Page 53 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

"Non, non, non!" Madame Rousseau's accent gets thicker with each correction. "The frame must be elegant! Like a swan! You are moving like... how you say... a caffeinated penguin!"

I shouldn't be here. Should be at the office, preparing for tomorrow's investor meeting. But when Yasmin mentioned Ariana was actually attending the private lessons I booked to prepare her for Alex's wedding...

Well, I did promise to help.

"Better to be a caffeinated penguin than step on the best man's feet," Ariana mutters, then stumbles again. "Though at this rate, I might need steel-toed dance shoes."

"Your feet are not the problem," Madame Rousseau sighs. "It is the tension! You must relax!"

"I am relaxed!"

"Your shoulders say otherwise." I step into the studio, shrugging off my jacket. "To be fair, the penguin comparison is inspired."

Ariana whirls, nearly taking out her instructor with the movement. "Connor?"

"Working on your form?" I approach, noticing how her dance clothes cling to curves I'm supposed to be ignoring. “Better than practicing in your living room, isn’t it?”

"Yeah, well, my living room doesn't come with aprofessional instructor who can prevent me from permanently maiming Alex's groomsmen."

"Ah, Monsieur Reeves!" Madame Rousseau brightens. "Come, come! Show your... friend the proper frame."

The way she says "friend" makes Ariana's cheeks pink.

"I don't think—" she starts.

"Professional dance consultation," I offer, moving closer. "Very appropriate."

"Right." But her breath catches as I take her into frame. “I will warn you: I've already traumatized three different instructors this week."

"Only three?" I guide her into position, my hand spanning her lower back. “That’s progress.”

"Please." She rolls her eyes, but her hand settles on my shoulder. "I'm merely pacing myself. Still have four weeks until the wedding."

"Bon!" Madame Rousseau claps. "Now, from the top. One-two-three, one-two-three..."

We begin to move, and immediately I understand the penguin comparison. Ariana's frame is perfect, her steps precise, but there's a stiffness to her movements that makes it feel more like a military march than a waltz.

"Relax," I murmur, pulling her slightly closer. "Dancing isn't about control."

"Says the man who color-codes his coffee mugs."

"Says the woman who's counting steps under her breath."

"I am not—" She stumbles, and I catch her easily. "Okay, maybe I was."

"Stop thinking so much." I adjust our hold. "Just... feel it."

"Feel it, huh? Did you get that from your mother's meditation app?"

"Actually, I got it from my Grandmother's very expensive dance instructor." I spin her slowly. "Right before she kicked me out of the room for breaking into the Robot.”

Ariana's laugh is worth every horrible dance lesson memory. "Please tell me there's video."

"Absolutely not. But I’ll have you know that my electric slide was legendary."

"Now that I have to see."

"Maybe after a few more lessons." I dip her slightly, enjoying her surprised gasp. "Can't reveal all my moves at once.”

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