Waltz This Way (v1.1) (13 page)

Mel stole a glance at Drew.

If her mouth had fallen open in surprise before, Drew’s could catch softballs. Mel instructed the boys to practice their box steps before striding across the room. She clucked her tongue at Drew.

“Tell me. What color tutu do you think would really work for Nate? I say a sky blue. It’ll enhance his eyes, no?”

Drew shoved a hand into his thick hair, ignoring her jab. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say he did a terrific job, and you’re proud of him. He has an intuitive gift for interpreting music and gorgeous natural lines. That’s rare.”

“I don’t know where that comes from.”

“Clearly, not you, caveman,” she muttered under her breath so her students wouldn’t hear her. “Do me a favor, okay?”

“No tutu.”

Mel smiled up at him cockily. “We don’t need your stinkin’ tutu. Don’t quash this, Drew. Please. Don’t make him feel like he’s putting on makeup and a skirt, okay? Scratch that. Even if he was putting on makeup and a skirt, make sure he knows you love him. Nothing beats that. I had parents like that. So, keep your archaic thoughts about girls and dancing to yourself. If you beat him up about just how good he is, you’ll beat the fun right out of it. You’ll embarrass him if he thinks you disapprove, and I won’t have it. Got that? Love him for who he is.”

Drew’s nod was slow, his eyes still fastened on his son. “There was never any question.”

“Then my work here is done.”

Mel turned back to the class and clapped her hands. “Okay, guys. Let’s focus. That was good, but we have a long way to go. Nate,” she said once the ruckus had died down, “nice job!” She followed her praise with a curtsy. “That’s the way it’s done, guys. Johann, you’re my next victim.” She pointed to the floor in front of her and smiled.

Johann took her hands in his, his palms sweaty, his tongue slipping nervously along his bottom lip.

As the music started back up, it brought with it a new sense of purpose, making her forget her aching shoulders and sore calves.

Nate could dance. It just took one student. She’d done something right.

Boo-yah.

Drew caught up with Nate just as the last bell of the day rang. He clamped a hand on Nate’s shoulder, spinning him around in the middle of the crowded hallway.

“Hey, Dad. You ready?”

Drew looked down at his boy. A boy who’d glided across the dance floor with the alluring Mel Cherkasov like he’d always been doing it, and pride swelled in his soul. Sure, he’d like it if Nate could throw a football to victory— or hit a homerun. Those things he understood. He didn’t understand this dancing thing.

He only understood, his son excelled at it and appeared to actually like it. Mel was right. Whether Nate was a garbage man or a brain surgeon, he needed to know his father loved him.

“Yeah, I’m ready, kiddo. But first, niiiiiice job out on that dance floor. Knuck it up, pal.” He held his fist forward.

Nate shot him an irritated look and rolled his eyes, craning his neck around the corner. “Knock it off, Dad. Everyone’s looking.”

Drew let his fist drop. “So? You should be proud of what you did in there. You’re pretty good.”

“How would you know? You hate to dance.” Nate said it with no malice, his tone simply matter-of-fact.

Drew smiled at him. “I know because Ms. Cherkasov said so. I know because even someone who doesn’t get it could see you were good at it.”

Nate’s slender shoulders lifted with nonchalance. “I was just okay. I almost stepped on her sore toe because I started on the wrong beat. But after that, it was no big deal.”

“So you like it? Sure looked like you liked it.”

Nate gazed up at him, his eyes pinning Drew’s as they walked.

“Yep. You think she gives private lessons?”

Drew stopped mid-stride. “Seriously?”

“For serious.”

“I guess we could ask.”

Nate’s eyes were skeptical. “I bet you’d rather pay for football lessons, huh?”

Drew stopped him in the hall, keeping his voice low so as not to do the unthinkable and embarrass his kid, he said, “I don’t care if you want to learn to plant tulips, bud. So long as you’re happy doing it, I’m happy, too.”

Nate snorted. “I like daffodils better.”

“Fine, then plant daffodils.”

“So you’re okay with it? I thought you’d be mad.”

“Dogs get mad. People get angry,” he corrected, using a line his own father had used when he was a kid.

“Angry, whatever. You’ll ask her?”

“I’ll ask her.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah. Cool.” His heart tightened. And it wasn’t just because he was proud his son wasn’t afraid to pursue a hobby other kids would laugh at him for.

It had a little something to do with the possibility he’d be seeing one sexy ballroom instructor— a whole lot more if he had his way.

