Page 91 of The Dixon Rule

He frowns.

“Sorry, I’m not trying to insult you. Truly. I’m only stating a fact. Like, I doubt that you and I have the same expenses.”

“No, I get it,” he says gruffly. “We don’t.”

“Right.” I bite my lip. “All I’m saying is, these silly dance videos help me out in terms of money.”

I do my best to ignore the prickly sensation caused by my confession. I hate admitting weakness or showing vulnerability, especially in front of someone like Shane, who comes from means. Not that I come from poverty. I inherited a major windfall in the form of this condo, and yes, I could sell it the way Thomas did with Aunt Jennifer’s other investment property and take the cash. But I like having a home. Something that belongs to me. Cash is easy to blow, but an apartment is forever. It can be a lifelong investment.

“So yeah, I can work my way around it. Post some solo stuff when I’m rehearsing on my own. But the content with me and Kenji did stupidly well.” I give him a hopeful look. “If it helps, I’ll split any ad revenue with you. It’s not a lot, but—”

“No,” Shane interrupts. “I don’t need that at all. Whatever, just film us. But I get approval of everything you post, so I don’t look like too much of an ass. I don’t trust your editing.”

He shouldn’t. I definitely would’ve given him the asshole edit. I hide a smile and set up the equipment.

“Okay.” I stalk toward him. “Our basic rhythm is slow, quick quick, slow, quick quick.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“Don’t get cocky. The cha cha is all about timing. One misstep and you’ve ruined everything.”

“But no pressure.”

“Our starting position is facing each other, and the only step you need to know right now is the chasse step. Start with your weight on your left foot. Left foot, Lindley!”

“Sorry, I was looking at your foot.”

I position his hands—his right one on my left shoulder blade, his left in my right hand. He’s got big hands, probably on account of his two-foot dick. As we slowly run through the steps, heat rushes through me, and I know it’s not from the warm breeze snaking over our bodies. I really need to stop hypothesizing about his penis.

Normally, I love the cha cha. It’s fast and lively and makes me feel like a kid. But Shane’s expression is anything but jovial.

“This is supposed to be a fun dance!” I chastise him. “You look like you’re in a prison camp performing for your captors. Smile.”

He bares his teeth.

I almost keel over laughing, which messes up our rhythm again.

“Sorry, let’s start over. And stop staring at your feet. We need to maintain eye contact the entire time. It’s how we communicate. Look at me, not your feet.”

“But then how do I know if they’re doing what they’re supposed to be doing!” He sounds frazzled, his forehead creased with frustration.

“Ready?” I restart the music and count us in. “Slow step to the right, quick-quick to the left. Slow, quick quick, slow, quick quick.” I yelp when Shane nearly crushes my toes in my sneakers. “Okay, stop. That wasn’t it at all. We need to work on our timing.” I sigh because that’s going to be the hardest part, doing this in sync. “Your quick steps need to be quicker.”

He groans. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.” He turns toward the camera. “Don’t judge me.”

“No, we got this,” I assure him. “Trust me.”

Although his footwork is better next time, his body remains stiffer than a brick wall.

“The cha cha is all about the hips. Every step, roll your hips. Like this.” I show him.

“I’m not doing that.”

“Yes, you are. Push your hip out when you do the chasse step. Then pop it back in on the cha cha step.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

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