Free Dancing Lessons by R. Cooper Page A

embarrassing topic of conversation. “What happened to the person who used to do all the costumes for you?”
    Rafael wrinkled his nose at the clumsy subject change, but it didn’t really seem to bother him. Maybe it was the knowledge that Chico was blushing and squirming. “Her arthritis got really bad a few years ago. You’ll see her at the performance, though, front row. We’ve never been able to find anyone to replace her, but the volunteers and my mother try. The problem is we do a lot of recitals, especially for the younger kids. You know”—Rafael leaned back into the sofa again—“the classes aren’t technically for children alone. You could always take a tap class if ballroom doesn’t appeal to you.”
    “You still think I could take a class?” Chico ignored his embarrassment to ask.
    “I think the rush of endorphins from the exercise would do you some good.” Rafael gave him a slow nod. “And the socializing, the friendly touches. It improves moods. They’ve done studies.”
    Friendly touches. Chico rubbed a hand down over his hip. That touch had felt a lot more than friendly to his touch-starved body. His mouth went dry again. “I wouldn’t have a partner. And I don’t know that I’d be much good at it anyway. It sounds like something it would be more fun to do with someone. A friend. Or a date.” He met Rafael’s gaze, then lowered his eyes. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
    “Yeah?” Rafael took his time answering. He looked down too, for another few moments, but then he lifted his chin. “Well, at least I had you in my class for a little while.”
    Chico frowned but didn’t get to ask what he meant.
    Mrs. Winters appeared in the doorway. “Class? What class is that, Raf, darling? The one you should be teaching right this moment? That class?”
    Chico jerked his shoulders straight and sat upright.
    Rafael rolled his eyes but obediently got to his feet. “Yes, Mama,” he told his mother playfully, not sounding remotely intimidated by all the motherly sarcasm. He kissed the top of her head as he went by, then murmured, “Be nice to him,” with enough intent to have Chico frozen all over again.
    Rafael finally looked back at Chico and gave him a smile that was not as gentle as it could have been. “I’ll see you later, Chico. Feel free to keep thinking about me while I’m gone.”
    He said that with his mom glancing between them, and then he disappeared out the door, leaving Chico alone.
    With Rafael’s mother.
    With Rafael’s imperious and sharp-eyed mother.
    “Chico, yes?” She pronounced his name like it was Spanish, and Chico couldn’t think to correct her. Her gaze swept over everything and missed nothing. “You don’t want to dance?”
    “I don’t think I should right now.” He mumbled like the he had the first and only time he’d ever attempted to go to confession.
    Her expression indicated Chico had cut her to the quick and that she would make him pay for it. However, what she said was “But you will,” with a certainty that had him wriggling internally.
    He blinked at her, and she squinted in return, as if she was trying to see inside of him. “You will,” she repeated and then crossed the room with sure, precise steps.
    “You embroider?” she pressed, elegant and commanding as she came forward. Mrs. Winters prodded the pencil on top of the notebook and tapped the sketch he’d done. “What eyes you have to see this,” she remarked, meaning something else entirely from what her son had said when he’d compared Chico to Bambi.
    Nonetheless, Chico went still, and she patted the top of his head with one slender hand. “It’s beautiful, darling, carry on,” she announced in the voice of a grand dame, and she left him to it, sailing back out from whence she came.
    Outside, in the other room, Mr. Winters continued to play the piano. But he did pause for a moment to shoot a sympathetic look in Chico’s direction, as if he understood Chico’s