Waltz This Way (v1.1) (18 page)

“And I don’t like to dance. Big deal.” He shrugged his shoulders to accentuate it wasn’t a big deal.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is. Building things is my passion. It’s part of who I am. I like to use my hands to create things. You like to use your feet. Different but the same.”

“So what’s your point?”

“My point is you don’t know if we have other things in common. We didn’t exactly talk about much because, you know …” Drew hitched his thumb over his shoulder toward the bedroom and wiggled his eyebrows.

Red stained her cheeks. She felt it in the hot rush that left her dizzy. “We didn’t talk because we had a one-night stand. One-night stands don’t talk. They— they have— you know— and go home.”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself, lady. This was no one-night stand. We’re going to do this again,” was his confident reply. A reply that irked her.

Now what could she possibly say to that? If she said what they’d shared wasn’t a one-time thing, she’d be doing the same thing she did the first time around. Becoming infatuated with someone because he was good-looking, had paid her a compliment, and then upped the ante by being good in bed.

It would defeat the whole purpose of what she’d set out to avoid with Drew to begin with. Not that she hadn’t already done that, to a degree anyway. To be drawn in further could potentially be history repeating itself, and she wasn’t ready for that. Not only did she not want to be hurt again, she wasn’t ready for any kind of entanglements, be they noncommittal sex, or otherwise.

Then a thought occurred to her— he’d never said word one about relationships and dating. He’d said they were going to “do this” again.

Translation? He was down for more sex.

Just who the hell did he think he was? He wasn’t that good. Okay, so he was awesomely good, but there were other men who were just as awesomely good, right? Now that she’d worked herself up, her eyes shot daggers up at him.

She pinched his forearm, making him yelp when he released her.

“No, Drew,” she drawled, tilting her chin to the setting haughty, “don’t kid yourself. I’m not sure why you think you’ve got this in the bag, but there are plenty of fish in the sea. Fish who like to dance. In fact, I’m dating those fish. Lots of fish, pal. So remember that analogy about dipping my toes in the dating water?”

Drew’s gaze mocked her, but he remained silent.

Her eyes narrowed, she tapped his chest with a finger. “Of course you don’t. That was all just to get me into bed—”

“Who got whom into bed?” Drew put his hands in the pockets of his gym shorts and chuckled.

Right. She was the hoochie here. Whatever. “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is you said I should dip my toes into the dating pool. Well, guess what, Drew McPhee? You’ve been dipped!”

Turning on her heel, Mel left him standing in the middle of his living room with all his presumptions.

As she made her way out of the maze of apartment units and back to the parking lot in huffs of indignation, she located her father’s truck and beeped it open. Climbing into the cab, Mel took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

So she’d had sex. Good sex. Safe sex, even. That didn’t have to mean anything other than just that. Even Maxine said it was healthy to feed your libido.

And wow, had she ever fed in a hitting-the-buffet-line way.

What were you supposed to feel like after an encounter with a man you planned on never sleeping with again? Why did she have such an emptiness sweeping through her? Why did what was supposed to be meaningless have meaning?

Was it because this was her first encounter since Stan and she was just reacting emotionally? Would this pass once she grew used to the idea of sex just for the express purpose of putting out a fire? Was she even emotionally on board with that?

If this was healthy, to indulge in the occasional consensual liaison, why didn’t she feel healthy? Or particularly happy?

And Christ and a peanut butter sandwich— how was she going to explain having her father’s truck all night long?

“Welcome, Ms. Cherkasov. I’m Winchester, Ms. Jasmine’s slave for life.” A regal man in a suit and tie bowed upon her entry to what Jasmine called her and her husband, Simon’s, love shack.

Mel smiled at him, taking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“No, no. The pleasure’s all mine,” he gushed, gripping her hand and taking her sweater.

Jasmine breezed through the archway off the enormous living room and smiled at Win with affection. “You’ve got a fan in Win, Mel. He loves Celebrity Ballroom and when we told him you were Neil’s old partner, he looked you and some of your old footage up online—well, let’s just say he went all schoolgirl.”

