Page 18 of Flirty Pucking Wolf

“Let’s start with the counts we worked on last night.”

Darn. Sophie interprets “this” to mean continuing to learn our first dance.

We try to get through the twenty-four counts that I successfully learned last night, but I can’t even make it past the first eight this morning to her satisfaction. She shows me the steps, and I do them. And I do them again. And again. It’s eight counts. I can count to eight quite successfully. But according to Sophie’s standard, the concept of numbers and counting must be completely foreign to me. Apparently I’ve never moved my body in any kind of coordinated manner. She’s getting frustrated, and frankly, so am I.

“How about we move on to the next eight counts?” I suggest.

“Why?” she says from inside her sweater. She’s pulling it over her head, so the words are trapped in the knit as her head emerges. “If you can’t get these first eight right, how are you going to learn more?”

I swallow the growl that wants to erupt and count to ten. See, I’m so good at counting to eight, I can add more to it.

“We can polish it after I’ve learned a chunk of it. If we wait until every piece is perfect before building on it, we won’t have a whole dance. Unless the plan is to do the same eight counts twenty times.”

Tiny fists get planted on shapely hips as she glares up at me. Her blonde hair is up in a ponytail, and her gray tank is molded to her high, firm breasts. but they look gorgeous with a slight sheen of sweat glistening on them. Wait, she’s glaring, and that’s usually not a sign of attraction. Focus, Trevor.

“Are you trying to tell me how to teach, Trevor?” Her Irish lilt gets more cutting when she’s angry. Maybe it’s the Scottish side of her coming out.

“No,” I respond as calmly as I can. If we’re both frustrated, I see this rehearsal going downhill quickly. I’ll take one for the team and swallow my annoyance. “I’m trying to explain how I can learn.”

She tosses her head, causing her ponytail to swish. It’s a good thing she’s short, otherwise I’d be getting thwapped in the face with it.

“I don’t see the point in building on a faulty foundation.”

The chuckle escapes before I’m even aware of it bubbling up.

She glares at me through narrowed blue eyes. “What’s so funny?”

I hold up my hands in a “no offense” gesture. “I’ve heard Mac say the same thing, and it was funny hearing Mac’s words in your voice. That’s it. And like I’ve told him, progress is better than perfection. The dance is a minute and a half, right?”

She nods.

“Okay, so we need a ninety second dance in two weeks?—”

“Ten days.”

I nod. “Ten days. So, teach me the dance in three chunks over the next few days. Then we spend the next week or so polishing it.”

Sophie’s head is shaking so hard I’m afraid it’s going to fall off.

“No! There’s no point in learning new stuff when you don’t know the old stuff. It’s like trying to teach hockey to someone who doesn’t know how to skate.”

I know she thinks she’s right, but she’s not. At least, she’s not right about the best way for me to learn this.

“Sometimes good enough is, well…good enough. It’s better to have ninety seconds of something than ten seconds of perfection and standing there twiddling our thumbs for the other eighty seconds. Can’t we at least try it this way, and if it doesn’t work, we’ll try your way next week?” I think that’s a fair compromise.

Her sniff of disdain shows she does not. “We probably won’t be there for week two if we do it half-assed like you’re suggesting.”

Now I’m getting pissed. “It’s not half-assed. It’s how I’ll be able to learn the dance. I’m doing the best I can.” I cross my arms over my chest. I took psychology in college. I know it’s a defensive posture, but damn it, I’m feeling defensive. “If I’m spending all my time doing this, I want to win. I’m not going to suggest something that sabotages us. It’s not like I asked for any of this. I was volun-told in front of a crowd.”

Sophie huffs. “Well, you weren’t my first choice, boyo, but I know Dec won’t do it.”

My brows lift at being called “boyo.” I don’t think it’s a term of endearment.

“I still don’t know how it’s going to work to learn dance routines in addition to hockey practice and games,” I say. Bitterness probably creeps into my voice. No matter how sexy the little blonde before me is, no matter how sweet her kisses, I should be on the ice, not dancing, dammit.

Her arms are crossed now too, but I’m not registering defensiveness. I’m distracted by the way her boobs are lifted and the top swells of her breasts are visible out of the neckline of her tank top.

“Fine,” she snarls. “We’ll do it your way. But you need to learn the whole thing in three days so we can spend the rest of the time polishing.”

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