Page 6 of Cupid's Beau

Then my mother clears her throat. “More mafé, Mr. Ellis?”

“Please.” He breaks our eye contact to smile at her. “And it’s Jack, Ma’am.”

“Then you must call me Aminata.” She beams as she serves him seconds. “And you’ll have to tell us about your latest film. The one about the brothers?”

“Ma,” I warn, “I’m sure Mr. Ellis doesn’t want to talk about work.”

“It’s okay,” he says, surprising me. “Actually, there’s a funny story about that one. We were filming in Boston, and this seagull kept diving at our sound guy…”

He launches into the anecdote, and I find myself watching him. The way his big hands move as he talks. How his accent gets stronger when he’s relaxed. His deep laugh when my father shares his own seagull story from his restaurant days. Then it hits me - this is not just me being star-struck or the remnants of my decades-long crush on Jack Ellis, the superstar. I’m attracted to this man. His face, his body, his voice, his kind smiles to my mother, the friendly looks he exchanges with my father, theweight of his gaze when he talked about reading my book. I’m in so much trouble right now…

“And now,” my mother announces as she clears the last plates, “is the best part of dinner.”

Jack raises an eyebrow.

“Oh no,” I mutter, shaking my head, my stomach filling with dread, knowing exactly what’s coming. They wouldn’t.

But my father’s already moving to the record player in the corner of the dining room. “It’s tradition,” he deadpans. “After a good meal, comes good music,” he explains to Jack, “and dancing.”

The familiar crackle of vinyl fills the room, then the soft opening notes of a tragically beautiful afro-Cuban ballad by Buena Vista Social Club follows.

My father bows dramatically to my mother, who giggles like she’s still the young woman who fell in love with him in Paris. They move together with the easy grace of decades of practice.

I risk a glance at Jack, expecting to find him uncomfortable with their display of intimacy. Instead, he’s watching them with warmth.

“They met at a party,” I say quietly. “My father was in college, my mother was visiting the City of Lights. He asked her to dance, and…” I gesture to them, swaying together.

“Sometimes you just know,” Jack says, in a low voice that does things to me. Then he turns his captivating gaze my way andstands, stretching out a hand like some hero from one of his movies. “Dance with me?”

My heart stops. Starts. Stops again. Jack motherfucking Ellis is asking me to dance.

“Oh, I don’t-”

“Please?” he insists with a soft smile.

* * *

His warm hand settles on my waist, keeping a careful distance between us. But even with that space, I’m achingly aware of everything about him - the solid bulk of his shoulder under my palm, the subtle scent of his woodsy cologne, how I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his gaze. How still I have to keep myself to maintain this proper gap between us. The electricity buzzing in the tiny space between our bodies.

“I should warn you,” I murmur, trying to sound normal, “I’m terrible at this.”

“Just follow my lead,” Jack rasps out, his breath fanning my cheek.

He moves us into a slow turn, and despite my warning, he makes it feel effortless. Too easy. I find myself counting steps in my head just to focus on something other than the steady pressure of his hand on my waist. Like a searing brand through the thin layer of my sweater.

“Your parents look happy,” he says after a moment, cutting through my heart’s frantic beating.

“They are.” I wonder if he can feel loud thumps echoing through my chest. “Twenty-eight years and counting.”

He nods but doesn’t respond. Then he glances away, scanning the room like he suddenly remembered where he is, who he is.

The song is ending. Jack steps back smoothly, dropping his hands. “Thank you for dinner,” he says, and just like that, the mask is back in place. “If you’ll excuse me, I should get some rest.”

I watch him head for the stairs, his shoulders tense again under the ridiculously soft fabric of his sweater. All his warmth from dinner packed away somewhere unreachable.

My father touches my elbow. “He’s carrying something heavy, that one.” But there’s no judgment in his voice.

“Papa,” I warn.

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