Before I can respond, Jules calls the class back to order. "Partners switch! Everyone rotate!"
The men shuffle, and suddenly Finn's paired with Dave from the hardware store, a stocky former Marine with enviable rhythm. I watch as Dave explains something, demonstrating with precise movements that Finn mimics with increasing confidence.
This isn't going according to plan at all. By the end of the first hour, Finn's not just keeping up, he's excelling. His natural athleticism has kicked in, and the movements that made him stumble earlier now flow with frustrating ease. The other men have accepted him as one of their own, sharing tips and inside jokes.
Midway through the second hour, Jules claps for attention. "Gentlemen, you've been following all morning. Time you felt what a clear lead feels like, and our newest student is the freshest example. Darcy, come lead Finn through the cross."
I gape at her. "I'm not participating. I’m supervising."
She waves me toward the floor. "You've taken six years of my classes. Up."
Which is how I end up in dance frame with Finn Bardot, my hand firm at his shoulder blade, his resting warm in mine, close enough to see the flecks of green scattered through the blue of his eyes.
"Don't anticipate," I tell him, because the follower's cardinal sin is the only thing I can think of that isn't his proximity.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, low, and for eight bars he gives me his total, unnerving attention, every signal answered a half-beat after I send it, nothing anticipated, nothing resisted.Neither of us breathes quite right until Jules calls the rotation and I hand him back to Ernie like something borrowed.
"Good frame," Jules announces to the room. And to me, just barely audible: "Hmm."
The rest of the hour passes with similar betrayal. By the time Jules announces the end of class, Finn's danced with every partner, learned three different step patterns, and somehow managed to charm the entire room. Even Ernie gives him a grudging back-slap of approval.
"Same time next week?" Dave asks him, and I nearly choke.
"Afraid I'm just visiting," Finn replies, with a glance my way. "But it's been surprisingly educational so far."
As the men disperse, Finn approaches me with a gleam in his eye I don't trust. "So, taskmaster, what's next on the agenda?"
"High school drama club," I say, straightening my shoulders. "They need help with set construction."
"Perfect." He actually looks pleased. "I design adventure courses for a living. Building things is right in my wheelhouse."
Of course it is. I should have known dance class wouldn't break him. But the day is young, and I still have plenty of opportunities to make Finn Bardot regret every "Dictionary Darcy" joke he ever made.
Even if part of me is already wondering if I'm the one who's going to regret this weekend.
CHAPTER 7
FINN
The Ferrari looks deeply wrong in the Mattichogue High faculty lot—a peacock parked at a bake sale—and for once I see it as the rest of the town must. I try to be chivalrous and jog around to meet Darcy before she can climb out of the passenger seat, but she practically vaults out of the car on her own.
This morning has been a revelation so far. An all-male tango class I didn't hate, an ex-linebacker who fixed my posture, and a disapproving schoolteacher who reluctantly led me through eight bars of music then handed me back like an overdue library book.
"Feels weird parking next to the principal’s car," I say as we cross the lot, because the silence has weight and I'm constitutionally opposed to carrying it.
"Not to me. I park here every day. You know, because this is literally my job."
"Right." I look up at the red brick building where I logged four years of strategic clowning. "I forget sometimes that not everyone left Mattichogue."
"Some of us found purpose here instead of running away."
The jab lands clean, right through the ribs. "Is that what you think I did? Run away?"
"Didn't you?" She turns, chin up, her hazel eyes bright with the fight. "The second graduation was over, the golden Bardot boy couldn't get out of Mattichogue fast enough."
She's not wrong about the speed. She's just wrong about the direction. You can't run away from a place that doesn’t have a need for you. You can only run toward somewhere that hasn't already decided you were unwanted. None of which I say out loud, mainly because the drama room door bursts open and Annie Felder comes out like a cyclone.
"Finally! The kids are about to mutiny if we don't get these sets built today."
