Page 36 of Wine & Dine

Don’t disappoint. A picture of a Tin Man stands in the corner of the cardstock paper.

Did I disappoint him?

Having nothing to wear, I’ve arrived in yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes.

“No, no, no,” a flamboyant male says to me after I identify myself. “This will not do.” He eyes my attire. “You are too striking for this.” He waves a hand up and down my physique in disgust. Reaching for my hand, he tugs me to follow him through a curtained doorway and into a dance room.

“Umm…” This seems a little unorthodox. A man I don’t know, who clearly won’t have interest in me, drags me to a corner of his studio.

“Peter. My name is Peter, and this is for you.” He stops short and points to a wrap dress in black and a pair of female dance shoes, size nine for my bigger feet. Color—ruby red. I turn to him, aware I’m staring at him.

“What’s this?”

“If you want to dance the tango, you must have the proper attire.”

“The tango?” I choke. “I don’t want to...” Tango. It’s a sensual dance, and being up close and personal with this man—or any man, for that fact—will be a bit awkward.

“What kind of dance did you think you were learning?” Peter asks.

“Swing or something like that, which I already know.”

“You know how to swing dance?” He taps his foot like a movie diva, crossing his arms over his thin chest.

Crossing my arms in response to his shocked demeanor, I snap, “I do.”

He eyes my outfit again. “Quite.” He’s mocking me. Crossing the dance floor as if his ass holds a pen between his cheeks, he practically sashays to the opposite corner. Swish. Swish. Swish. He’s gliding as he nears a giant stereo system. After he presses a button, the room explodes in big band music.

“Let’s see,” he says as he spins and saunters back to my side. With a few snaps of his fingers, we break into stride. I’m rusty at best. It’s been years since I’ve practiced or even participated in the steps. My mother was the one who loved it, but I fall into line with Peter as my lead, and for a moment, I’m sprung back in time to our living room on the Lane. My mother’s smile. Her wiggling hips. The kick of her feet. If I wasn’t laughing so hard at myself, I might burst into tears with the memories. However, it feels good to remember her in a happier light than the years of disapproval and closet drinking.

I’m bent over out of breath as the song ends, and Peter steps back to give me a one-time clap. His hands clasp together in surprise, but another set of hands continues slow applause behind me.

Oh, God.

I spin and face him.

“What are you doing here?” My face flushes from the exertion but also the possibility Garrett saw me dancing. I don’t need an audience.

“Thanks for warming her up,” Garrett says to Peter without breaking eye contact with me. The sandy brown of his eyes roams my body and then flashes to the dress. His lips twist, and then he nods. “Okay, then.”

He steps forward, and my hands come up to stop him. “What the…?”

“Sweetheart, you didn’t think I was your partner,” Peter teases. “I’m the instructor.”

“But. I thought…” I can’t finish my thought.

“You might want to change,” Peter suggests, whispering as he leans toward me like he’s sharing a secret.

“She doesn’t need to change. She’s perfect as she is,” Garrett says, his eyes not leaving mine as his voice lowers.

Oh God. I’m melting.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say quietly, but Garrett has my hand in his and squeezes.

“I know, but I want to.” We pass another minute gazing at one another before Peter clears his throat, and I break away to change. My sweatshirt is rather bulky, and the sneakers clunky. Not to mention, the shoes aren’t conducive to sliding over the wooden floor. Peter shows me to a changing room, and I stare at myself before the mirror after I slip into the dress. Hugging my body, it accentuates my hips and highlights my breasts. The crisscross over my chest cuts low, but snug. One wrong move and I may be on display, but I feel…pretty. Sexy even. My hands coast over my hips, and I note the bright red heels. Ruby slippers.

If I click three times, will they transport me home? I may never leave this city, and Garrett might give me a good reason to stay. I smile slowly at myself and then step through the changing space curtain.

Ignore the man behind the curtain, rings through my head. As I stare back at Garrett, who wears his own set of dress shoes, fitted suit pants, and a shirt with sleeves he’s rolling up his forearms, there’s no chance I can ignore him. Tin Man, my ass. He’s definitely the Wizard.