If Jasper were a product and Emma had to sell him, she’d be digging through the thesaurus for more ways to say big. Because he was larger—brighter, louder, and bolder—than life.
Hovering somewhere in his mid-twenties, the wiry, heavily tattooed dance instructor sported hair like a yellow cockatiel, multicolored fingernails, and a gold tooth that glinted when he smiled, which was often.
“We’re going to tell a story,” Jasper announced not long after they settled into a warm studio where sunshine poured through oversize windows along one wall and bounced off three mirrored ones. “One these people will never forget.”
Leaning against one of the mirrors, Mark crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at their instructor. “Just so we’re clear, this is for a high school reunion,” he said. “Not a reality TV show.”
Jasper sucked in a noisy breath, shocked. “We are in competition, my friend. With…” He flipped his hand and pointed toward the mirror on the other side.
“With ourselves?” Emma guessed.
“With Tiffany Jones, a child—a mere babe in the dancing woods, I tell you—who arrived here not two months ago, rented the next studio, and has her eye on my client base. Especially the ones I, you know, scare a little.” His eyes grew wide as he gestured to his Crayola box self. “At this very moment, Tiffy is on the other side of that mirror teaching a couple from the sixties.” He leveled steely gray eyes at Mark. “So they’re not only from the sixties, they are in their seventies. And they live locally and are part of her borrrring ballroom classes she started on Wednesday nights, so this is one big advertisement for her business.”
“Are we your only couple?” Emma asked, hoping Jasper wasn’t going to put all his competitive energy into them.
“I have the eighties and the whatever you call those unfortunates born in the oh-somethings.”
“Millennials?” Mark suggested.
“Aughts?” Emma added.
“Pains in the butt,” Jasper said. “Tiffany has the sixties and seventies and, like it or not, the precious old factor is going to be in their favor.” He sighed as though not happy with the dance draw. “The know-it-all nineties folks are choreographing their own, of course.” He looked Mark up and down. “Are you sure you’re in your forties?”
“Quite.”
“Well, at least we have the beauty factor with both of you,” Jasper said. “You didn’t graduate in the eighties,” he said to Emma, his tone accusatory.
“Know-it-all nineties,” she quipped. “And I didn’t go to Mimosa High.”
“That’s okay. If you’re with him, you qualify. Let’s dance and win that ten grand. You get to keep it all, and I get bragging rights.”
Emma let out a low whistle. “That’s a decent prize. Who put up that much money for a dance competition, anyway?”
Jasper rolled his eyes. “One of the Mimosa High alum is a hedge-fund billionaire, and he proposed to his dream girl, who was a maid at the resort, at the first reunion on the beach.”
“Really?” Emma asked. “What a romantic story.”
“So Pretty Woman, don’t you think?” Jasper asked. “Anyway, those two put up the cash as a nice gesture, promo for the resort, and to get more people to come and be excited for the event. And you could win it! If you can dance, that is.”
Emma and Mark shared a look, but Jasper was studying his clipboard.
“Now, we are required by rules to play seven different numbers from—”
“We’re dancing to seven songs?” Mark practically gagged on the question.
“Not the whole song!” he assured them. “Just enough to get the message and tell the story. And here’s the story.” He held out his clipboard like he was presenting the Hope Diamond. “Would you like to read it, or shall I tell you?”
“Just tell us,” Emma said.
“Well, I understand you two are recently engaged—muchas congrats, by the way—and so who better to tell the story of meeting, courtship, and forever love…eighties-style?”
Who better indeed?
“We open with Blondie. Call Me,” Jasper said.
“Wait,” Emma said. “We have a list. We came up with songs.”
Jasper somehow managed to lift one brow while the other tilted down in the most hilarious you’ve got to be kidding look she’d ever received.
“I’m the choreographer.”
“We’re the talent.”
“You’re the dancers,” he corrected. “We’ve yet to decide if there’s any real talent involved.”
