We exchanged funny workplace stories and admitted we couldn’t imagine doing any other work than what we did on a daily basis.
“Is that your car down there?” Jamison asked, pointing into the parking lot.
“Yes, that’s Orange Julius.”
“You named your car?”
“I had to. There’s so much history riding on those tires, it’s practically part of the family. Both of my parents were teachers. My mother taught math and my father was an art teacher, so we always had the summers free, and the year I turned thirteen, they took us on our first road trip. From then on, we traveled the whole summer, every year. We slept and ate in the bus. The first time I saw the Pacific Ocean was from the back of that bus.”
“Were your parents hippies?” Jamison asked, looking handsome with a soft smile on his face.
“Hippie adjacent. My middle name is Flower, by the way.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No,” I shook my head, laughing. “Tallulah Flower Washington.”
“It suits you.”
“You think so?”
His eyes skimmed my appearance, and heat coated my skin.
“Definitely.”
We eventually moved into the living room, where Jamison pushed the coffee table out of the way to make room for us to dance.
“We might as well get comfortable,” he said, removing his shoes.
“Oh, I like this.” I slipped off my sandals.
“I figured you would.”
I rested my hands on my hips. “What does that mean?”
“You seem like the type who’d walk around barefoot if it weren’t socially taboo.”
“You know me too well.”
We both laughed.
He turned on the music, and all of a sudden, the mood in the room changed. It was the same type of song we had danced to in the studio, but this time was different. We weren’t surrounded by other students and didn’t have Carmen’s watchful eyes on us or the bright lights shining down from the ceiling. Instead, we were alone in his condo with only the muted glow of two lamps in the room.
Jamison extended a hand. “Ready?”
I stepped closer, my bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floor. The second we touched, I experienced the same electric awareness that had been building between us during every dance lesson and each time our gazes held for a beat too long.
His firm hand settled against my back, the warmth of his palm seeping into my skin through the soft fabric of my dress. I placed my hand on his strong shoulder and met his eyes, my back automatically straightening into the precise posture Carmen had drilled into me, though I longed to lean closer.
We began to move. “One, two, three,” Jamison murmured.
Our bodies found the rhythm, and we danced with the ease earned from doing the same steps repeatedly. Jamison led with confidence, no longer tentative or uncomfortable, and I followed instinctively and without hesitation.
He spun me out and then pulled me in closer than necessary before we separated again, gliding through the movements we had rehearsed dozens of times. Each spin out and reel in brought us closer, and when his hand slid lower on my back, my breath caught. He held me against him, our faces mere inches apart. Then his gaze dropped to my lips.
“Tallulah.” My name was a rough sound in his throat.
The music continued, but we had stopped moving. We stood still, both of us breathing hard, as if we’d just finished running the Ellington Memorial Day Marathon. His hands cupped my face, one thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
He looked down at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “When I said your husband was a fool, I wasn’t just talking. I meant it.”
He dipped his head, and I held my breath. He paused, his eyes searching mine.
“Do you want me to stop?” he whispered.
I gave my answer when I lifted onto my toes.
