"I know," Blossom wailed.
"I'll be right back."
As I walked to my bedroom, I sighed, lifting my eyes heavenward.
Dance classes. With Jamison.
What could possibly happen next?
Chapter 15
Jamison
Dance lessons. As if I didn't have anything better to do.
I arrived at Elegant Dance Studio fifteen minutes early, giving me enough time to second-guess my decision to come at all. Not that I really had a choice. Manuel had made it clear that coming was not optional.
"Dad, I remember you standing against the wall at every party we went to when I was a kid. You're not doing that at my wedding. You're dancing with Blossom."
In my defense, most of those parties were thrown by the Mexican side of his family, and I was no Latin dancer. I saved myself and Maria embarrassment by holding up the wall and occasionally moving my shoulders as if I were too cool to get out on the floor.
The main reason I was hesitant to be here tonight was because of what had happened between me and Tallulah a couple of weeks ago. How was I supposed to be in close proximity to her and act like a normal, functioning adult when all I could think about were her lips and the softness of her skin when I unnecessarily wiped frosting from her cheek?
After a long delay where I watched couples arrive and go inside, I climbed out of my Lexus and shut the door. The studiooccupied the second floor of a converted warehouse that housed a number of businesses geared toward the arts—among them an art gallery, a pottery studio, and the dance studio.
Staring up at the brightly lit windows from the parking lot, I saw two of the students already practicing their steps.
"I should leave," I muttered to myself.
As I plotted a plan of escape by feigning an emergency, Tallulah's orange bus pulled into the parking lot, and she parked two spaces away. When she stepped down from the vehicle, I had to remind myself to breathe normally.
Like every other time I had seen her, she wore a colorful outfit. This time, it was a burnt orange skirt that landed right below her knees, paired with a cream tank top. Her locks were gathered into a high ponytail and wrapped in a colorful fabric that matched her skirt. Silver bracelets on both her wrists chimed against each other with each movement. Turquoise earrings—which were actual chunks of turquoise suspended from silver chains, not the delicate studs I often saw other women wearing—hung from each lobe.
Along with the ring in her nose, her entire appearance was earthy and feminine—like a sexy Mother Earth. I should not be noticing this much.
She observed me from a few feet away. "You came."
"Manuel had a compelling argument for my attendance," I said, slipping a hand into the pocket of my slacks, trying to look casual despite tensing at her appearance.
"Blossom said I have no rhythm and suggested I would embarrass her if I didn't take lessons." She winced.
"You lack rhythm?" I couldn't believe it.
She cocked her head. "Why do you sound so surprised?"
"Because you're..." I caught myself before I said what was on the tip of my tongue.
One of her eyebrows arched higher. "Yes?" she prompted.
"Nothing," I mumbled.
"Is it because I'mbuh-lack?" she asked, the same eyebrow stretching higher.
"I did not say a word about your ethnicity."
She stared at me for a second and then started laughing. I relaxed and breathed easier.
"I'm not offended. My daughter offended me, if I'm being honest, and apparently my entire family agrees I have no rhythm."
