper.
“I'm thinking of taking some dance lessons,” Suzanna whispered back, trying to keep her feet on the ground. She was swelling so much, she was sure her feet wouldn't stay there for long.
“Private or group?”the faerie continued. Her voice was so wraithlike that Suzanna could barely hear her, even though Suzanna reckoned her ears might be clogged from the swelling. She didn't know which.
The faerie tactfully ignored the fact that Suzanna appeared to be ingesting several canisters of helium. The studio was a business, and Suzanna guessed the girl had seen all kinds. Suzanna knew about that. She owned a business herself.
Suzanna tried to keep her eyes from squeezing shut—the pressure was awful. She felt as if she were about to tip sideways and float to the ceiling, a bouncing, bloated gargoyle looking down on the Beautiful People below.
She hated when this happened. Eric and Fernando always insisted that she wasn't really bloating and floating, but Suzanna thought they were probably just being polite.
The first time she had what she referred to as a “panic swell,” she was in junior high school and madly in love with a boy named J. Jay. They had a drama class together and were cast opposite each other as the leads in
Romeo and Juliet
. In rehearsal one day, Suzanna was standing on a ladder that was serving as the balcony and looking down at J. Jay, with his blond hair and blue eyes. She poured her heart into the dialogue, trying to convey that this was not just Shakespeare talking, but her—Suzanna. She infused adolescent passion into every syllable:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite . . .
I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!
Wildly in character, she turned on the ladder to determine what noise she was hearing from within, and
bammo,
she bumped down the ladder and fell to the floor in a heap. A gasp rose, in unison, from the other kids. As soon as it was clear that she was not dead, this being junior high the gasp turned into suppressed giggles and predictable guffaws. This was not the end of her humiliation, however. A collective gasp once again filled the auditorium as she picked herself up off the floor. She looked around at all the kids laughing and pointing, and that's when she started her first panic swell.
It started, as always, in her ears. She could no longer hear the kids laughing, making it doubly hard to determine what was so hilarious. Then, her body started to expand as the kids continued to point and the full weight of what was going on became clear...
The straps of her training bra had somehow come loose on her descent into hell, and her bra was circling her waist. At this point, she had liftoff. Her toes could no longer stay on the ground. She floated to the ceiling and bounced along the tiles until she managed to pull her shirt over the offending undergarment. To add insult to injury, J. Jay was leading the pack in their hilarity. Suzanna prayed that she would be able to stay on the ceiling forever, but suddenly,
pop!—
she was back on the ground, pretending to find the whole thing hysterically funny.
Suzanna pretended to laugh. Then she pretended to laugh harder. In the kill-or-be-killed world of junior high, Suzanna came up with one of her lifelong survival skills. In times of severe humiliation and mortification, she would laugh so hard it looked like she was crying. That way, when she
was
crying, no one could tell that her heart had been broken into a million pieces. It was really very effective, not to mention a great cover. It was something that she used many, many times in her life.
She recommended this approach to Fernando, who took it with a grain of salt—he had no problem weeping copiously when he was unhappy—and to Eric, who disregarded it. Suzanna thought grimly that she'd had to use this strategy when it came to Eric more than once in her life and that perhaps things would have turned out differently if he hadn't ignored it.
Through swollen eyes, she looked around the studio and saw that the dancers all seemed to be having private sessions. She thought of the hot dance instructor and how much fun it would be to have his entire focus. Even though she would, of course, have to pay for his complete focus.
Would it feel like going to a dancing prostitute?
But dancing was a wholesome, healthful activity . . . she wouldn't really be a “john,” would she? Another possible plus: a private lesson would lower the risk of public humiliation.
“Private or group?” the faerie inquired again, sounding a little less serene.
Suzanna tried to steady her voice so that she sounded normal; the panic swell brought an elevated timbre to her voice.
“Private . . . I guess.”
“Great! They are $120 a lesson.”
The faerie beamed up at Suzanna, and
pop!—
she was back on the ground.
“Did I say private? I meant group.”
What's a little more public humiliation anyway? I mean, after the bra incident, I'm a veteran.
“Groups are great, too,” squeaked the faerie. “We have several different classes. Salsa, ballroom, tap . . .”
“Wow . . . so much to choose from.”
“Level?” the faerie asked, switching gears.
Suzanna was momentarily stumped, but noticed a small anteroom at the studio, where a class was being taught by her handsome dance instructor. He didn't notice her staring as he whirled on assured feet and with his alluring hips.
‘Who is . . . what is that class?” Suzanna asked.
“That's beginning salsa.”
Watching the dance instructor in action, Suzanna felt remarkably . . . inspired.
