STANDING IN THE KITCHEN, Camile studied the impressive timber-frame construction of the home. Huge recycled wooden beams, posts and rafters were highlighted with light-colored arches and purlins throughout. The open floor plan made it possible to see the vast living room, dining area, kitchen and entryway all at once.
The color scheme was a harmonious mix of muted grays, greens and blues. The decor was an appealing and interesting montage of antique furniture, vintage woodworking tools, pottery, funky metal sculptures and assorted knickknacks. Photographs hung in artistic groupings on the walls. Everything came together in a cool, artsy way that made her want to walk around and examine it all. But the effect paled in comparison to the spectacular views beckoning from the tall windows that fronted the home on the ocean side.
Anne poured coffee into two blue and purple glazed ceramic mugs and pointed to an assortment of add-ins in tiny matching pots and pitchers: heavy cream, almond milk, sugar, artificial sweetener. Camile added cream and sugar.
“Muffin?” Anne gestured at the platter sitting on the counter nearby. “Fresh-baked. They’re triple berry—blueberry, blackberry, raspberry. The berries are from your sister’s farm.”
As usual, she’d skipped breakfast, and the smell was reminding her stomach. “Absolutely. They look delicious.”
Anne handed her a small plate and took one for herself. They both dished up muffins and then settled at a rectangular-shaped dining table constructed from three thick wooden planks. They were a dark golden-blond color, and the curling, intricate grain patterns of the wood stood out beneath a light, clear finish. The edges of the slabs had been left close to their natural state, the bark peeled away to reveal the texture beneath.
“This table is incredible.”
“Rhys made it.”
“He made it?” Camile repeated, hating that she felt as impressed as she sounded.
“This gigantic old maple tree blew down on the property last winter, and he made this table out of it. Cuz that’s what people do when a tree falls over, right? They craft something out of it.” She added a little shake of her head but there was pride in her smile. “He built this house, too. He’s much better with tools and machinery and...things than he is with people.”
Camile didn’t know what to say that didn’t sound fawning and gushy. And she didn’t want to fawn or gush or be impressed with Rhys McGrath’s skills in any way. She recognized that Anne was trying to make excuses for his atrocious personality. That she could definitely comment on, but not without revealing information—namely about their date, also a subject she didn’t want to raise. Instead, she filled her mouth with a chunk of muffin, which was hands down the most delicious thing she’d eaten in months. Possibly forever.
“Wow,” she said after savoring another bite. “This is to die for. Seriously, this might be the best muffin I’ve ever eaten. Please don’t repeat that in the vicinity of Bakery-by-the-Sea. I’m one of their best customers.”
Anne laughed. “Rhys made them.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I know. He bakes, too.” Again, there was a mix of bafflement and respect in her tone. And then a hint of sadness when she added, “My brother spends a lot of time alone. Too much. Or at least, I think so.”
“So do you live here with him?” Camile asked, avoiding another leading statement by asking a question of her own. Because admittedly, she was curious about the McGraths. Anne, mostly. Not Rhys. Okay, a little bit Rhys, but she only wanted to hear the bad stuff where he was concerned. She did not want to hear about the talented-woodworker-builder-world-class-baker guy.
“Part-time. I have my own place in Portland. My business is based there, but I’m hoping to be here full-time when Willow officially moves in. I’ll have to travel more, but it will be worth it.” Camile also did not want to hear about the fiancée, the woman who she could safely assume Rhys had not walked out on during their first date.
“What kind of business?”
“A PR firm.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“It is. Very. Under normal circumstances, I would use my skills to convince you to take my brother on as your dance student. But these are not normal circumstances.”
Uh-oh. Camile should have known that Anne had taken her refusal too well. She was suddenly struck with the feeling that this had all been designed to convince her. Suspiciously, she wondered about the muffins. She and Harper had this weakness in common, and she remembered Harper mentioning it at the restaurant. Had Anne asked Harper which flavor Camile liked?