Boo-yah.

Jasmine and Frankie waved to Mel from a corner booth at the diner they met at every Tuesday night. Frankie’s husband, Nikos, the owner of Greek Meets Eat, opened the door for her.

After that morning and the utter bliss she’d experienced when she’d realized Nate had been paying attention in class, her day had gone downhill.

She had not one, but two Band-Aids on her toes, and an ice pack in her purse for her eye— which David Hockenmeyer had bruised when he slipped and his head smacked into her face.

But she had her first paycheck in the brand-new account she’d opened. What better way to celebrate than hangout with the divorce guru’s minions?

“Heeey!” Frankie said with a smile, scooting over to invite her to sit. “What happened?”

“Dance-class accident. I’m fine. Believe me, I’ve had worse,” Mel assured her.

“So, you decided we’re more fun than a can of chocolate frosting? That deserves a toast.” She held up her glass of wine and clinked it with the beautiful Jasmine’s.

“So how goes it, dance teacher?” Jasmine inquired, her gaze zeroing in on Mel.

Even her bruised eye and sore toes couldn’t thwart the smile on her face. “I never thought I’d be this excited, but I got my first paycheck today, and I opened my first checking account, and it’s all mine.”

Jasmine clapped her hands and held up her hand for Mel to high-five. “Give it to me, sister!”

Mel clapped hands with her. “I feel ridiculously independent over something as simple as a checking account and a debit card. That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

Frankie shook her head of lush auburn curls. “No, sweetie, that’s empowerment. Damn invigorating, huh?”

A rush of pride settled in her chest. Yeah. “I can’t tell you how good it felt. Who knew?”

Jasmine poured Mel a glass of wine. “We knew, darling. So tell us about this job. Is it all kinds of awful? Are the kids snotty little know-it-all’s?”

“They’re definitely smarter than a fifth grader. It’s a little intimidating, and they hate to dance. Almost every one of them.”

Frankie leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Then why do you look so happy?”

Mel shrugged, taking a sip of her wine before speaking. “I think it’s because I feel like I’m actually doing something. I’m exercising again and eating better. I just feel better.”

Jasmine arched her eyebrow. “We heard there was a man involved in the better.”

“A man?” Did the divorce minions have mind-reading skills, too?

How could they know about Drew? What was it with these women?

“Oh, my God— yes, a man. Only the sexiest man ever,” Frankie cooed, twisting a strand of her hair with her finger.

“Hey!” Frankie’s husband, Nikos, dark and gorgeous, gave her a playful tap on the head from the booth behind them, where he and his brother sat with the baby. “I thought I was the sexiest man ever?”

Frankie tilted her head back and blew him a playful kiss, leaving Mel with a lingering stab of envy for their obvious affection for one another. “You are, honey. But the second sexiest man ever is on TV. You know, Celebrity Ballroom? Neil Jensen?”

Jasmine purred. “ Nom-nom. How do you know him, Mel? If I wasn’t already wildly in love and newly married, I’d sink my cougar claws into a piece of that.”

Mel laughed, hiding a sigh of relief they didn’t know about her new obsession with Drew. “Neil’s my old partner from my competition days. He’s here to beat me back into submission.”

“I’d let him beat me into anything,” Maxine commented, slipping in beside Jasmine and giving her a quick peck on the cheek. She gave Mel a pat on the hand. “You look terrific, Mel! I’ve heard only great things from Dean Keller and the rest of the staff. I’m so glad it seems to be working out.”

Mel couldn’t help but grin. Today’s coup with Nate couldn’t be tarnished by a swollen eye. “The boys are awful dancers. They hate every second spent in my classroom. I know they’d rather be finding the cure for cancer, but I’m actually kind of getting into the swing of it— even with all the bitching and moaning.”

“So this Neil— is he the reason for the happy? Any chance of a little romance in the air?” Frankie asked.

Mel placed her order with the waitress and shook her head.

“Never. First, I’m not ready for anything more serious than a hang-nail. Second, Neil and I will always be nothing more than friends. We’ve always known that. He’s like a brother, and lately, the reason I hate five in the morning. How did you know he was even here?”

Maxine laughed, handing her menu to the waitress. “Nothing gets past the Villagers. Surely you didn’t think you could wow the seniors with your fancy footwork and it would go unnoticed? My mother and Gail gushed about that demo you gave them until I was almost compelled to hit Arthur Murray’s and never look back. I won’t even tell you what she said about Neil and his back end. It isn’t fit for polite company.”

