For quietstorm-thundathighs. Thank you so much for all of your support. :) I hope you like it.
"You really didn't have to do all of this," Abbie said.
She put her wine on the coffee table and leaned back on the sofa. It was her 33rd birthday, and her sister Jenny surprised her with a weekend at The Crystal Hotel in Sleepy Hollow. They shared a suite.
"I wanted to. And I don't want to hear anything else about it." Jenny dug in her suitcase for her bathing suit.
Abbie wanted to go with her but couldn't. Apparently she had another birthday surprise coming. She didn't get why her sister wouldn't share it with her.
"Or what?"
Jenny raised her eyebrow and ran to her. She attacked Abbie with her fingers.
"Stop, Jenny," she said while she laughed and tried to move Jenny's hands from her stomach. Just when she was about to say "Uncle," someone knocked.
"One minute." Jenny got off her. "This is it. Go open the door."
"Jenny—"
"It's your birthday. End of story."
A man stood in the doorway. He wore formal clothing: a long navy military coat with gold buttons, a large brim hat, trousers, and black knee-high boots.
"My name is Ichabod Crane. We will be dancing together this evening. Are you Miss Abigail Mills?"
Abbie's eyes broadened. She was going to kill her sister. One thing she had no interest in was strippers. Yeah, they could dance, but she didn't too much care for the bump and grind. She preferred slow dances, which she's had before with co-workers and dates she thought interested her. Nothing sparked. Plenty of slow dances bombarded her in romantic movies and television shows, too. And who could forget weddings?
They mystified her. Often times, they appeared smooth and quiet, like sipping water through a straw. She wanted to know what those couples felt. Did their breath nick at the proximity? Did their feet clutter and knees bump in awkwardness? Did their eyes tattle what they couldn't say? What was the purpose of a slow dance? She figured she'd always remain on the outside.
"Yeah."
"I'm pleased to meet your acquaintance, Miss Mills." He bowed for her.
She leaned her head on the door. A little smile tiptoed on her lips. Who was this guy? He was a great actor. No stripper dressed and acted like a gentleman from the 1700s. It was always a teacher or firefighter or police officer. A British accent caked his voice. She wondered if it was real.
"Same."
She couldn't look away from him. His blue eyes, brown beard, slender fingers, and tall frame confused her even more. Weren't strippers usually buff with glistening skin and shiny teeth? Didn't they flirt with you and get all up in your space as soon as they could? He didn't make any moves to take off his clothes.
"If you don't mind my saying, you are quite beautiful."
She didn't know what Jenny was trying to pull. This wasn't funny.
"Thank you. Come in." She stepped aside.
He entered and stood there again. She could admit he was handsome, that she wanted to know him. His compliment was nice, too.
"I'm going to go change now." Jenny made her way to the bathroom.
"Excuse me, Mr. Crane." Abbie followed her in and stared at the shower curtain while Jenny undressed.
"I want him out," she said in a low voice.
"It's not what you think, Abbs. Believe me. He's not a stripper."
"What is he then?"
"He teaches the waltz and other types of period dances. I see how you look when we watch TV."
She always stared at the screen with wide eyes and bit her bottom lip. Jenny always said slow dances were corny and cliché; she was never the one for being all mushy. Of course, Abbie didn't listen to her because she was too distracted.
"I don't believe you."
"All done," Jenny said.
Abbie turned around with her arms crossed.
"Promise to have fun?"
She walked out.
After Jenny left, Abbie stood in front of Ichabod, not knowing what to do.
"Are we doing the waltz?"
"Yes, we are, Miss Mills," he said.
"You can call me Abbie."
"It doesn't seem appropriate, Miss Mills. Shall we proceed?"
He didn't have to be so formal; she hoped he'd loosen up a bit.
"Where is the music?" she said.
He stood in the middle of the room. "I prefer not to use music."
"Why?" She moved in front of him.
"As odd as it sounds, I believe the dance steps themselves are the music. When two souls dance together, they create the melodies and harmonies they need."
She didn't know if her bare feet on the carpet could craft appealing music, but she'd go with it. He sounded romantic, too. She bet knees whimpered, voices turned weedy, and breath fleeted each time he said flowery stuff like this to other women. If Jenny paid him to be here, then obviously he was good at what he did.
"Right. How do we do this then? I've never waltzed before."
"It's quite easy once you have knowledge of the steps." He bowed again, with his hand stuck out. "Shall we?"
They got into position. One of her hands was in his while the other rested on his shoulder. He put his other hand on her shoulder blade.
"We are going to learn a simple box step," he said.
A comfortable amount of space wedged between them, yet the mint from his breath and wood scent from his coat slipped into her nose. She swallowed and stared at his buttons, though all she wanted to do was shut her eyes and inhale him even more.
"When I step back on my left foot, you step back on your right."
They completed the first dance step.
"Excellent. Now, I'll step to the right with my right foot. You'll step to the left with your left foot. After that, we close our feet together. Ready?"