Once again, she glanced at Mark and somehow knew what he was thinking. No talent, and if they used Jasper’s playlist, maybe they could blame their loss on him.
Jasper checked his clipboard. “Okay, Call Me will kick it off with a little something fast and furious and—get this—we use one of those giant brick cell phones and Mark can strut across the stage like Michael Douglas in Wall Street. Won’t that be fabulous?”
“My dad had one of those phones,” Mark said. “It was…cool.”
“Well, now it’s a museum piece, so don’t drop the one I managed to find,” Jasper said. “We’ll start with a little back and forth, really using your jazz hands—”
“Our what?” Mark asked.
Emma stepped forward. “We probably aren’t your top-level jazz hands…types,” she said. “Maybe something a little less technical.”
“When those antiques across the hall will be doing the Twist?” Jasper waved off the protest. “You’ll learn. Then we move into Your Kiss Is on My List, Hall & Oates. You know what that means.”
Mark kissed the air in Emma’s direction, and she tapped her face as if it hit the mark.
“Yes!” Jasper snapped his fingers and pointed at Emma. “Playful! That’s what I want. Playful, romantic, sexy, and fun. That’s what the eighties were!”
“They were?” Emma laughed. “I thought they were all about shoulder pads and the Rubik’s Cube.”
“No,” Mark said, shaking his head and getting them both to turn. “They were playful. And fun. And…romantic.”
Damn. They were also the ten years when he met and married his soul mate. Immediately, Emma stepped closer to him, feeling protective and determined not to let this little stroll down memory lane take him to a place that hurt. Not after seeing how his expression changed when he saw that church.
“We’ll just dance and have fun,” she said.
He gave her a warm smile. “I always have fun with you,” he assured her, the compliment surprising her.
“Okay, lovebirds,” Jasper said, clapping. “Focus. After Hall & Oates, we’re going into something a little slower and waltzier. I want to know what love is…” He started to sing.
“I want you to show me,” Emma finished.
“Excellent,” Jasper nodded. “Then, the eighties anthem.”
“Livin’ on a Prayer?” Mark suggested, lifting his hands in a classic air guitar pose. “We had a band in my garage.”
That earned him a look of sheer disgust from the dance instructor. “What a Feelin’. Flashdance. Leg warmers and torn shirts, remember?”
“I may have slept through that one,” Mark said, making Emma laugh.
“Three left,” Jasper continued. “And this is where it gets even better.”
“Don’t know how it can,” Emma said dryly.
Mark slipped his arm around her and gave a gentle hug. “There’s at least one bottle of wine waiting for us as a reward.”
“Wine? I’m going to need to swim naked in a vat of tequila.”
His smile grew. “We can arrange that.”
Her whole body weakened at the sexy promise.
“Do you mind?” Jasper demanded, getting their attention, though they both fought a laugh. “We shall then, if you two aren’t busy planning your evening activities, move into the big crescendo. We have Huey Lewis doing The Power of Love, then a slow, sexy ballad with Endless Love, and then, the ultimate eighties dance song, The Time of My Life—”
&
nbsp; “No.”
Emma startled at how sharply the word came out of Mark’s mouth. Jasper looked up, too, already exasperated, but Emma instantly read the change in Mark’s expression.
“No,” she agreed immediately. “Not that one.”
It had to have been their song. She just knew it. And she’d take this colorful bird down with one hand if she had to, but they weren’t putting Mark through that.
“What?” Jasper practically screamed. “First of all, you don’t have a say, no matter what you were told by some planning committee. Second of all, it’s Dirty Dancing, you two. This is the eighties. This is the essence of the eighties! Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze and…” He started moving his hips and running his hands down the back of an imaginary partner. “You can’t not have Time of My Life in an eighties homage celebrating dance!”
Mark just stared at him, silent, but Emma was already gearing up for battle, her hands fisted as she stepped forward, her mind whirring.
“I have a better idea,” she said quickly. “A perfect idea, guaranteed to get a win.”