“I'm a beginner,” she said. “And I am going to start with salsa.”
Suzanna rummaged through her purse and pulled out a credit card. She held it out to the faerie and then snatched it back. Her roommate, co-worker and co-best friend, Eric, in the midst of earning his business degree, had made their method of paying for things so elaborate that she could never keep her credit cards straight. She pulled out another card and handed it over. Suzanna took her receipt and looked at it with pride. She was signed up for classes on Monday nights at seven-thirty.
The faerie breathed, “You don't have to limit yourself to Monday evenings. You can come whenever you want. There are continuous salsa classes here and you can take any of them.”
Suzanna felt all warm inside, as if the dance studio wanted to become her second home.
Classes were $15 a session (what a bargain!). The faerie told Suzanna to wear comfortable clothing and, if she were really serious about this, to get dance shoes. This sounded like sage advice: the faerie knitted her tiny brow when she said it. Suzanna stared mutely at her. Dance shoes. She should get dance shoes. But Suzanna had absolutely no idea what that meant.
Shoes in which I will dance, perhaps?
As Suzanna continued to ponder the mystery of dance shoes, the faerie slid a brochure toward her. Suzanna opened it. It was from a store called Dante's Dancewear, where she could buy dance shoes. She choked when she saw the prices. There was nothing in the catalog for less than $130! Maybe she'd see about buying them later, when she was more in the swing of things.
Suzanna thanked the faerie and let her know in no uncertain terms that she would see her Monday, lest she think Suzanna a quitter. She slipped the brochure into her purse and headed toward the door, where she collided with her dance instructor.
“Oh, hi,” she said. “We always seem to be running into each other.”
The dance instructor blinked languidly at her.
“I'm going to start taking salsa lessons with you,” she added.
He looked at her feet.
“Bring the right shoes.”
Quivering from her encounter, Suzanna left the studio and the beautiful dancers behind, happy and terrified that she and her new dance shoes—which were now definitely part of the agenda—would be joining their ranks in a few short days.
Suzanna had never been much of a shoe girl. Even during the
Sex and the City
years, she couldn't imagine hobbling along the mean streets in four-inch heels. Plus, an upbringing in Napa in the eighties and early nineties didn't really lend itself to shoe lust. Napa was a big jeans-and-T-shirt kind of valley. The only place more casual than Napa, as far as Suzanna knew, was Hawaii. She had a friend from there who said he wore flip-flops and shorts every day all the way through high school. The school made the students wear long pants and closed shoes for graduation. Suzanna wondered if they had ever even heard of dance shoes in Hawaii.
It was evening and Suzanna had the bench outside the little library on Main Street to herself. She pulled out her dance shoes catalog and smoothed it open on her lap. She had stopped at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, ordered a Moroccan Mint Tea Latte, and poured it carefully into her bright-red travel mug. She wasn't exactly hiding the fact that she drank tea from a corporate chain, but she knew that many of her own customers would be more than a little surprised—and judgmental—if they knew she patronized such a place when she owned a tea shop herself.
One of Suzanna's little rebellions (and secrets) was that she loved the Bean. Suzanna knew there was no way to whip up those chemical-infused concoctions in her traditional space, but it was always fun to slip off to the Bean and sample whatever new, weird thing was being offered. She hadn't been in love with the Strawberry Crème tea, but, honestly, this chocolate-mint concoction was delicious . . . and the pomegranate-blueberry latte was a keeper.
Suzanna thought about her other secret. She had never kept anything from the guys before, and deciding to keep these salsa lessons on the down-low made her feel both guilt-ridden and exhilarated. Sort of like Diane Lane in
Unfaithful
, when she'd slept with Olivier Martinez and was horrified and proud of herself at the same time. Suzanna flushed. She knew just how Diane Lane's character felt. Powerful, for the first time in ages. Alive. Taking a chance, no matter what anybody thought. Ready for a change.
But too chicken to say it.
Taking a long, soothing sip, she thumbed through the dance shoes catalog, already feeling as if she'd been accepted into a secret club.
I am one with the dance world . . . or I will be when I settle on some shoes.
There was much to absorb. There were ballroom shoes, jazz shoes, tap shoes, and various rounded-toe versions of athletic shoes. Suzanna immediately discarded the jazz and tap shoes as they were footwear for avenues she was sure she was not (at this time) prepared to dance down. She was drawn to the athletic shoes, but something told her that these were not going to fly in the steamy world of Latin dancing. She didn't think athletic shoes were what the instructor had in mind when he sneered at her feet. Next, Suzanna rejected the ballroom shoes. They were too fancy, too high, too Beyoncé.

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