“You’ve got a little…” Tzipi tapped the side of her own mouth with her pinky. “It’s a little crumb, right there.” He mirrored her movements, rubbing the opposite side of his face. “No, other side.”
Her fingertips were there before she knew it, brushing down his beard. Just as his tongue darted between the crease of his lips to capture the offending speck. It was a near miss that still got her pulse pounding.
“That’s me. Bringing sexy – and breadcrumb – back.”
His joke helped release the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
He’d do the same for me, she reasoned. After all, the guy who was supposed to trail you like toilet paper on a shoe wouldn’t actually let you walk around with a piece stuck to it, right?
Riiiiight. Just keep telling yourself that.
The music was getting louder, the crowd getting bigger, but their little spot lit by the menorah felt like an oasis. She could see its flames reflected in his glasses as he gazed down at her with that irresistible smile.
Kara hadn’t mentioned rapport, she hadn’t mentioned banter. And she certainly hadn’t mentioned chemistry. The only thing she had said…was that Max was Jewish.
And that people wouldn’t blink twice if he had to hora dance in the line of duty.
“Well, time to work off all that schmaltz.” She cast a glance over her shoulder as the serpentine of dancers got closer. Then back to Max.
“I think Talia uses olive oi – oy vey.” Her dare must’ve dawned on him. “Are you serious?”
The only way to answer that was with laughter, as she reached her hand toward the circle and was instantly pulled in by an eager octogenarian. Away from the menorah, away from Max, and into the chaos that was a hora.
Tzipi barely had time to fall into the three-steps-one-way, one-step-back routine before the circle reversed. The girl on her other side didn’t get the memo and their grasp slipped as Tzipi was pulled, laughing, in the new direction. But she felt a warm, much larger palm slip into hers. Their fingers curled reflexively as Max inserted himself into the circle. He made sure to catch the floundering girl with his broad reach and get her back in step. A solid anchor.
“Way to keep me on my toes, Koff!” His grumble was good-natured.
For such a big guy, Max was light on his feet. Tzipi couldn’t help but notice how he twisted in perfect step with her, keeping the pace, even though his paces were normally much longer than everyone else’s.
“No twenty minute rule between eating and dancing,” she called, but her voice may have been lost to the wind as they whirled closer to the railing. It wasn’t the perfect hora swirl due to the confines of the deck, but they managed another counter-clockwise transition before pulling their arms up and in, shuffling to the center together and backing away. And again. And again.
The heat of him, the scent of aftershave as her knuckles brushed up against his cheek when they crowded to the middle, and that amused, ever-present chuckle – it all enveloped her.
The klezmer band picked up the tempo, and it was met with hooting, hollering and clapping. Then a collective gasp, and Tzipi quickly realized she wasn’t the only quote-unquote celebrity in the mix.
“Avi! Avi Wolfson!” The girl on Max’s left was trying to dance and film at the same time, her hand fumbling to hold her phone steady as the very-recognizable singer entered the nucleus, spun on his heel and pointed straight at the tallest guy in the circle.
Max gave a get the fuck outta here look if Tzipi had ever seen one, crossing his arms and scoffing. The guy did him one better; crossing his own arms and attempting a Russian kick – one, two – before popping back up, challenge in his dark eyes.
“Hold this?”
Tzipi barely had time to adjust to the welcome weight of Max’s tux jacket on her shoulders before her bodyguard joined the singer, rolling his white shirt sleeves in the process. The two men circled each other, then clasped each other’s shoulders.
And then they dropped.
The crowd went wild at the synchronized move. Avi’s squat was fluid, confident…ever the rock and roll showman. But Max’s was more impressive, crouching even lower, so they could stay aligned and kick with precision. One-two-pause-switch.
Tzipi couldn’t imagine the thigh muscles needed to sustain that move.
But now she couldn’t not imagine Max’s powerful, thick thighs beneath his tux trousers. Preferably in black boxer briefs, with golden hairs dusting –
Get your mind out of his trousers!
She gave a scolding shiver, sliding her arms into the wide sleeves of his coat in a show of nonchalance while the men continued, hands locked on shoulders like brothers-in-arms, as they went up-down and round and round to the clapping in unison of the on-lookers.
Like they had done it a thousand times before.
And maybe they had. For all she knew, Max moonlighted. His agency could certainly be used by the likes of Avi Wolfson. Or maybe he just knew him from returning to the boat, year after year. Because of her.