Both men stared at her, and she suddenly felt like she was in the middle of a brainstorm session at the agency and everyone had a good idea but her. She had nothing.
A quick look at Mark and she dug deeper. “The way to win is to get the rest of the place involved,” she said, giving her hands a confident clap.
Jasper scowled. “You’re the ones on the stage dancing.”
“That’s what everyone else will do,” she scoffed. “We need a song that makes everyone emotional and…and…happy.” Especially Mark.
“Patrick Swayze doesn’t make you happy?” Jasper countered.
“That song is not right,” she said, grabbing his clipboard. “How about…” She scanned the page and then smashed her finger on it. “Oh my God, this is the song, Jasper. Right here. That’s What Friends Are For.” She shoved the clipboard back at him. “Can you imagine? Everyone will stand. Sing. Sway with their arms around each other.”
“S-S-Sway?” Jasper could barely say the word.
“Of course they’ll sway! By then, they’ll be good and toasted. And we will win.”
Jasper’s lip curled. “Dionne Warwick?”
“We’ll win,” she insisted.
“But this is a love story,” Jasper fired back. “You can’t end with a song about friends!”
“We’re friends,” she said, indicating Mark, who still hadn’t spoken or taken his eyes off her.
“But you’re lovers in the dance. And, I assume, in real life.”
Mark finally stepped forward, putting a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “I think she’s right.”
“Of course you do. You’re going to be her husband. You have to say she’s right.”
“He doesn’t,” she replied. “But I am. Jasper, people are seeing friends for the first time in years at this thing. A reunion isn’t about love, it’s about friendship.” She threw up her hands. “Game over, baby.”
Jasper just stared at her, the face of defeat. “Okaaaayyy.” He dragged the word out. “I guess it has more or less the same beat. For swaying.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “As long as we win.”
Mark looked down at Emma and pressed a kiss on her hair. “Thanks,” he said.
They didn’t get a chance to say another word, because the music blasted, and Jasper went into full choreographer mode, dragging them through move after move, sighing mostly in disgust, pushing them together, pulling them apart, and finally getting them to remember the simplest of simple steps.
Two hours later, Jasper snapped off the sound, and Emma was surprisingly disappointed that all the contact and laughter ended.
“Download these songs,” Jasper said. “Practice at home, perfect those steps, and I’ll see you back here at least two more times this week. God knows, you’ll need it.”
Emma looked at Mark, expecting an argument, but his eyes glistened and his tanned complexion glowed with exertion when he nodded several times. “We’ll be here.”
Jasper looked up from his notes, eyes flashing. “Someone’s had a change of heart.”
“That was fun,” Mark said with a shrug, pulling Emma into him with no music or reason. “Didn’t you have fun?” he asked her.
Fun? Understatement of the year.
For one thing, she’d forgotten that Kyle Chambers existed. She didn’t think about the fact that she had no job or was spending the week in a crazy pretend engagement with a man who made her laugh and twirl and…forget.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “I had a blast.”
They said good-bye, promised to practice, and stepped into the cool, dimly lit hallway. Almost immediately, Mark turned to her and put both hands on her shoulders, holding her in place with a light touch and intense gaze.
“How did you know?”
She swallowed. “You’re kind of transparent with your own fears.”
“I don’t have fears.”
She tipped her head. “Not that you admit to. I like our replacement suggestion. Friends are…good.”
He slid one hand under her jaw, palming her cheek, lifting her face to him. “You wanted to protect me.”
“Just doing my job to help you avoid the things you want to avoid.”
He scanned her face, his blue eyes searing her as they searched every inch as if he couldn’t quite figure her out but didn’t want to stop trying. The intensity was enough to make her almost step backward.
She held her ground and was so insanely aware of how close they were. Of how he smelled like sweat and spice, of how tiny salt-and-pepper whiskers shadowed his hollow cheeks, of how much she wanted to kiss him. The desire was pulling her under like a powerful rip current.
