Dancing Shoes and Honky-Tonk Blues (13 page)

“Why, thank you.” My heart swells a bit more. “Night, Jesse.” I flip the phone shut, ending the call before I burst into tears and upset him. Jesse can’t stand to see Mama or me cry. With a shaky sigh I lean back and stare at the small phone for a moment. “They’re proud of me,” I whisper. “Well, whadaya know?” I realize that I’m the daughter and the big sister, so their love is unconditional, but pride? See, I’ve never really excelled at something special the way most kids do. I sucked at sports and my grades were average at best. I don’t play a musical instrument and my singing voice could make a grown man weep. I actually mouth the hymns instead of singing in church. In other words I have no talent whatsoever.

I work hard and I’m quick with a smile or a joke but other than that I go pretty much unnoticed in Misty Creek. Sure, I’m aware that I’ve recently blossomed into some curves that turn male heads but I still feel like the geeky old me, so to hear Jesse say that he and Mama are proud of me makes me get all choked up. “Oh . . . bless their hearts.” I burst into noisy tears,
so
noisy that at first I don’t hear the knocking at my door.

“J-just a m-minute,” I try to yell, sounding sort of garbled. While sniffing and swiping at my eyes I head over to the door and peek through the peephole. Rio? I glance down at my Pink Panther oversized sleep shirt that has a little yellow mustard stain from eating cheese-filled pretzel bites in bed and wish I was wearing something slinky and sexy with my hair flowing in silky disarray instead of pulled back into a sloppy ponytail but then remind myself for the hundredth time not to think of him in that way! After inhaling another shaky breath I tug the door open and attempt a smile.

I fail.

“My God, what’s wrong?”

“Whatever do you mean?” I try again to muster up a bright smile but it trembles at the corners, ruining the effect.

“Have you been crying?”

“Why, no.”

He gives me a disbelieving frown.

“Only a little.” I step back for him to enter the room and then play with the hem of my sleep shirt.

“Right.” He gives me an I-don’t-believe-it-for-a-minute look.

“It’s no big deal.”

“Sure it is,” he insists and takes a step closer to me.

Really? Hope blossoms. Does he really care? Unable to help myself I give him the once-over. Instead of his usual dance attire he’s in faded, low-slung jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt. His long dark hair is damp like he’s just recently showered and man oh man, he smells good . . . like mango and spice.

“Tell me about what’s bothering you.”

Feeling silly I shake my head.

“Abby, your emotional state will have an effect on how you perform. Now, please, tell me what’s bothering you. Are you nervous about the rehearsal at the dance hall tomorrow?”

My hope fades like a shooting star falling from the sky. When will I understand that this is all about winning with Rio? I’m his student, end of story.

“Abby?” He takes a step closer and puts a gentle finger beneath my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“It’s just a little touch of homesickness, that’s all. I promise it won’t mess up my dancing.”

“Is that
all
?” He searches my face for clues and if I didn’t know better I would swear that he cares.

I so want to lean my face into the palm of his hand but instead I step back from his touch and nod. “Yeah, that’s all.”

He clears his throat and jams his hands into his pockets. “So, are you missing anyone in particular?”

His question surprises me. “You mean like . . . a guy?” Hope rears its ugly head again.

Looking a bit uncomfortable he clears his throat. “Yes, and whoever he is you need to forget about him and focus.”

“There’s no guy, Rio.”

“Oh.” He looks so relieved that I have to smile. Looking a little flustered he says, “Good. You don’t need that kind of distraction.”

I peer at him closely, wishing I knew if he meant this strictly on a professional basis, but of course I don’t have the nerve to ask. “Right. Um, why are you here at this late hour?”

Instead of answering he seems distracted by my attire. He glances at my Pink Panther shirt and his mouth twitches in amusement.

“It was a Christmas gift,” I explain.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed. I think it’s, ah, how do you say? . . . cute.”

Cute. Right. I’m beginning to hate that word. To my horror I feel my eyes well up. God, he’s going to think I’m a crazy person. Maybe I am.

“What’s wrong, Abby?”

“I told you. I have a touch of homesickness.”

