Free Waltz This Way (v1.1) by Dakota Cassidy Page B

hand over the length of her messy ponytail. “Ballroom dancing.”
    Drew’s dark eyebrow’s slammed together. “Say again?”
    “Ballroom dancing.”
    “Here?”
    “It seems so.”
    “And who hired you?”
    “The dance fairy?”
    She’d meant to make him smile again, because it was so nice, but he wasn’t smiling. “Was it Dean Keller?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “God damn it,” he spat, shoving open the doors and stalking through them.
    Mel followed close behind, forcing her eyes away from his ass encased in the jeans he wore like a second skin. “Wait! What did I say?”
    But he waved her off with a quick flip of his hand, leaving her to stand in the middle of the school’s imposing foyer while curious boys in starched black uniforms milled around her.
    Well, then. Yay, teaching.
    Mel glanced at the clock on the wall and realized she’d better find out where her class was going to be held. She stopped a short young boy with thick round glasses and a pristine black jacket with yellow piping. “Can you tell me where Dean Keller’s office is?” She’d lost her bearings after yesterday’s blur of hiring and paperwork.
    He pointed behind her. “If you take this hall approximately twenty-two point three feet then make a hard right, walk another fifteen point six and a half feet, you’ll find his office. His name’s on it. It says Dean Keller. D-E-A—”
    “Thank you,” Mel cut him off, frightened by the idea he’d actually measured how far the dean’s office was from the entry.
    She slipped between the boys and pressed forward twenty-two point three feet. Ah, there it was. Just like Young Einstein had said.
    Just as she raised a hand to knock on his door, she heard yelling.
    Drew’s yelling.
    “You told me my son was coming here to get an education— not dance like some fairy! There was nothing in the welcome package about ballroom dancing and leather pants, Keller!”
    Mel’s eyes went wide. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep her gasp from escaping her lips.
    “Men,” someone muttered.
    Mel whipped around to find Dean Keller’s secretary, Mrs. Willows. She’d met her yesterday while she’d filled out insurance forms.
    “I’m sorry?”
    Hawklike gray eyes on a gaunt face assessed Mel. “Don’t be sorry. I said ‘men.’ They all react the same way when they find out the boys have to learn to dance. They make such a big deal out of it when it’s really not that big of a brouhaha. So, yes. Men. Especially a man as manly as Drew McPhee. Now, he’s all man, a man who’s probably going to be your worst nightmare while you teach his son, Nate.”
    Like she didn’t know nightmares. Mel squared her shoulders. She was offended by the very notion that if a man danced, he was some sort of slight to Neanderthals everywhere.
    Sure, there were lots of gay ballroom dancers. There were lots of gay flight attendants, too. They just didn’t wear costumes that sparkled when they left Newark airport. Dancing was healthy— it was incredibly good exercise and some of the strongest men on the planet were dancers. So enough already with the stigma. “Well, he’ll just have to suck that up, won’t he?”
    Whoa. Had that been a spark of passion in her tone?
    Heh.
    Mrs. Willows began to laugh, the wrinkles on her neck bobbing up and down. “I like you, and yes, he will if he wants his son to attend Westmeyer, especially on a scholarship.”
    “The hell I’ll see my son dressed in some tutu!” Drew shouted, storming out of the dean’s office and heading right toward Mel. His face no longer held that easygoing expression, but a hard mask of fury. His nostrils flared in angry fits of snorts.
    Hoo boy. She put her hands behind her back, clamping her fingers together. “Um, if it’s any consolation, there aren’t many tutus in ballroom dancing. It’s mostly Lycra pants and those skimpy tight shirts.”
    Drew’s blue eyes narrowed to slits in his head. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. I