“I’ll tell you what Gail said about Neil,” Frankie offered with a sly grin. “She said, and I quote, ‘Bet a man like that doesn’t need a penis pump.’ ”

“Well, so far there’ve been no complaints, but I’m not getting any younger,” a voice drawled from over Mel’s shoulder.

Frankie hid behind her napkin while Maxine’s face turned red and Jasmine, unabashed, stared Neil down. “Oh, look, a yummy man,” she snickered, motioning him to pull up a chair.

Neil held up his hands, shaking his head. “You ladies carry on. I’m just here for some of that infamous takeout meatloaf.”

“Oh, c’mon, Neil,” Mel chided, tossing her napkin at him. “There are three gushing females here. You don’t want to pass up the chance to add more admiring fans to your posse, do you?”

Neil smiled his dazzlingly white Hollywood smile and chucked her under the chin. “I’m afraid I have plans, girls. Maybe another time?”

“You’re here in Jersey two minutes and you already have a date? Jesus, Neil.” Mel whistled.

“ Neil— Neil Jensen?” a young man, dressed in a dark suit with a plaid tie called from across the diner, making his way toward them.

Neil stood in front of Mel in a defensive stance. “That’s me. You are?”

“I’m Fierce Parker, the entertainment reporter from Jersey Every Morning. Do you mind if I ask you some questions about your ex-partner, Melina Cherkasov?”

Mel shrank behind Neil, praying Fierce wouldn’t see her. He’d called her father’s, looking for her side of the story about her and Stan’s breakup a few months ago.

Thanks to Jackie and her anonymous tips to one gossip venue or another, no one had found her yet. Frankie shot her concerned eyes, while Max narrowed hers in the reporter’s direction.

“In fact, I kind of do mind, Fierce,” Neil said affably. “I have no comment.”

Mel slid farther down in her seat, her feet numb and her empty stomach lurching.

Fierce’s alert eyes scanned the faces at the table, looking past Neil while Mel cowered, her hand over her face. “Just a couple of questions. C’mon, Neil. Help a guy out.”

“I have nothing to say about Melina Cherkasov. Now, Fierce, I’m going to be as polite as I can when I ask you to please leave myself and the ladies alone while we enjoy our dinner.”

Mel heard the tension in his voice, knew it well from the hundreds of times they’d had to smile and nod at a critique of their work Neil didn’t necessarily agree with. She prayed Fierce would take the hint and go away.

Like praying had done her a whole lot of good lately. “Have you seen her recently? Do you know where she is? Did you know Stan’s asked Yelena to marry him? Does she know?”

Neil’s sigh was ragged and growing impatient. “Again, I’m going to ask you to move along, Mr. Parker. No comment.”

But Fierce was, after all, a reporter. If he could blow one small word out of proportion, inflate one tidbit of gossip, he’d find a way to get a quote from Neil.

Neil couldn’t afford even a whiff of bad press that might jeopardize his job on Celebrity Ballroom. Mel wouldn’t allow his reputation to be blighted defending her. “Is it true that she’s living in a homeless shelter?” Fierce pressed, his gaunt face studying Neil’s.

“No …” Mel whispered at first, but Neil waved her off from behind his back. “No!” she yelped, both in defense of her supposed homelessness and Neil’s signal to keep quiet. “No! That’s not true,” she yelled, jumping up from the booth, making the bottle of wine they’d been sharing wobble.

Shit. Hadn’t she learned anything being married to superstar Stan? Never give the press anything. Never confirm or deny.

“Melina.” Fierce, his eyes hungry, surveyed every inch of her, including her swollen eye and the rumpled clothes she hadn’t had time to change out of. “Can I ask you a couple of questions? Don’t you want everyone to hear your side of the story?”

She licked her lips, pushing a protesting Neil out of the way. “No. You can’t ask me any questions. Please leave me alone.” For all the good asking nicely would do when some cub reporter, desperate for ratings, was who she was asking.

He placed a hand on her arm to keep her from stepping around him. “But this is your opportunity to tell the world what happened,” he coaxed, a smile on his thick lips.

Mel gulped hard, her terror over being found a huge lump in her throat. “I said, please leave me alone,” she repeated, pulling her arm back, forcing herself to calm.

Yet Fierce was one tenacious bastard. As she tried to inch past him, he blocked her by shoving his sleazy face in hers and placing his hand back on her arm, faking an expression of sympathy.