“Bull. Be honest with me.”

I hesitate, thinking that honesty is
not
the best policy, but then blurt out, “Okay . . . maybe I don’t want to be
cute
. Maybe I want to be—” Luckily I stop myself but he looks at me expectantly.

“Maybe you want to be
what
?”

“Nothin’,” I insist but I can tell by his expression that he’s not going to give this one up, so I continue in a very small voice, “Sexy.”

“Sexy?” Rio angles his head at me for a second and then does something I didn’t think possible. He bursts into a fit of laughter. At first I think it’s kind of cool that Rio can cut loose and laugh like that since I didn’t think he had it in him, but then it hits me that he’s laughing
at
me! So of course I shove him. Well, okay, I
don’t
shove him but I want to and I sort of imagine it in my head. Instead, I stand there with my hands fisted at my sides and try to at least muster up a glare but it’s darned hard to do while blinking back tears.

“Why are you looking at me like you want to smack me?”

“Well, let me think. Oh yeah, because I
do.
”

“Why?”

“Because you’re . . . laughing at me, Rio.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Uh . . .
yeah.
Your huge guffaws were a big clue.”

Sobering, he shakes his head and bravely takes a step into smacking range. “Abby, I’m not laughing
at
you. I happen to find the fact that you don’t consider yourself sexy quite amusing.”

“Really?”

“Why must you always doubt yourself?”

Not knowing how to answer I just shrug.

“I’ve as much as told you so. You
are
a desirable,
sexy
woman, Abby, and we will use that to our advantage on the dance floor.”

My heart sinks a bit and I look down at the shaggy brown carpet. “Oh, so . . . you mean that I’m sexy in like a general observation kind of way?” I know I’m fishing again but I just can’t seem to stop my wayward tongue.

“Yes,” he begins but then hesitates before growling, “No,
hell no.
”

Of course my head snaps to attention and I wait for him to explain.

“Abby . . .
listen.
”

Oh, that firm tone didn’t sound good but I say hopefully, “I’m all ears.”

“Hardly.” He gives me a look that once again sets my panties on fire . . . Oh, but then I remember that I’m not wearing any panties beneath my sleep shirt. Or a bra. Holy cow, does he know? I swallow hard and my gaze locks with his. I’m acutely aware of the bed directly behind me. His gaze flicks in that direction and I’m thinking . . .
so is he.

“Rio . . .” My voice sounds like a husky invitation and perhaps it’s because he closes the gap between us so that we’re almost touching. I can feel the heat of his body, smell that tang of his aftershave, and I so want him to touch me.

A muscle jumps in his clenched jaw as if he’s fighting his own feelings in that same direction. Closing his eyes he inhales a deep breath. “Ah . . . Abby.”

Unable to help myself I reach out and put the palms of my hands on his chest. Beneath the thin cotton I feel his heartbeat, his warm body, and I suddenly imagine his bare skin sliding next to mine. “Rio . . .”

His eyes open but he shakes his head harder. “Abby, we shouldn’t do this.”

“I know. But then why are you here, Rio?”

“I came armed with the flimsy excuse that I needed to see the color of your costume so I could match my sash.”

“Excuse for what?” My heart begins pounding like a jackhammer.

“For this.” Rio wraps his arms around me and captures my mouth in a tender kiss that has my toes curling into the shaggy carpet. Instead of hot and wild this kiss is long and languid as if he’s savoring something that he knows must end. But when I feel his lips begin to pull away I thread my fingers through his cool, damp hair and hold his mouth captive.

With a groan of surrender Rio deepens the kiss and when his tongue touches mine a jolt of heat has me melting into his embrace. He tastes like mint and I think to myself that maybe he really did have kissing me on his mind. I find this so endearing that right here and now I fall a little in love with Rio Martin.

After kissing me so tenderly that my heart aches Rio pulls away and leans his forehead against mine.
“Yo no puedo creer que haga esto.”

“I don’t know what you said but it sure sounded pretty.”

“Ah, Abby, I said that I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Oh. Well, I guess it wasn’t so pretty after all,” I try to joke to hide my sharp stab of disappointment.

