Читать книгу Dancing with Dalton - Laura Altom Marie - Страница 8

“No, no, no, Dalton!” Rose cried above the pulsing Latin beat. “I said to arch toward the door, not away from it.”

“What the hell do you think I am? Made of rubber?” The minute Dalton had said the words, he regretted them. He’d never been prone to shoot his mouth off in the heat of anger, but then, this was the first time he’d felt an emotion other than boredom or resignation since his last lesson.

Rose marched to the stereo to turn off the music. Then she returned, heels punching the wood floor in the sudden silence, to stop six inches in front of him, hands on her hips. “First of all, the rock step is the mere tip of the iceberg in terms of technicalities. Second…” Frosty expression thawing, she grinned. “How can I stay mad at you when you give me that look?”

“What look?”

“That one, right there,” she said, pointing to his grinning mouth. “The one where you look like an incorrigible child.”

“Yeah, but a good-looking one, right?” His grin broadened into a full-blown smile.

She rolled her eyes.

“What?”

“What am I going to do with you? You’re a dancing disaster.”

“At our last lesson, you told me I’d improved.”

“Yes, well—” turning her back to him, she aimed for the door “—I take it back. You are quite possibly the worst dancer I have ever encountered.”

“Then where are you going? Obviously, I need more instruction.”

“I’m going upstairs to make a salad to go along with the enchilada casserole already in the oven.”

“What about me? I mean, I paid for an hour lesson.”

“I’ll give you a refund.”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

“Oh?” With Dalton in the hall, she flicked off the studio’s lights.

“How about inviting me for dinner?”

“What?”

“You know—food, drink, conversation. Well, we don’t have to converse, but I am awfully hungry, which might explain my lack of concentration.”

“I don’t know…” She glanced toward the loft stairs.

“Rose. It’s food. What’s not to know? It’s not like I’m asking you on a date.” Although that’s exactly what I’d like to be doing.

“I know, but what’s Anna going to think?”

“Hmm…That you invited a friend for dinner?” He shot her another grin.

“There you go again, giving me that goofy look. How am I supposed to say no?”

“You’re not. At least, that’s the plan.”

“Oh, all right,” she said. “But behave. And Anna and I will expect help with the dishes.”

“You shall have it,” he teased her with a formal bow.

She returned the favor with a not-so-formal swat.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Dalton found himself seated in a kid-size chair at a kid-size table. In front of him was a blob of Play-Doh that he was guessing used to be three different shades—red, green and blue—but was now a purplish-gray.

“Mr. Dalton?” Rose’s wide-eyed daughter asked, hogging all the still-pure-yellow clay.

“Yes?”

“What’re you making? ’Cause there’s kids at my school who do way better than you—even Tommy Butler, and he eats his boogers.”

“Hey, Rose,” Dalton called across the loft to the kitchen where she hummed while making salad. Although he’d offered to help, she’d refused on the grounds that not only did she not want him messing up her kitchen, but it might be helpful to his dancing if he connected with his inner child. Right. The kid in him said he needed better Play-Doh colors. “Are you hearing this abuse?”

“What I’m hearing is a lot of whining. Come on, Dalton, play nice, or I’ll have to sit you in time-out.”

Anna whispered, “She means it, Mr. Dalton. You’d better be good, or you’ll miss Mommy’s cheesy supper. It’s the best.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll play nice, but you’ll have to show me what to make.”

“A horse,” she said. “I like My Little Pony. Tommy Butler says they’re too girlie, but I think he’s gross. And anyway, he eats his—”

“I know—” Dalton said, molding his lump of clay “—boogers.”

“How’d you know?”

With his right index finger, he tapped his temple. “Superhuman mind-reading skills.”

“Really?”

“No, not really,” Rose said, perching on her own pint-size seat to ruffle her daughter’s hair. “You already told him, sweetie.”

“Hey,” Dalton complained. “That’s cheating. Telling all my secrets like that.”

“What secret?” Rose teased. “If you’re going to claim to have superhuman skills, we need proof of something pretty amazing. Not just lame old mind reading.”

“Yeah,” Anna said. “Can you fly? Or laser beam stuff with your eyeballs? Toby Mitchell does that during math class to get out of doing addition.”

“Which?” Dalton asked. “Flying or the laser thing?”

“Sometimes both,” Anna said, eyes wide, expression solemn. “Ms. Marshal tells him to stop, but he won’t.”

“Uh-huh,” Rose said with a cluck of her tongue. “Sounds like it’s time for you to wash up for dinner, and quit telling fibs.”

“I’m not fibbing. Honest. And anyway, Mr. Dalton never showed us his trick.”

“I’m working on it,” he said, messing with his clay. “How about you do what your mom asked, then I’ll show you when you get back.”