Page 145 of The Dixon Rule

“What the hell!” Shane yelps. “Why is this speeding up?”

“It’s the Viennese waltz.”

“So?”

“So it’s a dance of elegance and speed.”

The music reaches its crescendo and we finish in an unimpressive skid.

“Yeah,” I muse. “It needs more work.”

“You think?”

A disgruntled Shane stomps off to go use the bathroom out in the hall. We’ve already chugged two bottles of water each during this rehearsal. We’re in a difficult spot now. We’ve pretty much nailed our tango routine. We’re okay at the cha cha.

But the waltz is killing us.

“Hey, check this out,” I say when Shane returns.

I’m lying on the mat, one leg crossed over my knee and my phone resting on it. Shane flops down beside me, one big arm reaching out to accept the phone.

I can’t take my gaze off his biceps, the way they always ripple whenever he moves his arms. He’s so ripped and it’s fucking sexy. Makes it hard to concentrate.

I snap out of my ogling and press play on the video.

“Watch,” I say grimly.

A female voice chirps out of the phone speaker.

“We’re Martinique and Viktor, and this is what we have to say to Ride or Dance!”

Shane hisses. “That’s us. We’re Ride or Dance!”

“Well aware,” I reply, trying not to laugh.

The video cuts to a couple dancing the tango. With her flawless brown skin and almond-shaped eyes, Martinique is ethnically ambiguous and drop-dead gorgeous. And tall. She has those endless legs I’ve always coveted, which means she and her partner, the fair-haired Viktor, line up perfectly for the tango. The natural way they move together only serves to highlight my biggest fear—the height discrepancy between me and Shane. Our tango is good, but it could be so much better.

“The tango is our Everest,” I mumble.

“What do you mean?”

“Kenji’s small. That’s one of the reasons we liked the tango. But it’s our biggest impediment, Shane—your height.”

“Maybe it’s your height that’s the impediment.”

“No, my height is perfect. It lets you do all the cool lifts. You’re too tall to tango.”

“There’s no such thing as too tall to tango,” he says smugly.

I sigh.

On the screen, Martinique executes a graceful spin, her hand extending in a flourish. Viktor takes it, and they both turn to address the camera.

“We’re coming for you, Ride or Dance,” Viktor says with a smirk.

Shane gasps. “These dickheads are trolling us!”

“See? I told you.” I pull up their profile and squawk in outrage. “They have a hundred thousand followers.”

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