“Anne—”
Anne cringed a little and held out an interrupting hand. “I know what you’re thinking. I am very good at my job. Reading people is my special gift, and I can see that you’re not going to budge at my not-so-subtle attempts to change your mind about Rhys. So, instead of giving you a pitch, I’m going to try the truth. My brother has a huge heart. It’s just buried under these layers of...”
Rudeness? Arrogance? Narcissism? Camile was tempted to tell her about the date. But she knew very well that Anne would relay it to Rhys. And Camile was growing secure in the knowledge that Rhys didn’t remember her. Now that she’d accepted that, and because they were likely going to be acquaintances going forward, it seemed better not to have to relive that initial encounter.
Anne went on, “I wouldn’t ask if this dancing thing wasn’t very, very important. Despite the way Rhys presented it, his learning to dance is personal. Willow is so special. She deserves this. She deserves...” Tears pooled in her eyes, and Camile knew instinctively that they were genuine. Apparently, the two women were close, which would be a nice thing for sisters-in-law. Blinking rapidly, Anne inhaled a deep breath and continued, “I realize that none of this matters to you—you don’t know us. But Willow has been through so much. Her dad passed away two years ago. And then, three months ago, her mom died in a car accident. She lost both of her parents within two years. I’m sure you can imagine how difficult that’s been for her, for all of us. If you knew my brother better, you’d understand that the fact that Rhys is even willing to do this speaks to his love for her. I mean, we’re talking about a guy who didn’t even go to his own prom. I’m asking you to give Rhys another chance.”
Camile felt a surprising and inexplicable softening of her heart. Not her resolve, though. Not enough to be his teacher. There were plenty of qualified dance instructors out there. Camile was about to recommend a couple when Anne went on, “I’d like to propose a trial basis. Commit to...say, two or three lessons, and see how it goes. I promise you that what Rhys lacks in natural talent he will make up for in hard work. If nothing else, he’s an excellent student.”
Two lessons would be a thousand dollars. Camile had to admit it was tempting. Could she handle being with Rhys McGrath for even two hours, though?
At the other end of the spacious living room, a door opened, and Rhys strode into the room. “Are you talking about me?”
“Rhys, we have much better things to discuss than your boring self,” Anne teased, and winked at Camile.
Rhys approached the table. With a tentative smile trained on Camile, he looked into her eyes and she found herself reluctantly captivated by their blue depths and his earnest expression. He almost seemed nervous. He said, “I’m late, and I apologize...” For a split second, she thought he’d forgotten her name again, but that wasn’t the case. And the way he said it, “Camile,” in this low and silky tone like it was its own sentence sent her stomach responding with a nice, albeit annoying, flutter. “I’m sure Anne told you I was skyping with Willow. She’s in South Carolina with her grandparents right now. I confess that when she calls, I pretty much drop everything. Yesterday, I basically hung up on a United States senator to take her call.”
Camile stared up at him and hoped she did a passable job of stifling her surprise. So he had a sweet side, so what? As Anne stated, this had nothing to do with her. How did that saying go—poor planning on the part of a jerk like you does not constitute an emergency on mine? Close enough. But it also raised a question. “So she won’t be joining you for the dance lessons?”
“Nope. She’s getting lessons there.”
Anne grinned up at Rhys. “I cannot wait to see her face when she finds out you’ve done this for her. She will be over the moon.” Then she explained to Camile, “It’s a surprise. The girl knows Rhys very well. She knows he hates dancing, and she’d never dream of asking him to learn for her.”
Oh, perfect, Camile thought, this just keeps getting better and better. A surprise gift of dance for the sweet and selfless fiancée. Who happened to be grieving the loss of both parents. How completely thoughtful and romantic, and wasn’t she about to be the evil queen of killjoys here?
Heaving out a sigh, Rhys slid one hand around his neck and held it there for a few seconds. “Let’s just hope I can do it.” Eyebrows at half-mast, he said to Camile, “You’ve got your work cut out for you, I’m afraid.”