He chuckles and then steps back to look at me. “
Yo le encuentro irristable.
”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“You’re irresistible,” he says and then puts a finger to my lips. “Don’t you dare say,
really
?” His imitation of my southern drawl makes me chuckle even though I know where he’s going with this.

“I’m hearing a great big
but
, Rio.”

“Oh, Abby,” he says sadly and traces my bottom lip with his fingertip, giving me a hot shiver. I wish I had the nerve to suck his finger right into my mouth but I don’t. “Getting romantically involved with your dance partner can be a disaster.”

When his brown eyes darken with what looks like hurt I have to ask, “Was this from personal experience?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replies and I wonder if his sadness has anything to do with the dark-haired woman in the dance tapes with him, but my southern upbringing has me too polite to ask.

“I shouldn’t have come here. Shouldn’t have kissed you.” He blows out a sigh. “But as I was trying to choreograph our next dance all I could
think about
was kissing you. I thought if I came here and did just that I could get it out of my system.”

When his eyes linger on my mouth I swallow hard and ask, “So . . . did you?”

“No. It only makes me want you even more.”

Okay, this is like being on a doggone roller coaster ride. First I’m up and then I’m down. “So now what do we do?”

“It’s quite simple. We resist.”

“Sure. I understand.” I nod like I think this is the right thing to do but I really want to grab him and kiss him again. And again.

“Good. You have my apologies, Abby. From now on I promise to be professional.”

I nod but I’m thinking that this professional nonsense is way overrated.

“Tomorrow we have dress rehearsal and then our first live dance competition. I don’t want to break our concentration again. We’re on the same page, right?”

I hesitate because he’s giving me a look like he’s half hoping that I’ll grab him and fall onto the big bed right there behind us. I’m liking that plan a whole lot better.

“Abby? We’re on the same page,
right?
” he repeats.

“Oh . . . sure.
Yes
. Of course.”

“Good,” he murmurs with a crisp nod, but is that disappointment I read in his dark eyes? “I’ll see you tomorrow at the dance hall. I’m heading over there early to check it out. Good night, Abby.”

I open my mouth to tell him good night but then clamp my lips together because what is about to come out of my mouth is an invitation to stay. But before I can muster up the nerve he turns on his heel and leaves.

“Well . . .
wow.
” I sit down on the bed and relive the encounter in my head a couple of times just to make sure that I didn’t get it all wrong. I’m flattered and, well, flabbergasted that Rio is attracted to me when I was convinced that he was all about the dancing. I’m wondering if I could have convinced him to stay but then I remind myself that I’m not here to find a guy. I’m here to win this competition.

“Get your priorities straight,” I tell myself firmly. “Just do as he says and resist. How hard can it be?”

Driven to Distraction

I suppose that it’s human nature to want something even more when you know you can’t have it. I want Rio Martin. I went to bed wanting him. I woke up wanting him. Now here I am in this amazing stretch limo with half of the other contestants on my way to the rehearsal at the Bluegrass Dance Hall and I’m still mooning over him when I’m supposed to resign myself to the fact that I can’t have him.

“Lord have mercy,” I mutter as I stare unseeing out the tinted window.

“I know,” Mary Lou Laker says, thinking that I’m talking to her. She smacks her knee. “Isn’t it amazin’? Looks like most of Misty Creek is lined up on the streets just a-wavin’ at us. Lookie at the signs! It’s almost like bein’ in a parade. I’ve always wanted to be in a parade. How ’bout you, Abby? You ever been in a parade?”

“Can’t say as I have,” I reply absently. I don’t point out that this isn’t a parade.

“Oh, lookie, there’s your mama and Jesse.” Mary Lou nudges me with her elbow and I snap out of my mooning state of mind and wave to Mama and Jesse, who are standing right outside the diner sporting big smiles and snapping pictures with one of those throwaway cameras. Even crusty old Pete is standing there with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Of course they can’t see us since the windows are tinted black but we’re all waving like they can. Mary Lou’s right. Main Street is lined with people cheering, waving, and holding up handmade signs.