Page 37 of Two-Step
He’s all broody-bearded-hotness.
It’s only when he opens his mouth and says something mean that I cool off. Hopefully, he’ll do plenty of talking during our lesson because I don’t need to be thinking of his sexy beard and those dark eyes and his too pretty mouth. I’m already going to be a spaz and a half.
God, I hope I don’t break him too.
I still feel so bad about Mr. Hebert. I couldn’t sleep, so I placed as many online orders for his gift basket as I could, and Sally and Ramon picked them up while we filmed this morning. But I wanted to wrap everything myself, which is what I did with my lunch hour. A good thing, because who needs an hour to drink a green smoothie with whey powder?
The only problem was that ham smelled so damn good.
But I wrapped that up first and put it in the trailer’s fridge before Moira could spot it and start lecturing about salted meats and sugar-induced cravings.
Beau Landry comes in while I’m thinking about sweet and salty meats.
Nothing sweet about him,I remind myself.
I brace for what is sure to be a stressful and torturous ninety minutes.
“Are we ready?” he asks, crossing the room.
“Sure,” I lie.
Ramon takes Sally’s waist, holding her left hand in his right. As it has every lesson, the color rushes to her fair cheeks. It’s cute and infuriating at the same time.
“Oh, we’re not there yet,” Beau says, waving them off. “We need to warm up first.”
Sally drops her arms, but Ramon frowns. “But Mr. Hebert always starts us like this.”
Beau raises one of his dark brows and smirks. “I’m not Mr. Hebert. I’m Mr. Landry.”
An unexpected laugh bursts from me. It’s so loud and obnoxious, I cover my mouth. Beau—er, Mr. Landry—shoots me a curious look. “Sorry,” I mutter.
He ignores my apology. “Okay, you three line up in front of the mirror.”
Well, this is different.
Mr. Hebert patently had me avoid looking in the mirror, which I greatly preferred since who wants to look at her uncoordinated and out-of-sync dance moves?
“We’re warming up for Cajun dancing?” Ramon scoffs.
“No one can dance well when they’re stressed.” Beau points to me. “And she’s stressed.”
He’s not wrong. But I’m normally stressed when I’m trying to dance. Actually, I’m normally stressed. Period.
Beau taps his phone and music fills the room. Except it’s not Cajun music. It’s Bill Withers.
The opening bass notes of the R&B song surprise a smile from me. Soul music is the last thing I expect from him.
“Hands up. Pinkies pointing in.” Beau faces us, raising his hands over his head in a way that makes the dress shirt he’s wearing draw tight around his narrow waist and muscled chest. The lines of his torso distract me just enough so that I’m off to a slow start and throw my hands in the air like a Scooby Doo zombie.
“And breathe in.” The vaulting of his ribs expands as his chest swells with breath. I mimic him, but he looks steady, and I’m sure I’ll tip over any minute. “And out.”
I exhale.
“And in again. Make it bigger this time.” He reaches higher, breathes deeper. I do the same. At least, I think I do. “And out.”
My lungs empty.
Beau shakes his head. “You’re barely breathing.”