Rhys and Anne exchanged another meaningful glance. Camile saw what looked like uncertainty and vulnerability in his. Anne reached over and squeezed his hand. He smiled, but it wasn’t truly a smile. The lips were curled upward in the right places, but the gesture conveyed only sadness. Like genuine, soul-deep sorrow. The moment passed quickly but, like Anne, Camile was good at reading people. And she felt it, the emotion, almost as strongly as if it was her own. Because Camile knew what it was like to suddenly realize you were out of your element. She knew what it was like to fail. And to then absolutely not know what to do about it. At that moment, she felt how much it meant to him to succeed at this, and she also knew she could help him. Dancing, teaching him, she could do.
His expression had shifted back to that inscrutable confidence when he asked her, “Are you ready to see my wood shop turned dance studio? The place where I’m ready to make a fool of myself for the girl I adore.”
And apparently, that was what it took to strip away the last of her resolve, to convince her to agree to teach Rhys McGrath, the man who’d so cruelly rejected her, how to dance. With a resigned smile at Anne, she gave in. “Sure. Let’s do this.”
Two days. Two lessons. A thousand dollars in her pocket. Two hours in the company of Rhys McGrath and then she’d find him another teacher.
CAMILE HAD BARELY made it back to her apartment when she received a text from Harper. Assuming she’d already spoken to Anne or Rhys, Camile shook her head at the speed of the Pacific Cove grapevine. But concern flooded in as she read the message: Call me as soon as you can. Do not delay! Important!
Before she could even tap the screen to call her, another text came in: Everyone is fine, btw.
A text from Nina followed that: Call me ASAP!
No doubt her sister wanted to know how her meeting had gone, too. She called Harper first, who picked up immediately. “Camile! Thank goodness I caught you.”
“Harper, what is it? You sound pretty frantic for everyone being okay. What’s wrong?”
“Since you don’t seem to know already, I assume you haven’t been on social media this morning?”
“No. I’ve been out at Rhys McGrath’s house.”
“Oh, right. That’s good. But Camile, you... You’re all over the internet.”
“What do you mean?” Panic rushed through her for absolutely no reason that she could think of. A quick mental sweep of her life didn’t reveal anything untoward or even particularly embarrassing, thesis defense aside. She pretty much walked the straight and narrow. Had done so her entire life. Even in high school. Of course, with a Coast Guard officer as a dad, to attempt any other path would have been pointless. No drugs, no drinking to excess, no late-night shenanigans. Not only was her closet skeleton-free, it was clean and neatly organized.
“The speech that you gave Bobby yesterday when you quit the taco truck?” Harper paused to snicker. “You didn’t mention that you told him his tacos tasted like sea vomit, by the way.”
Uh-oh. “Someone recorded it?”
“Yep. You’ve gone viral.”
Panic receding slightly, she said, “Oh boy.”
Masculine laughter boomed through the line a second before Kyle’s voice came through. “Camile, you were pure brilliance. Everyone is talking about it. They love it. My personal favorite is when you asked him if he had a tortilla in his pocket.” He guffawed and then added, “That guy is a jerk. Chief Taco-Head...” His voice disintegrated into laughter.
Harper came back on. “Sorry, he insisted. You’re his new hero.”
Camile sighed. She did not want internet fame. “Well, it’s nice to be someone’s hero, I guess. He is a jerk. Bobby, obviously. Not Kyle.”
“I knew who you meant. And Kyle is right. You’ve got a ton of community support. That, I think, is sort of the problem.”
Camile felt a prickle of concern skitter up the back of her spine. “What do you mean?”
“People are boycotting his taco truck. His business has dwindled to nothing. He’s blaming you.”
“He’s the only one to blame. Among other things, he puts fillers in his carne asada.”
“Camile, he doesn’t see it that way. The jerk says he’s going to sue you.”
EVERYONE CAN DANCE. Camile firmly believed this. Tone-deaf, uncoordinated, unenthusiastic, uptight, it didn’t matter—she prided herself on being able to teach even the most difficult of students how to dance. She’d once taught a woman who was clinically beat-deaf how to jitterbug and she’d gone on to win second place in a local talent contest. It was simply a matter of discovering the underlying issue inhibiting their ability and then fixing it or working around it. Judging from the pained look on his face, Rhys fell into at least two of these categories.
She couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. Which was okay, she reassured herself. Even though she was a professional, it was normal for her to empathize with her students. Connecting with people was one of her strengths. She firmly believed it made her a better teacher. It didn’t mean she had to like the guy.
The day before, when Rhys had said “wood shop,” she’d expected a drafty metal building with a concrete floor, heavy machinery sitting about, and no windows. She should have known better than to assume anything where he was concerned. Rhys had led the way through the kitchen to a door that entered an enclosed hallway leading to another building, like a wing to the house that wasn’t visible when you pulled up outside. Rhys explained that one end contained his office and lab and the other, his workshop. When they’d stepped inside, Camile had been surprised to find the same stunning ocean views and a space that could easily function as a small dance studio. All the tools, machinery, metal and wood had been moved to one end of the room. He’d asked what she thought. Offhandedly, she’d replied that the only thing missing were mirrors. Then, still reeling from the commitment she’d made, she’d announced the lessons would start the next day.
She’d needed some time both to come to terms with what she’d agreed to and to develop a strategy. At the time she hadn’t known that she’d also need to find legal counsel. Even though Bobby hadn’t made an official move yet, Harper felt certain he would. When Camile had told Nina, who’d texted because she too had seen the video, about Bobby’s alleged intentions, Nina had insisted that Camile consult with her attorney. One long phone call with the esteemed and friendly Bailey Leeds and Bailey had assured Camile that she could consider herself represented, when and if the need should arise. Feeling both relieved and depressed, Camile had hung up and mentally added another bill to the pile that seemed to be growing despite her best efforts otherwise.
Turned out that even the threat of a lawsuit didn’t leave much brain time left for dance strategizing. But she had managed to polish off a pint of ice cream while assuring herself that she was taking the high road by helping Rhys out. It felt good to remind herself that, by her standards anyway, said road was also paved in gold. The thousand dollars she’d been counting on would now go to pay her attorney. Stupid, smelly Bobby.
Now, here she was, the very next afternoon, standing side by side with Rhys McGrath before a wall of mirrors and gearing up to start their first lesson. Yep, that was right: tall mirrors now covered most of one wall. Camile didn’t ask how he’d managed it. He’d probably made them, too, she thought wryly.
“So,” she said to his reflection, “the waltz is just a simple box step.”
“Simple?” Rhys repeated skeptically.
“Yes. With a rhythmic one-two-three count.”
His answering frown was part uncertainty, part confusion.
“In my experience, people who think they can’t dance don’t understand how it can be broken down into numbers.” This was true. She’d taught plenty of left-brain-dominant, type-A engineer types like she’d pegged Rhys to be. Sure, they might not ever add head-turning pizzazz to their dance repertoires that her more rhythmically inclined students managed, but a surprising number of them did. The upside was that she’d discovered that the competitive drive this personality type possessed could overcome just about any mental shortcoming. “I’m guessing you like numbers?”
“I do.”
“Great! As I was saying, the box step forms the basis of the waltz. You essentially make a box shape on the floor with your feet.” With one hand, she traced the shape of a square. “You’ll start with your left foot. Like this.” Camile held her arms up as if embracing an imaginary partner and took a step forward. “The right foot follows diagonally to the right, and then the left joins it there. Then the reverse, to close the box.” Performing the steps, she narrated the motion, “Right goes back, then left diagonally, and close the box.” She repeated the sequence a couple more times, counting out loud, “One, two, three. One, two, three. Six simple steps and you’re waltzing.” She offered him an encouraging smile. “See? Easy-peasy. Now your turn.”
He nodded, managing to appear both gravely serious and completely unconvinced. Scratching his chin, he tilted his head down. “But what are you doing with your feet? They’re sort of gliding above the floor. Like a hovercraft.”
Camile couldn’t help a chuckle. “It is sort of like that. But don’t worry about technique right now. Just do the steps. I’ll teach you the hovercraft glide later. Go ahead.”
“I’m sorry. Can you demonstrate again?”