Win bowed in front of her with dramatic flourish. “You’re even lovelier in person.”

Mel blushed. “And don’t forget twenty-five pounds heavier, but thank you.”

Win clucked his tongue. “You don’t look a pound over twenty-two,” he teased.

Jasmine hooked her arm though Mel’s and drew her into the lavish kitchen filled with shiny silver appliances and miles of colorfully swirled marble countertops. “And don’t listen to Win. He was Simon’s slave first. I took pity on him when I married Simon. Win’s never had it so good. So, c’mon, Frankie and Max are already here. You’re late, young lady.”

Yeah. She was late. Late because she’d been out whoring and trying to think up an explanation for her father about where his truck had been all night. There were always explanations to be made to the person whose truck you’d borrowed when you were out sharing your goodies.

Thankfully, her father had still been sound asleep when she’d come in at eight fifteen to a woebegone Weezer. “I’m sorry. The morning kind of got away from me.”

Because you see, I spent it freaking out about all the repercussions my hormones have created, so I lost track of time while I was counting them.

“Hey, Mel!” Frankie called with a smile and a wave, eyeing her over the rim of her wineglass.

Jasmine patted a bar stool at the wide island countertop beside Maxine, and Mel slid into it, keeping her eyes on the Caesar salad, cheese and crackers, and French bread in the center.

Max nudged her with her shoulder. “You gonna look us in the eye and tell us you had sex, or do you want to do it from behind the bathroom door?”

Frankie and Jasmine laughed when Mel let her head fall to her arms with a groan. “How could you possibly know? And don’t you three dare feed me the line about glowing. If I’m glowing, it’s the bright fluorescent glow of my shame.”

“Okay, so we won’t talk about your glow,” Jasmine said, pouring Mel a glass of white wine and pushing it toward her. “Instead, let’s just talk about the guilt. The guilt that I smelled all over you the minute you walked in. Guilt I totally don’t get, but I got your back, if you need to make justifications.”

“So who was he, and why so glum?” Frankie asked with a grin, lifting Mel’s head from her arms with the heel of one hand and holding out her wine with the other.

Mel made a face at her, taking the wine. “He was someone I work with, whose aunt I work with at the rec center, and I’m glum because it was a huge mistake. I don’t even know how it escalated to the point where we ended up— you know— at his …”

Maxine waved a finger in the air with a smile of triumph. “Aha! Myriam Hernandez’s nephew! The hottie who saved you from that disgusting Fierce Whatever. I knew it. We all did. You could tell just by the way he looked at you that he was interested. Oh, and he’s delicious— all rugged and rough around the edges.”

If only she could count the ways he was delicious. There were too many to list. “Drew McPhee …” she murmured as if saying his name out loud would make what happened between them any less real.

Jasmine winked, rubbing her hands together. “So was it good? And don’t bother to play coy. It’s just us, and it’s okay to say it was good. In fact, say it a lot— out loud in the mirror.”

Mel swallowed a gulp of her wine for courage. “Is this the part where I own my sexuality? Because I’ve never done anything like this before in my life.”

“What exactly did you do, other than have sex for the first time since your divorce with a man who’s utterly gorgeous?” Maxine grinned, taking a crouton from the salad and popping it in her mouth.

Frankie shook her head of auburn curls and held up her hand.

“Forget all that, I just want to know if it was good?”

Mel let her head hang again. “Yes, yes, yes! It was good. It was the best sex I’ve ever had. Though, I’m not sure if I’m a good judge of the best sex ever because I’ve only slept with two people, last night being my second, but yes— okay? It was good. Great. More than great.”

“Then you’re one step ahead of millions of divorced women who have their first sexual encounter and it blows big, fat chunks. So I don’t get the problem unless it’s got something to do with the ground rules. Like he said this was strictly about the sex and you thought that meant flowers and candy, and now you’re hurt. Or is it that you’re worried it’ll never happen again,” Maxine offered with a grin, biting a cracker, her green eyes amused.

That shame she’d been feeling washed back over her again in a hot wave. “No! It can’t ever happen again.”

Jasmine crunched on a piece of lettuce. “Why the hell not?”

