Dancing with Dalton. Laura Altom Marie

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СКАЧАТЬ pastrami,” she said. “I just can’t help it. It’s so good.” She slid her menu to the end of the table. “How about you? Made a decision?”

      “My usual turkey on rye.” I’m not in the mood for experimentation. Though the night had started out on the fun side—kind of a wild departure from his usual staid evenings of Seinfeld reruns and frozen dinners—Rose’s offhand comment about risk taking had reminded him that after being badly burned nearly a decade ago, he’d taken few chances in his own life.

      So what? Did that make him less a man for choosing the path of least resistance? Because from where he was sitting, that’s how he suddenly felt. He sighed.

      After ordering, Rose asked, “Everything all right?”

      “Sure,” he said. Peachy. At least it would be once this dance thing was over.

      “You seem tense. Did I say something to offend you?”

      “No. Just a rough day at work dogging me.”

      “Want to talk about it? I mean, not to be nosy, but our dancing will go easier if we’re at least friends.”

      Considering how a few minutes earlier he’d wanted to take their acquaintance beyond friendship, Dalton had a tough time meeting her gaze. The woman was only trying to be professionally courteous, yet from the moment they’d met, his thoughts had been anything but professional. “You know how I mentioned I work at the bank?”

      “Mmm…Fun.” The sparkle in her eyes told him she was teasing.

      He flashed her a wry grin. “It can be. When the money’s flowing…”

      “Why do I get the impression there’s a but on the end of that statement?” She still smiled, but her eyes now looked sad. “Mr. Montgomery, as much as you may like to have folks believe otherwise, I don’t think you’re all about the Benjamins.”

      Her statement hit him hard. How could she know something like that? Something he’d never admitted to anyone, yet a fact that’d troubled him for years. What kind of banker could he be when he didn’t live and breathe money?

      “Sorry,” she said after the waitress left homemade chips and fat dill pickles. “My friend Rachel and I are always playing games like that. You know, trying to figure out deep, dark secrets about people just by looking at them. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

      Dalton knew he should be relieved by her statement, but how could he be when this stranger’s guess had been right on the mark? Taking a chip, he asked, “What about me—my appearance—led you to this conclusion?”

      “Really wanna know?”

      To deflect the fact that he didn’t just want to know, but had to, he chuckled. “Just curious.”

      Reaching across the table for his wrist, she tapped his clear plastic watch face. “This is a dead giveaway.”

      “What?”

      “Your Fossil.” On a business trip to New York City, he’d picked it up at the gift shop in the Met. For college graduation, he’d been presented with a gold-and-diamond Rolex, but something about the sand and mini fossils inside this cheap black model made him smile. “Just my opinion, here, but no man obsessed with money would be caught dead wearing such a fun yet unpretentious timepiece.”

      He snatched a pickle, bit off a big chunk and chewed.

      “Ah…” She eased back against the red vinyl booth and grinned. “I’ll take that as a sign I’m right.”

      “You can take it as a sign to mind your own business.”

      “Sorry,” she said, and her earnest expression told him she meant it. “For the record, I like your watch. And I’m sure you’re a fine banker—regardless of your lack of gold or a silk tie.”

      The waitress brought their sandwiches.

      “Well?” Rose urged, pastrami held to her mouth. “Say something.”

      “I’m not sure what to say. You apparently know everything.” He dug into his sandwich, glad he’d gone with the safe old standby.

      “Oh, now, don’t be like that. I said sorry. It’s just a game. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

      “Did I say you did?”

      “You’re sure acting like I did. Like I touched a nerve. If so, really, I’m sorry.”

      “Forget it. Just eat, so we can get on with our lesson.”

      “Wait…” Her big brown eyes widened. “Was I right? Do you secretly hate your job and feel guilty about it?”

      “Is it any of your business if you were right?”

      “No, but…” She nibbled her sandwich. “Again, sorry. But if I was right, then you couldn’t be in a better place. Not the deli, but starting dance class. Dancing is a wonderful way to release tension, and beyond that, to discover yourself. You know, really and truly—”

      “Look, I hate to rain on your dance parade, but can we just eat and get on with it?”

      “NO, MR. MONTGOMERY, I said walk, not romp.” Rose rolled her eyes and sighed. Had she really only a few hours earlier guiltily looked forward to dancing with this man? The same man who’d been a grump at dinner and had already broken half her toes and was now working on the other five?

      With dramatic flair, he raised his hands in the air, then smacked them against his thighs. “I don’t know what you want from me. First, you’re telling me to walk, then pivot. Go in a straight line, then a box. Honestly, woman, the only place I feel like going is straight out the door!”

      “Fine! Just do that!”

      “Okay, I will!”

      By this time, they stood toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, and while Rose’s fingertips itched to shake the attitude out of him, at the same time, their heated arguing had raised her blood pressure to an all-out boil that felt closer to passion than fury.

      Exertion had them both breathing hard, and as their gazes locked, the sight of this powerfully built man getting worked up over an easy giro turn sequence was all she needed to spark a giggle.

      “What’s so funny?” he asked.

      “You. Us.” She flopped her hands at her sides, then glanced at the studio wall clock. “It’s past nine. No wonder we’re both on edge.” Most evenings, she’d long since tucked Anna into bed and was well on her way herself. At least until her racing mind stole any chance for a decent night’s rest.

      Eyes closed, he arched his head back and sighed. “You’re right. Sorry.”

      “Me, too.” And she was. Mostly about the fact that if she were truthful, a big part of Dalton Montgomery’s dancing troubles weren’t caused by him, but her. She needed to loosen up. “We seem to spend an awful lot of time apologizing.”

      “I’ve noticed.” He dry-washed his face with his hands.

      “We СКАЧАТЬ