“Don’t be sorry. That’s what you’re paying me for.” Counting, she began repeating the count along with the steps.
“One, two, three,” he joined in softly, almost as if he was doing it unconsciously while he studied her movements. “Okay, I think I got it.”
“And go...” Camile said.
He did, completing a single box. Camile felt herself thaw a bit at the furrow-browed look of pure concentration on his face. Normally, she’d talk to or tease a student to get them to relax. She resisted the urge here. She was determined not to establish any kind of rapport. Two lessons, one dance, she reminded herself. Get in, get out, done.
“Good! You got this. Again.”
He repeated the movement.
“Now, this time, don’t stop. Just keep box stepping, and I’ll do it with you.” They performed the movements together with Camile counting and snapping her fingers.
Still moving, she danced around in a half circle until she was facing him, mirroring his steps. “Excellent. And there you have it. Now you’re going to try it with me.”
He stopped in his tracks, brow lines back in full force.
Facing him, Camile patted her left shoulder and instructed, “Right hand here.” He complied, and she ignored how nice the heat of his hand felt as it seeped through the thin fabric of her tank top. “Left arm up.” He obeyed. Silently, she admitted there was something vaguely satisfying about barking orders at him. But this action, the press of his palm against hers, the feel of the work-roughened texture of his skin, her hand enfolded in his, was slightly more difficult to ignore. She told herself it was just the shock of it all, being here with him. Dancing.
“Ah,” he said, tilting his chin toward the floor again. “Now I see why you’re wearing heels.”
“Is that your way of insulting my height?” she joked, breaking her own rule before she could stop herself.
He brought his gaze back up and locked it on to hers, and Camile was a little taken aback by the intensity she saw there. “No. Absolutely not. Why would that be insulting? I’m sorry if you took it that way.”
“Um, it’s—it’s fine,” she stammered. “I was joking. I know I’m short. It would be difficult to forget as the only short person in a family of very tall people. You know, recessive genes or whatever.”
“That would not be the case,” he said. “Height is polygenic. And there are other variables. It’s more quantitative than that. So the term recessive doesn’t apply when it comes to height.”
Camile squinted up at him, trying to decide if he was serious. When he didn’t blink, she said, “I know. At least three genes are involved and like six alleles, right?” Genetics had been one of her favorite premed courses. “Plus, there are nutritional and environmental factors. I wasn’t being literal. I was exaggerating for effect. Making fun of the fact that I drew the short straw in my family.” She added a wink.
Gaze narrowed in on her, he shook his head a couple of times very slowly as if thinking carefully about how to respond.
Embarrassed by her lame joke, she clarified, “That was a bad pun. Sorry.”
When he spoke, his eyes traveled over her while his mouth hinted at a smile. “No, you’re wrong. It was not a bad pun. It was a very good pun. But there’s nothing inferior about your genetic fate. Quite the contrary. Height is also a very subjective preference as far as attractiveness goes. Studies have shown that shorter women with discernible curves are the most symmetrically pleasing. I happen to agree with the consensus.”
Camile stared into his earnest blue eyes and felt her lips part. What the...? Her neck went hot as she tried to wrap her brain around this moment. Obviously, the man was brilliant in a way that resulted in a unique perspective. But the part that had her speechless was the fact that he’d just given her a really lovely compliment. Like, spellbindingly good. And he seemed sincere. Granted, the delivery wasn’t the smoothest, but the meaning was there. It also caught her off guard and made her feel warm in even more surprising ways. Ways she shouldn’t feel. Not with Rhys McGrath, date absconder, social snob and possibly worse, if any of the rumors were true. Not to mention that the guy was learning how to dance for another woman, his troubled and special and cherished fiancée.
All of this added up to the conclusion that she didn’t know what to do with it. So she ignored it and concentrated on what she was here to do.
She said, “Women of all heights generally wear heels when ballroom dancing.” Granting him a small smile, she gave his shoulder a reassuring, platonic-style pat that may have come across nearly as awkward as his compliment. “Now just pretend I’m not here and do the same thing you were doing before.”