That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (5 page)

Max tapped Remy's arm, pulling him away from his morbid reverie. "So after all this time avoiding the city, what brings you here? