Sea Breeze (5 page)

Our gazes remain locked a few more beats, but when a customer approaches him and breaks the connection, I come to my senses, duck out and run back to my room before he has a chance to accept my body’s invitation. I may want him, but I also want what’s best for me. Better to be safe than sorry, I tell myself as I lie in bed, frustrated and alone.

Chapter Seven

T
he next morning, I wake up and put all my effort into figuring out the daily itinerary. I’m not planning on getting off the ship again until we get to Jamaica. I need to start taking advantage of everything the ship has to offer, so I don’t spend the entire trip by the pool or stalking Eric.

After coffee and a smoke, I devise a plan on how to tackle the huge list. I snag a highlighter at Guest Services, and then start to mark up everything that sounds interesting.

Over the last three days I’ve conquered the Rock Wall, played some mean table tennis, explored the art galleries and library, and enjoyed a massage in the spa. There’s been poolside music to enjoy in the evenings, along with 80s music trivia, and a movie showing under the stars. I’ve been to dinner with Kim two of the last three nights, but last night I opted for a slice of pizza while I played blackjack in the casino. I wanted to make sure I hadn’t lost my touch. I went to bed with $200 extra in my wallet.

I haven’t seen Eric since that night at Allure. With almost eight thousand people on this ship, and no idea where to find him, it’s unlikely I’ll see him again. I haven’t exactly been seeking him out, either. Staying away from the bars is easier. Tonight, however, they’re having a senior swing dance at The Vine Bar, which despite my sales pitch, Kim and her friends are opting out of in favor of Margarita Madness at the Samba Lounge.

I’ve always loved old movies and the big-band music that played when actors like Gene Kelly took the stage. There was a local band that played in Vegas at Hard Rock which almost brought the house down. The dancers were out in full force, and I was fascinated by their clothes and makeup. I’ve been admiring the rockabilly culture from afar, sticking my toe in here and there. The music and the dancing is what draws me the most.

So tonight, I’ll put on my polka dot dress, my red lipstick, create a pretty pinup hairstyle, and hit the scene all by myself. Hopefully, I can find a nice older gentleman to twirl me around the dance floor like it’s 1945.

Chapter Eight

M
y dress sways as I walk along the deck. I had an early dinner in the dining room and then took my time getting ready. The dance started at seven, which is early. But this is for seniors, so I leave my room at seven-fifteen, because it’s liable to end early as well. A live swing band is playing, and I can’t wait to sit down with a cocktail and enjoy the music.

The sounds of a high hat and trumpet reach me as I pull open the polished wood door. Inside, the lights are low. There’s a long bar to the left, booths to the right, and a dance floor in the middle of the room across from me, where an eight-piece band plays. I immediately start tapping my toe to the rhythm and head for an open stool at the bar.

A Manhattan seems fitting, and I place my order with the bartender. My fingers tap along to the tempo as I wait for my drink. There are lots of older couples dancing, some tucked away in booths. And there are a few younger couples here as well, enjoying the music. I’m so happy I did this. When George and Ella, the couple I played ping-pong with earlier today, mentioned it, I knew I couldn’t miss this event.

My red heels tap on the footrest as I take a sip of my cocktail.
Mmm, this is good.

“Hey, kiddo. Glad you made it.” George bumps my shoulder and I turn and greet both him and Ella with a kiss to each cheek.

“Well, are you guys going to show me how it’s done tonight?”

“I’ll try my best. Of the two of us, Ella is the dancer. She makes me look good.”

Ella playfully pushes his shoulder, but blushes at the compliment. They’re a darling couple. I can’t wait to see them out there. We clink our glasses together as we all watch the band across the room play in the dim light of the bar.

I’ve been transported to the 1940s tonight. The band is hopping, and the cocktail waitresses all look like pinup models. I can’t believe Kim and her friends weren’t interested. George asks me to dance, at Ella’s encouragement. With a smile, I join him on the dance floor and quickly find a rhythm as he twirls me around. Giggles escape me as we dance together, Ella clapping from the bar.

As the song ends and we walk back toward the bar, a man approaches me and asks me to dance. He’s probably in his thirties, and he’s attractive, so I agree as he leads me back out onto the dance floor.

“Ready?” He winks and flashes a panty-dropping smile.

I nod in the affirmative, and before I know what’s happening, he sweeps me across the dance floor. I don’t know if this guy is a professional dancer or what, but I have no control over my movements whatsoever. His wrist flicks and I spin to the left, fingers pull and I’m drawn toward him before he guides me back out again with ease. My eyes bug out and a little yelp escapes me as he lifts me off the floor and to the side.
Holy hell.
I didn’t even know I could do that. A circle has formed around us as the band plays Benny Goodman’s
“
Sing, Sing, Sing
”
while we tear it up.
How is this happening?
My head goes back as he dips me, and the stand-up bass player comes into upside-down focus. Eric.

