My breath caught in my throat when Logan dropped by the bar later that night wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a blue jacket. He was so handsome. So…manly. So strong and tall and white hot sexy. Every inch: Sexy.
I remembered to speak, in English, as he stood in front of me. “Hi, Logan.” I tried to sound casual, as if we talked all the time. I even tried to sound cheerful, not overwhelmed by all that manhood.
“Hi, Bellini.” He smiled his sexy smile at me. “Do you have a second to chat?”
“Yes, I was going to take a break.” No, I wasn’t. I was swamped. It was nine p.m., and though the town was quiet, the bar was hopping.
“Want to walk?”
“Yes, I do.”Oh boy! Yes, indeedy, I do.“Let me get my coat.” I grabbed my red coat, hat, gloves, and my scarf with Mrs. Clauses on it and met Logan outside. Walking downtown was a holiday gift. Kalulell had outdone itself again. The streetlights had huge red bows, strings of red and green lights crossed the streets, andstorefronts were filled with Christmas displays. Even the gazebo in the middle of the town square had a Christmas tree wrapped in white lights.
“I didn’t know we were in an act together in the Christmas burlesque show,” he said, his tone amused.
“We’re not.”
“Your mom called me. She said we’re doing a dance routine and said Stacy was making you an outfit and getting me something… I forget what it’s called. Something with a feather in it. Plus, she said something about a boa constrictor, I think, although a boa constrictor is a snake…”
“A feather boa?”
“Yes!” he said, snapping his fingers. “That’s it. I’m also to wear a black hat with a red feather, and I’m supposed to wear a black suit.”
My stomach flipped. “My mom told you that we’re dancing in the T and A show.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Logan. You know my mother. I can’t control her. She does what she wants. Don’t worry about it. We’re not in an act, so you won’t need a boa constrictor. I mean, a feather boa. No snakes. I’m only organizing the show. In fact, we’re having a meeting on Thursday night. It’ll be in the back room of the bar.”
“I’ll be there.”
“What?”
“I’ll be there. If we’re going to have our own act, then I’ll need to know the details of the show.”
“Logan, we don’t have our own act. Do you know what this is? It’s a burlesque show. It’s dancing and outrageous skits, and it’s raunchy, but not too raunchy because families will be coming. It’s sequins, twirly skirts, feathered headdresses, black fishnets, high heels, and outrageous costumes all done whileadding Christmas songs and Santa hats and snowwomen and all that.”
“Sounds fun.”
“How can it be fun?”
“Because we always have fun.”
A hundred memories ran through my mind. Fun in kindergarten painting side by side at the easels. Fun in first grade playing knights and pirates with our friends. Fun making clay butterflies and clay lions in art class in third grade. Fun going to his games after school, as he came to mine, and I went to his science fair competitions, and he cheered me on at debates. Fun in high school in his truck, or mine, fun hiking and skiing and hanging out at my house. Fun in school laughing at lunch with our friends/my cousins.
We had fun until we broke up. That dark, sad thought momentarily threw me.
“Do you remember all the fun we had in dance class?” he asked.
“That was one of the most hilarious times of my life.” We both laughed, thinking back. Our high school PE teacher, Mrs. Kerns, a former Broadway performer, had a dance unit every year, and we learned salsa, waltz, tap, ballet, and hip-hop. Logan was terrible at ballet, not so great at tap, but he could waltz. Mrs. Kerns showed us routines. She was in her fifties at the time, strict, regimented, not afraid to discipline children, and she made all of us take formal dancing seriously—or else. For decades, kids from Kalulell High School graduated knowing how to dance because of Mrs. Kerns.
Logan and I had laughed our way through dance class. He would say something funny under his breath to distract me into giggles, or he would throw me over his shoulder when he was supposed to slide me through his legs, or he would salsa while waltzing, or he would try to tap-dance, and he’d sound likean elephant—deliberately—so I’d crack up and get in trouble. I could hardly hold my bladder together some days because he made me laugh so hard.
“You want us to dance, Logan?” Disbelief rang through my voice. “Together. You and me. For the burlesque show?”
“Yes. Why not?”
I studied him. I knew him so well, but he had clearly become practiced over the years at not showing how he was feeling. Yet, I thought I saw…insecurity. And hope. Was he hopeful I would say yes? Could I dance with him? I would have to be with him to practice. I would have to touch him. I would have to let him throw me over his shoulder and through his legs, and we would have to move in rhythm with each other. I would have to go back in time to the healthiest, happiest relationship I’ve ever had.
Such a risk, though. I could feel my face clouding up, like a stormy Montana winter night. Would he end up getting hurt if we spent more time together? Would we both end up getting hurt again? Would something much worse happen to Logan, something he would not be expecting at all, something I knew, and he didn’t? Would dancing with him trigger a disaster that would be my fault, and Logan would have to suffer for it?