“Because I didn’t mean for it to happen in the first place.”

“So what you’re saying is, this was a one-time encounter and you’re not interested in anything but the sex? Because if that’s the case, go, you. I say you should try every variety of candy in the candy store and never settle for one piece unless you’re ready to,” Frankie provided on a chuckle.

Mel groaned, sliding down on her barstool. “I don’t know what I’m saying. The only thing I do know is I can’t believe I let myself get so carried away. It’s not like me to be so impulsive.”

Jasmine tapped her arm with a pink fingernail. “You know what, Mel? Maybe it is, and you just didn’t know it.”

“So I was always a closet slut?”

Jasmine’s laugh was dry and throaty. “Does sleeping with two whole men in your entire what, forty years, make you a slut? If that’s the case, call me head slut. This is what I’m saying. It’s okay to experience new men without feeling guilt. You got your groove on, and it was good. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. All those formative years, while you should have been out partying and being young, you were married. You didn’t date. You didn’t discover who you were as a person. I know that sounds hokey, but it’s the truth. What you thought was great at twenty, isn’t always what floats your boat at forty. If you ask me, having a casual encounter with a man here and there is all part of the discovery process. As long as the rules are clear, it’s all cake.”

“The rules … I think the rules are the problem,” she blurted out then shoved a piece of French bread in her mouth to shut it.

Maxine cocked her head and pursed her lips. “They weren’t outlined going in?”

“How can anything be outlined when you have your tongue shoved down someone’s throat after you behaved like a complete ass?”

Oh, Jesus. Had she just admitted that out loud?

“Ohhhhh,” Frankie cooed. “I bet it was angry sex.”

“What are you women, psychic?” Mel complained, her appetite taking a sudden turn for the better. She reached for a triangle of the Brie and stuffed it into her mouth.

“You act like you’re the only one who’s ever gone through this, Mel. I know it feels like that, but you’re one of millions, honey. Don’t go thinking you’ve got the market cornered.” Jasmine’s admonishment left Mel feeling less alone. “That’s why Maxine has all those support groups going on at Trophy. So you’ll be able to talk to others who have the same fears.”

“Damn, I’m good at this. I knew it was angry sex. So, tell us what the hell happened?” Frankie coaxed.

Mel relayed every tiny detail while consuming not one helping, but two of Jasmine’s Caesar salad. Clearly, one night stands left you starving. “Anyway, that’s what happened, and I don’t want it to happen again.” Maybe that was a lie. Fine. It was a lie.

“I call bullshit!” Jasmine cried, pointing her finger at Mel. “You do so want it to happen again. What you’re afraid of is becoming too deeply attached to someone again. I just don’t get the impression you’re the kind of woman who can leave her emotions out of the bedroom, but I’ve been wrong before. Either way, remember this: just because you had sex doesn’t mean you have to wear his high school ring, Mel. If you’ve discovered that, own it, baby. You had sex. It was good. You want to do it again, but you don’t want anything more than that.”

Mel shook her head with a sigh. “But that isn’t exactly how I feel. The problem is, I don’t know how I feel. One minute I’m embarrassed that I behaved so out of character, the next I’m grinning from ear to ear because … Look, here’s what I’m really afraid of. I clearly don’t know the difference between infatuation and true love. Lately, when I think of Stan, I almost wonder if what I felt for him was just an intense crush that would have passed if I’d let it play out instead of signing on for life. I didn’t know it at the time, because I was so blown away by the great choreographer Stanislov Cherkasov paying me so much attention, but when I began to examine it more closely after our divorce, I found that none of the things I wanted most in a relationship are the things Stan gave me. It never, ever occurred to me to look elsewhere. I stayed because I took vows. Period. I think that’s just who I am.” When she said those words, Mel realized, that was who she was. Her core was loyal, and she’d never break a promise if it killed her.

She let her head fall to her hands. “I was in awe of Stan, and I’m in lust with Drew. That can only lead to disaster if I’m not on the same page. Though, there is one thing I’m definitely sure of. I behaved like an idiot when all was said and done, and I stomped out of his apartment.”