I pop up, shocked. My partner and I sweep the dance floor again, but now my eyes search for Eric as he plucks the bass strings, sweat dripping down the side of his forehead. The how or why of his presence is irrelevant. The handsome man that can dance like a professional, whom probably every woman in the room is swooning over, is not who has my attention. We dance together, but every chance I get, my gaze finds Eric. The rhythm he plunks out as he plays is so sexy. He has on a black button-down, sleeves rolled up, first three buttons undone, and perspiration glistens on his chest where the tiniest bit of his ink is visible. He winks as I spin close to him. It breaks the tension between us and I smile, laughing out loud. He smirks and goes back to playing, nodding to the man on the drums.

The song soon ends, my partner dips me, and the crowd around us erupts in applause. He accompanies me to the bar and offers to buy me a drink. I order another Manhattan, but keep Eric in my periphery. He’s watching us, and I pull my shoulders back with confidence as I realize I still have
his
attention.

My dance partner is busy reveling in the praise of his admirers while I sip my drink. I keep my eyes on Eric as the intense look that claimed his features as he followed my moves on the dance floor is replaced by a playful swagger as he jams with his band mates. I’m not sure if this is for my benefit or not, but he seems larger than life back there. I can’t believe I didn’t notice him when I first arrived.

There’s an invisible string pulled taut between us. Every time he nods at a band member, I glance toward him. Every time I cross my legs he glances at me. It’s a push and pull. I don’t know how I spent a whole day with him without pouncing. Maybe it’s the adrenaline or maybe it’s the bourbon in my glass, but the chemistry between us has ratcheted up to a whole other level. My grip on the edge of the bar is the only thing keeping me in my seat.

When my dance partner finally turns back toward me, I drag my gaze away from Eric.

“So... My name’s Gary. What’s your name, beautiful?”

“Jordan. You were great out there. Are you a professional dancer?”

“You would think so, but no.” There’s a slime quality to him that comes across as soon as he opens his mouth. I try my best not to roll my eyes while he looks down my dress.

“So where did you learn to dance like that, then?”

He takes an exaggerated sip of his Scotch, like he’s about to tell an epic story.
I shouldn’t have asked.
“Actually, I was engaged to be married once. And my fiancé, at that time, wanted to swing dance at our wedding. So we took lessons.”

“So you learned to dance for a wedding that never happened?”

“Yes, but now I know how to sweep women everywhere off their feet. Literally.” He drags his fingertip down my arm in what I assume he thinks is a sensual gesture, but it gives me the creeps. “Are you here with anyone?”

“Hey, babe.” Eric picks the perfect moment to intervene. He kisses me on the cheek, snakes his arm around my waist, and causes my stomach to do a massive flip and tingles to shoot down my spine. “Dance with me?”

I drink him in: button-down, black dress pants, silver wallet chain swinging, hair gelled up, eyes sparking. I nod mutely as Eric leads me to the dance floor. The band has taken a break and “Fever” by Peggy Lee starts to play over the speakers. He takes my hand in his, holding it close to his chest as my other hand goes up over his shoulder. He steps lightly to the quick subtle tempo, and keeps his eyes on mine.

The room and everyone around me disappears. Pressed close together, our bodies move as one, back and forth we sway. Our gazes stay locked until Eric spins me slowly into a half turn and then holds me close around the waist from behind.

He murmurs in my ear as his cheek brushes my neck. “You look beautiful tonight, Jordan.”

A quick spin around and I face him again. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He smiles at me and I can’t help but to return it. We continue to slowly sway over the dance floor, no fanfare, but all feeling. My fingers itch to tear his clothes off. I don’t know what’s come over me. He dips me sensually, pulling me slowly up, as his eyes glance down at my lips.

I raise an eyebrow at him when the music stops and he takes my hand and leads me out of the bar and onto the deck for a smoke. The cool air outside clears the pheromones from my head. Eric lights a couple of cigarettes and hands one to me. “Thanks.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. He takes a drag and exhales out toward the water. “You disappeared the other night.”

My foot kicks at the imaginary pebble on the deck. “It was getting late.”

“Actually, it was still early.” He takes another drag, watching the inky horizon instead of me.

“Well, better to be safe than sorry.” My mantra comes out automatically without even thinking about it.

He turns to look at me then, examining me, as he tries to figure out my meaning. I do my best to throw up my shields as his eyebrows twist with confusion. “That doesn’t sound like the woman I met who couldn’t wait to ride the zip line, or drink the slightly-rotten-tasting yet addictive Puerto Rican
mavi
.”