They stepped again. This dance didn't seem hard. She thought it would be mission impossible. The routines always look that way on Dancing with the Stars. And maybe they were, since the celebrities were in a competition. Abbie was glad to do the basics.
"Next, when I step back with my right foot, you'll step forward with your left."
They did that.
"I'm going to step left with my left foot, and you step right with your right foot. Our feet will close together like before."
When they were done, he smiled and said, "You just learned the box step, Miss Mills. You did very well."
"Thank you. And it's Abbie, remember?" She let go of his hand and dropped her arm from his shoulder.
"As I said before, Miss Mills, it isn't professional."
She chuckled. "Where did you come from?"
"England, if you must know."
"Why are you here?"
"I received a job offer for professorship at New York University. I teach history. In my spare time, I do this."
She guessed he liked books, too. What made him want to teach dance though? Did he have a thing for slow dances like her?
She nodded. "How much time do you have?"
"Your sister has only paid me for an hour."
"I think there's a ballroom on the first floor. We'll have more space there."
He extended his hand. "After you, Miss Mills."
She shook her head, even though she started to like it when he called her Miss Mills.
"Do you remember the steps?" he said, once they were in their dance stance.
"Not all of them."
"Not to worry. I shall help you along."
"Thanks, Crane," she said. "Can I call you that?"
He smiled. "You may."
He told her the steps again, about the rise and fall of the waltz, and even taught her a turn. Sometimes she got her steps mixed up. It was okay with him because he encouraged her to keep trying. She thought he was a great teacher. Patient and gentle, yet sure and commanding. He knew what he was doing, which meant Abbie didn't have a problem with him leading. Normally, she didn't like a man directing the dance. The guys she dance with forced it. They squashed her toe or ordered her to go this way or that. Needless to say, they were clumsy, inexperienced. Unlike them, she listened to Crane. His soft instructions—"Left foot, Miss Mills" or "I'll step right. You'll step left"—made it easy to trust him and make errors. His voice made her want to do those things and feel okay doing them.
Once she finally learned the dance, they drifted around the ballroom in the quiet. He was right about not needing music. The small clock of his boots and the flop of her sandals set the rhythm. It was constant, kind of fast until it paused when he spun her. Then it picked up again.
"How did you learn all this?" Abbie said.
"My mother taught me when I was boy. My father waltzed my mother around our living room. That's actually how they met. He asked her to dance one night at a social his friend planned. They fell for each other the instant they glided across the floor."
"How did they dance?"
"It was intimate, something I couldn't even come close to touching. Their eyes were their lips. I was an outsider."
"Are you still one now?" she said.
"I may not be. It depends."
The quiet baritone in his voice stopped the breath flowing from her nose. He reminded her of a crab searching and searching for its perfect shell.
"On what?"
"What do you want, Miss Mills?" He moved his hand from her shoulder blade to her waist. She thought he might have stepped a little closer to her.
She glanced down at their feet. His subtle way of hitting on her wasn't overlooked. It wasn't in the least bit professional.
"My eyes are not down there," he said.
She doesn't even know how long they've been dancing, but she thinks she's stared at him for at least thirty minutes. His eyes unnerved her. They changed to a dark blue at one point. She convinced herself she didn't know what it meant, didn't know what he wanted from her. Expect she did. Each time she caught herself almost giving into him, the wooden floor stole her attention. And each time, he either said that or "The ground isn't going to stare back at those pretty brown eyes". Her vulnerability wouldn't belong to her anymore if this eye contact thing continued.
"Right." She looked back at him. "I want a slow dance. The kind where I don't want to stop dancing and my breathe stays in my stomach. I wouldn't need to speak either."
"We have the same desire."
"Who do you want that dance with?" she said.
They bumped around the truth for too long. She definitely found herself attracted to him. He was gentle, humble, authoritative but respectful, trustworthy, and he didn't expect her to be perfect. His eyes skimmed over her lips before they peered over her shoulder.
"My eyes are not over there."
A grin came from him. "Touché."
"You didn't answer my question."
They stopped dancing, broke their stance to hold hands. He closed his eyes; then he hung his head.
"Abbie."
He didn't even use flowery language and her breath still fleeted from her chest. Her knees whimpered; her voice turned weedy.
"That isn't professional, Mr. Crane."
"Neither is this." He kissed her.
Everything about professionalism didn't matter. She wasn't uncrossing the line. Her fingers planted through his hair; her tongue led the dance while his followed. His arms circled her waist. He was like a pastry, warm, sweet, filing, what she wanted before dinner and after midnight. His moan vibrated down her throat. It sunk to the bottom of her stomach.
She now had a knowing about slow dances. There was no more mystery about them. They served as linkages to a lover or a stranger, a secret spot for emotions to run nude. Her and Crane could uncover what they wanted, whichever way they wanted. Slow dances let them peek inside the other's soul. She put a little space between them.
"We aren't outsiders anymore, Crane."
"Indeed not, Abbie."
As they kissed again, she made a mental note to thank Jenny for her birthday present. She wasn't sharing with anybody.