“Doing your job?” He closed the space very slowly, getting closer and closer until his lips were right over hers. “Give the woman a promotion,” he whispered.
And down she went. “Give her a kiss, instead.”
A flicker of surprise flashed in his eyes. “Conquered that fear in a hurry, did you?”
“Maybe. Better test me.”
He did, pressing his mouth against hers, so soft his lips tickled hers, then a rush of pressure and pleasure as he upped the ante and opened his mouth over hers. Emma couldn’t stop herself from lifting her hands and laying them on his shoulders, feeling the strength in his muscles and the warmth of his skin through his thin T-shirt.
She couldn’t help angling her head and offering her tongue while her hands moved up and around the sturdy column of his neck. His flesh was still damp, and she could feel his pulse thumping under her fingers.
His hand spread on her cheek, taking control of her face and the kiss, drawing the softest whimper of surrender from her throat.
“So, how about we take on another fear of yours with something bigger and badder?” he asked. “Something faster and more dangerous?”
She melted. “Okay.” And then she got her wits back. “Wait. How big and bad? How fast and dangerous?”
He just smiled, all slow and sexy and sweet. “You gotta trust me, Em.”
And off she went like a lamb to the slaughter. A very happy lamb.
Chapter Eleven
“This baby is sheer perfection.” Mark sighed happily.
They’d gone back to the resort, showered, changed, had lunch, and instructed the Casa Blanca driver to take them to the exotic car rental in Naples.
After all that, Mark finally had what he wanted in his hands—the wheel of a gleaming silver 2016 Porsche 911 Carrera S, the heady need for speed already heating up his veins.
“It’s pretty nice,” Emma agreed, sitting lightly on the leather as if she didn’t really want to settle into the low seat and see how a car like this would ride.
Smooth and fast and sweet, that’s how.
“Pretty nice?” he choked softly. “If I showed up at the next Porsche Club of America race in this, they’d hand me the trophy without racing. But that wouldn’t be any fun. Look at this jewel, Emma.”
br /> She gave the sleek dashboard a touch. “Fancy.”
“Yeah, but who cares about that? Under that hood? Four hundred and twenty turbocharged horses. The tach hits 6500. You can go zero to sixty in under four seconds.”
“You can,” she fired back. “Please do not think for one second that I’m driving this thing at high speeds.”
“Sure you will. I even got the automatic for you.”
“Was that a huge sacrifice?”
Actually, it wasn’t. In fact, without hills and curves in the road, the Sport Chrono version was better, and a stick was a waste. “What would have been a huge sacrifice was that Ford Taurus you suggested on the way over.”
She laughed. “Well, it seemed sensible if all I need to do is beat the fear of left turns.”
“Sensible is stupid.” He threw her a smile. “And you look damn good in this car.”
A slight flush deepened her cheeks, and she gave him a playful tap. “And you look like you were born to drive it.”
“I was.” He pulled on a seat belt, a low-grade heat of anticipation rolling through him. “Sadly, we’re not autocross racing today, although I’d love to. But we can take a joy ride along the beach, maybe find some back roads near the Everglades and some challenging left turns for you.”
He fired up the engine and took a minute to listen to the music of German engineering.
“Did you race when you lived here?” she asked.
“Oh, no, I didn’t start taking driving seriously until a few years ago. I met a guy who was in the PCA, went to a weekend race, and I was hooked. Bought a 911, though not this nice, and when I can, I race. Ready?”
She checked her seat belt with a tug. “I guess so.”
“Come on, Em. You’re going to love it. I’ve never had a racing partner.”
She gave him a quick, questioning look. “Never?”
“I’ve always flown solo,” he said, getting a warm, surprised smile. “Until today.”
“Then let’s do this.”
He rolled out of the exotic-car rental lot in the heart of high-end Naples, revving the engine enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck dance. “Oh yeah,” he murmured, reaching for her hand. “And holding your hand is another good thing about the automatic.”