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In college, one of my best friends insisted that we go to a few salsa lessons at a local bar where her crush just so happened to work. She said she wanted to pick up a new hobby, and I said ‘hobby’ was an interesting pronunciation of ‘Hailey.’
“A few times,” I tell him. “But it was a while ago.”
“Same. I mean, in front of people.”
“Wait—you mean to tell me that you own, like, the hottest new salsa club in Miami, and you don’t even get out there to enjoy it?”
“I enjoy it very much,” he replies, pulling me toward him and holding me in frame. “I just choose to enjoy it from behind the bar.”
He leads me for a few moments, and once we settle into a rhythm he looks over my shoulder, back to where we left his mom and Sawyer.
“I watched my parents dance for years. Mom was technically brilliant from all her training, but my pop—he had this passion for it. A spark, you know? And I’d watch my parents salsa and laugh and whisper. Sometimes they’d just take a break in the middle of doing the most basic thing, like washing dishes. And it felt special, you know? Like dance was this intimate thing.” His eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment before he clears his throat and looks away. “Anyway. I like to know I created a space for people to have that, you know? And someday, I’m sure I’ll have someone to come out here with and have that same connection my parents did, before.”
It’s a lot to share with a total stranger, both the words and the intimacy of dance. “That sounds really beautiful. And I’m sure you will.”
The music stops and we break our hold to applaud. Javi leans in so I can hear him and jerks his head toward the bar. “I’m sure you will, too,” he says. Then he thanks me for the dance and kisses the back of my hand before taking off toward the growing line at the front door.
When my gaze shifts back to the bar, I catch Sawyer’s eyes on me. They seem heavy with hope or dread as he throws back the last of his mojito and pushes off from his stool.
After yesterday—well, after the way things ended yesterday—the idea of being close to him, with structure and rules and an audience to keep us in line, sounds really nice. I try to soften my expression, as if to say Come on over, I won’t be a jerk. I can feel it working, and the upturned corners of his mouth tell me that the hesitation in his step is about something other than me.
Unfortunately, Dolphins Jersey Guy doesn’t hesitate at all, and he drunkenly throws an arm around my shoulders. “So you’re a romance writer?” he asks, more a statement than a question.
“I am,” I answer. Sawyer’s only halfway to me and he stops, rooting himself to the floor.
“I have a joke for you,” the guy says. “What do women and salsa have in common?” I’m afraid to guess, so I wait for him to deliver the punchline. He squeezes my shoulders as he drops his voice. “I like ‘em both real spicy.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively and drops his gaze to my cleavage.
“First of all, where I fall on the Scoville scale is none of your business,” I say. “And second of all, and I mean this with all the respect you deserve, ew.” I try to shrug him off of me, hoping he’ll get the hint.
Spoiler alert: he doesn’t.
His cackle is interrupted by a firm voice from a dozen feet away.
“Hey!”
The music plays on, but there’s a definite record-scratch moment in my head, when everything else stops and I’m hyper-focused on what’s happening around me.
“Why don’t you let her go, man.”
Jersey Guy’s arms tighten around me. “Why would I do that?” It’s more possessive than playful.
Sawyer looks like he belongs here, with his fitted tan shorts and his gauzy white button-down. The top three buttons are undone, showing a tan, muscular chest I was stubbornly ignoring earlier today, and the fabric ripples as he unbuttons the cuff of one of his sleeves. He flips the cuff up and rolls it over itself until I can see his flexors twitch with restraint. “Because I’m telling you to,” he growls, and he repeats the process with his other arm, staring down this stranger as he does and taking a restrained step toward us.
“Maybe she doesn’t want me to let her go,” he counters, but I very much do. Sawyer takes another step forward, clenching his fists, but he reads my warning expression perfectly and keeps a safe distance.
“Actually,” I say, twisting, trying to put more space between myself and this guy. “I should probably get going.”
“Why?” he asks. He pouts, playfully possessive. “Stay, pretty lady. Let’s talk more about romance.”
I shiver at his creepy tone and unfocused leer.
“She said no.” Sawyer’s next to me, his fingers wrapped around my wrist, and I’ve never been so grateful for his height as he towers over this man, clearly intimidating him.
I’m sure the standoff is drawing attention, and my thoughts are confirmed when Javi slides toward us. He speaks through gritted teeth and a forced smile. “Everything okay here?”
Apparently, when both a man eight inches taller than you and the bar’s owner approach you, you have a change of heart. Jersey Guy removes his arm from my body; the world’s worst game of tug-of-war has ended.
“We’re heading out,” I say, offering a smile to Javi. “Thank you so much for the drinks and the dance.” He starts to respond, but I rush to grab my bag from my seat at the bar and head outside into the fresh air and sunlight.
