My cell phone starts ringing from the pocket of my jeans. I cross the room and retrieve it. Amaya gives me a death glare, takes my phone from my hand, and shuts it off without a word.
“What are you doing?” I reach for my phone and she twirls away, holding it closer to her chest.
“No phones. Does your coach let you on the field with it?” She cocks her hip to the side as she holds my phone out.
“No,” I grit out. Who does she think she is? I shake my head as she continues to smirk with satisfaction.
“Good, next time you come to my floor you’ll leave the phone off.”
“Got it. But I expect the same respect from you.” I step into her invading her personal space.
She takes a step back and I follow. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“Well, sweetheart, you aren’t here to just stand and look pretty.” I take my phone and put it back on my clothes pile.
“All right, wise guy. Let me see your freestyle.”
She can’t be serious. I cross my arms over my chest. Twinkle Toes sashays across the room to a small table and turns on some music.
She smiles brightly as she dances her way back to me. She’s swinging her hips moving completely different from before. She’s really getting into the song. I continue to stand, frozen in place as she twirls around me. She comes up behind me and trails her fingers across my bicep, before kneeing me in the rear. “Show me what you got, hot shot.”
I snort. Not happening.
She taps her foot waiting.
I stand still.
“Fine. You don’t dance. I’ll call your coach and tell him you refuse to do the work.” She shrugs and starts walking towards the table.
“Fine,” I call out. I feel stupid. My face is flamed in embarrassment. This chick is eating my humiliation up. I start moving my feet from side to side and swinging my arms out. I close my eyes and pray no one else is seeing this. It will
ruin me if word gets out. I can’t dance.
“Oh God, please, stop.” She’s shaking her head. I knew this was a bad idea. She giggles that musical laugh and it’s infectious. I have to laugh too. “Come here.” She motions me forward with the hook of her dainty finger. My hand would swallow hers.
I step forward and she takes my hand in hers. Yup, I have bear paws compared to her skinny digits.
Amaya instructs me on how to stand and demonstrates the proper way to hold my arms. Dancing is way more technical than I ever gave it credit. I step on her toes at least three times. I’m like a big dumb lug. It’s pathetic. Five songs later, I’m dripping in sweat and ready to die from dehydration. Amaya shares her extra water bottle with me, and I have to refill it twice.
“I think we can call it day. Time slips away from me when I dance,” she says sheepishly.
“Thanks… for doing this. I’m sure this wasn’t how you planned to spend your free time.”
“It’s not so bad,” she admits. “The money isn’t either,” she teases with an airy laugh.
“Yeah,” I agree. She’s not too bad and she’s easy on the eyes. Her hair has come loose. A few strands are framing her face, she’s sort of gorgeous. I resist the temptation to brush the tendrils behind her ears so I can stare at her a moment longer.
Instead, I get dressed. Her heated gaze warms my back as I step into my jeans. She can’t deny that she enjoys checking me out too.
Chapter 4
Amaya
T
ate King, “The King” of the field is my student. Unbelievable. Courtney will just love this little tidbit, if I tell her. Knowing her, she will want to tag along to all my practices so she can ogle him. I’ll admit he has a nice body. He’s kind of perfect in that All-American way—brown spiky hair that’s messy, takes no effort to style, because you know he rolls out of bed looking that good.
So maybe I was checking him out. He’s built like an Adonis. I can appreciate that he takes pride in conditioning his body. The guy stands a good six-feet tall. He’s built and he is attractive. Really attractive.