“It’s a basic box step, just like the waltz,” she reminded him as she came to stand next to him. In her heels they were almost eye level, which was most disconcerting as Roger was used to women coming up to his shoulder, or maybe his chin. There was no ignoring Lindy while she was gazing right into his eyes—no ignoring the faint, floral scent of her—or was it vanilla?—or the way a few tendrils of wavy golden-brown hair had fallen from her updo and were now tumbling down her shoulders. No ignoring the way her chest rose and fell with every breath, or the fact that if he glanced downwards he knew he would see the rather glorious display of her abundant cleavage, something he was determined not to do, because of course it would be obvious he was checking her out, and yet how could he not?
She was gorgeous. Vibrant and alive, earthy and sensual. Her dress gleamed every time she moved, her body swaying and undulating with graceful confidence as she’d shown them all the basic steps. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and yet he had to stop, because he feared the expression on his face would be unguarded in its yearning.
He’d done his best not to think of her in the last forty-eight hours, and he’d managed somewhat successfully. He had comforted himself that he hadn’t made too much of an idiot of himself while they’d had their drinks in Burford, and yet those moments outside the café while they’d said their goodbyes had been fairly excruciating. He hadn’t been able to tell if she’d wanted him to ask her out, and he’d been too inherently risk-averse to take the chance and see. He’d been considered so unsuitable, he reminded himself—for what, he didn’t know, but did it even matter? Just basic, general unsuitability. And he was afraid that the fact that he’d even been thinking about asking Lindy out was ridiculous, an absurdity that would become painfully apparent the second the words passed his lips. So they hadn’t.
“Ready?” Lindy said, and Roger refocused on her face. She was very close. As close as she’d been when she’d turned to him in front of the kennel, and he’d bolted like a frightened horse.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I think,” he answered stiffly, and she let out one of those breathy gurgles of laughter that electrified every nerve ending.
“I admire your spirit,” she told him, and she clasped one hand with his and placed the other on his shoulder. Dutifully Roger placed his other hand on her waist, conscious of the curve of her hip under his fingers, the slippery satin of her dress, the warmth of her body. She was closer than the last time they’d danced, so her breasts were brushing his chest, her hips nearly nudging his. This could, Roger realised afresh, get very embarrassing.
The music began, and Lindy started to move, the folds of her dress seeming to envelop him, her thighs brushing his every time she moved. Roger did his best to mimic her steps with stiff, jerky movements, but he knew his performance was lamentable. He was the one supposed to be leading, after all, and instead he was following her as if he were a marionette, not a man.
“The thing with any dance,” Lindy told him, her voice low and musical, “is you just have to let yourself feel it. Let it flow through you. It becomes intuitive—don’t think which foot when, just feel the music, the movement.”
Which might work for someone who had a modicum of rhythm, but for someone like him, Roger knew, the only thing he was going to feel was humiliation.
“I do not believe this is the sort of thing I can just feel,” he stated, and Lindy pressed her body a little closer, so the entire length of her was very nearly against him, and she asked in a murmur, “So, what do you feel, Roger?”
That rather coy question was enough to make Roger experience that shocking and yet wonderful sense of short-circuiting both body and brain. What he felt was desire—heady, intoxicating, overwhelming. He had a gorgeous, lovely, interesting woman in his arms, and amazingly, it almost seemed as if she were flirting with him. As if she wanted him in the same way he knew he wanted her. But surely she couldn’t. Surely he was reading the signals wrong, or she was just teasing him, or…something.
What was he going to do?
“That’s the way, Roger,” Lindy said in a voice full of warm approval, and he realised they had continued to move across the dance floor, and he’d managed the steps without having to think about them too much—because he was thinking about Lindy. How could he possibly think about anything else? And yet somehow he’d managed to keep dancing—until he didn’t.
Roger wasn’t sure what exactly happened at that moment—he became aware of the need to focus on the steps again, and he was still aware of Lindy so close to him, and that was simply too much awareness so somehow his legs got tangled with hers and he felt his balance shift and then falter.
The next thing he knew he was falling in an inelegant sprawl of limbs, unable to untangle himself from Lindy’s embrace to break his fall. Lindy fell on top of him in a swirl of rust-red skirts as his cheekbone smacked into the floor hard enough for him to see dazzling pinpoints of light.
“Roger… Roger!”
A few seconds must have passed either in a blackout or simply a daze, for the next thing Roger knew was his mother was peering anxiously at him from above, the room was silent, and Lindy was still on top of him, her body most intimately entangled with his. And the entire side of his face was throbbing painfully.
“Are you all right?” Lindy propped herself on her elbows as Roger blinked her face into focus, just beneath his mother’s. His brain felt as if it were full of cottony clouds. His face hurt. He felt too stunned to be embarrassed, but he knew that would most certainly come in time.
“Roger?” He thought he heard a thread of anxiety in Lindy’s voice and he tried to pluck his thoughts from the clouds they’d snagged on.
“Yes…I’m all right. I believe my pride is more bruised than anything else.”
“I think your face is going to be rather bruised, as well,” Lindy said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was my fault.”
“I don’t know about that. Even the best dancers take a tumble once in a while.”
“Are you hurt?” She was still sprawled on top of him, which, despite the pain in his cheek, felt quite delicious, but Roger was conscious they hadn’t moved and everyone was watching as they lay tangled together on the floor.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Lindy started to scramble up from him and, wincing, Roger managed to get himself into a seated position, conscious still of everyone’s stares.
“You’re going to have a nice shiner,” Maureen pronounced, sounding rather pleased by the prospect. “And a swollen lip.”
Roger put one hand gingerly to his face. How was he going to explain this to people at work? Although at this particular moment that felt like the least of his concerns.
“Let me help you get cleaned up,” Lindy said, and took his hand. She helped to pull him up to his feet, and Roger, still somewhat dazed, allowed her to lead him out of the classroom, down the stairs, to the tiny kitchen at the back of the bakery.
It wasn’t until she’d opened a first aid kid and the pungent smell of rubbing alcohol stung the air that Roger came to himself enough to say, “This isn’t necessary. I’m perfectly capable of tending to my own injuries—”