He nods and makes his way along the tables, weaving through players and girls and the general maze that is our cafeteria.
My body draws up in anxiety. I’m not ready to deal with Maverick and his intensity, so I do what I do best.
I bolt.
I have somewhere to be anyway.
Flipping around with a flounce of my ponytail, I head for the exit in a full-on speed walk that’s debatably a run. I clear the door and dart for the elevator to head up to the third floor.
As soon as I exit, I approach the door to the dance studio. From inside, I hear the low undertones of a conga drum and maracas, so I know I’m at the right place. On the door hangs a sign that says Welcome to Salsa 101! Can’t dance? We can change that! I hope that isn’t a lie. I’m fascinated with Latin music and food, and learning to salsa is on my bucket list…hence the urge to finally show up when I don’t even have a partner.
I open the door to the studio, which is actually just a room on the third floor of the student center. In my hand is the flyer that lists the class times and requirements along with the twenty dollars to cover the cost of the lessons.
I’m tempted to text He-Man and tell him what I’m doing, to see if he’d be proud of me for coming alone. I make a mental note to take a selfie and send it to him later.
It’s a large square-shaped room with a sound system in the corner and an entire wall covered in mirrors. My eyes scan the space and land on a tall, thin male wearing super tight black pants and a red sequined shirt. He’s sitting at a small table in the corner, next to the sound system. Dark gelled hair is brushed straight up from his forehead, and there might be the sparkle of shimmery eye shadow on his lids. I catch a small white nametag pinned to his shirt that reads Ricardo, Dance Instructor.
I’m definitely in the right place.
He looks up from his clipboard and brushes his gaze over me. “Here for salsa?” He looks past me. “Alone?” I can hear the surprise in his tone.
“Um, yes,” I say, forcing conviction and confidence into my voice. I really do want this. “Is that okay?”
A doubtful look crosses his face. “Typically, it works best if you have a partner. Everyone else has a partner. I might be able to jump in and dance with you, but I’m usually too busy.”
Nice. Even the teacher doesn’t want to dance with me.
A group of people standing next to a refreshment table a few feet over swivel their heads as his voice carries over to them.
“Right, I saw that in the flyer. Normally my roommate would jump at the chance to do this, but well, she’s got this new boyfriend. I mean, who doesn’t want to learn to salsa…” My voice peters out and I sigh as I realize I’m rambling.
Ricardo gives me a wry yet kind smile. “Ideally you learn how the rhythm of the body works when you have someone to mirror the moves with you.”
I push my glasses up on my nose and shuffle my feet, thinking I should have just stayed at home and watched a movie.
The instructor gets distracted as another couple comes in the door, and I ease off to the side, looking for the nearest exit.
Could I leave without anyone noticing?
I pause, clenching my fists.
Why do I care so much? So what if I’m alone?
Where are your balls, Delaney? WHERE ARE THEY?
I dare myself to go through with it.
I slap my money down on the table and Ricardo turns back toward me, a surprised expression on his face as he takes in my crossed arms. “I’m here to have fun with or without a partner, and who’s to say I might not start a new trend: salsa sans partner. You never know, it could be the next big thing in ballroom dancing.”
Ricardo’s face breaks into a smile as he swishes around the table to hand me a nametag to put on my shirt. “I like your spirit,” he says as I scrawl my name on it with a pen and slap it on my Game of Thrones shirt. I’m here and I’m ready to rumble.
Bobby Gene appears in front of me. “What! Are you kidding me? Delaney Shaw comes to salsa lessons?” He grins broadly and I automatically give him a hug. With his brown hair and soft eyes, he has an infectious personality that puts me at ease.
“I’m just here for the great Cuban food,” he whispers conspiratorially as he nods his head at the long table filled with various dishes and small bottles of water. “And a girl I work with at the school paper. She roped me into this, and I couldn’t say no.” He points out a perky little redhead with freckles, and she waves at me enthusiastically.
“Where’s your partner?” he asks.
“Don’t have one,” I say.
“Really?” He looks confused. “But how will you—”
“I’m her partner,” says a deep voice behind me, and I know who it is before I even turn around.
A sneeze racks my body—of course.
I battle down the next one and turn to face him.
Maverick stands before me like some kind of Greek god, with his lush lips, magnificent body, and perfect blond hair perfectly swept back. My mouth dries as I take in the fitted black shirt that clings to his sculpted muscles. Does the man ever have a bad hair day or anything?
“What on earth are you doing in here?” I whisper-hiss, although I don’t really have to because Bobby Gene has taken one look at Maverick’s glare and wandered back to his partner.
“Honestly, I was following you. Had no clue it was to a dance class…but now that I’m here, I may as well help you out. I heard you don’t have a partner.” He cocks his head, waiting for my reply. “I must warn you though…I can’t dance.”
I shrug, trying to play it cool when on the inside I’m a mess, quivering with excitement that he’s here…with me. “Well, I am alone, and so are you, and apparently the food is great here. Want to check it out before we get started?”
He grins. “You’re asking a football player if he wants to eat? I just had dinner—as you know, since you ran away from me—but lead the way, my lady.”
He gives me his arm and I take it.
We make our way over to the table, which is stocked with dishes that have little placards next to each one, naming the contents. I take in the marinated olives, fancy cheeses, fried plantains, and flan.
“Wow. If I had known all this was here, I might have tried this a lot sooner,” I say.
Maverick picks up a ramekin of flan and hands me one. “Let’s try this.”
He gets his own and we each take a bite at the same time, our eyes closing in simultaneous ecstasy.
“Damn, that’s good,” he says, his eyes on my face instead of the caramel pastry.
“It is,” I reply as I watch him savor the bite.
I’m relieved when the instructor claps his hands and motions for us to move to the center of the room.
Disposing of our dishes, we follow his directions.
Ricardo’s eyes widen as he takes Maverick in and then he looks at me, a little smile on his face. “I see you found a partner after all, Miss Shaw. Nice choice.”
“Indeed,” I say.
Maverick smirks and shrugs.
Ricardo goes on to explain that the salsa attitude comes from the music, the dance is something you feel with your body, and at the same time, your brain can memorize the mechanics of the eight-count method. He’s enthusiastic as he runs through the steps around the circle we’re standing in. I try to pay attention but it’s difficult with Maverick standing next to me, our arms brushing against one another.