Page 11 of I Wanna Dance

She turned, her expression curious. “Yeah?”

I hesitated for half a second, then took a breath. “Will you go out on a date with me?”

Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, I thought she was going to turn me down. But then her lips curved into a soft, almost shy smile. “Okay.”

I felt relief course through me. “I need your phone number.”

She nibbled at her lower lip, and I suppressed a groan.

“We won’t be dancing?”

“No.” I knew what she was asking, and I was telling her that I wanted her.

She handed me her phone, and I entered my number into her contact list.

CHAPTER 5

Leah

The last time I went on a date, George W. Bush was president, flip phones were cutting-edge, and my idea of dressing up was a wrap dress and heels. Now, I was standing in front of my mirror, debating whether my slacks were too casual or my blouse was too dressy, and wondering why the hell I was doing this to myself.

Alana had come over an hour earlier to help, which was her mostly sipping a glass of wine and making unhelpful suggestions like, ‘Wear the red dress—it screams fuck me!’ That dress was currently stuffed in the back of my closet.

Instead, I’d settled on dark jeans, ankle boots, and a pale blue blouse that I thought made my eyes look less tired. I wasn’t trying to be glamorous—I just wanted to look like me. Well, an improved version of me.

Marco texted me when he was outside my apartment. I looked out of the window and saw a silver Audi. I grabbed my bag and took one last deep breath before walking out to meet him.

By the time I got to him, he was standing by the passenger door. He was dressed casually—dark slacks, a navy button-down rolled up at the sleeves—and I’d bet my law practice he didn’t change his clothes five times as I had.

“Hi.” I suddenly felt awkward.

“You look beautiful.” He opened the car door for me.

No one had ever opened the car door for me!Ten points to Marco Cabrera.

So, Leah, I asked myself, how many points to let him fuck you?

Should’ve worn the red dress, I heard Alana say in my head.

“So do you.” I slid into the seat. My voice soundedwaysteadier than I felt.

The first few minutes in the car were quiet. We were not uncomfortable, not exactly, but cautious, like two people trying to figure out how this worked.

I’d been on a few dates after the divorce. I got the apps and swiped right and left. If memory served me right, those first (and only) dates felt like job interviews. But I didn’t know those men at all. Marco and I had danced and been in each other’s personal space.

“How was your Saturday?” I asked because the silence was driving me up the wall.

“Quiet,” he replied. “I see my girls on Sunday for lunch.”

“Every week?” I was jealous, and I realized how lucky he was that his children liked him. Mine didn’t. I pushed that thought away. I was moving forward, and there was nothing more I could do to appease my children. If they couldn’t appreciate that I’d left my career to raise them because Kevin was too busy being the fancy lawyer—that I lefthimbecause he cheated on me, which had not been acceptable, there wasn’t much more to do. I hoped that if someone cheated on Presley or treated her with disrespect, she’d have the courage to walk away from himbecause she’d seen me do it. Maybe she’d see me as a role model to emulate. It was a pipe dream. They had taken their father’s side in the divorce, and that was that.

“How often do you see your kids?” Marco asked what he assumed was a natural question.

If I told him my kids didn’t like me, would he think less of me? Would he see me as defective? I certainly did.

“Ah…it’s complicated.”

He glanced at me. “You want to talk about it?”

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