“That's it. Feel the beat.”
I show them a slight variation—adding a heel drop, showing them how to accent different beats.
“Room for one more?”
Holly's standing at the edge of the group.
“Yeah. Of course.”
* * *
HOLLY
He taps the rhythm—stomp, step, step, stomp—and my brain short-circuits.
It's a basic step. Nothing fancy. But watching him move with that grace, that ease, in a tuxedo tailcoat.
I’m aware I’m supposed to breathe at some point but it seems optional. Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly had a baby, and the baby grew up to be six-feet-something of devastating competence smiling at children like he's never been happier in his life.
I need to sit down. Or lie down. Or leave the building.
“Show me?” I manage.
He demonstrates the pattern. I watch his feet, try to mirror it. Get the first two beats, lose the third.
“The trick is feeling it,” he says. “Here—may I?”
I nod.
He steps closer. He takes my hands, turns them palm up like he's about to read my fortune.
Instead, his fingertips press the rhythm into my skin. Tap-tap-pause-tap. Each touch sends a small current up my arms, my shoulders, down my spine. His fingers are warm and certain against my palms, the connection so direct it's almost unbearable.
“Feel that?” he asks, his voice lower than before.
“I think so.”
He taps it again, slower. “Stomp, step, step, stomp.”
“Stomp, step, step, stomp,” I repeat.
The rhythm makes sense now, clicking into place.
“Now try it,” he says.
I step back and attempt the step. Get it perfect.
“I did it!”
“Natural.” His voice is rough.
“Because you're a good teacher.”
“Because you're a good student.”
Marie clears her throat. Loudly. “So are we doing more steps or are you guys going to stare at each other?”
Several parents laugh. My face goes scarlet.
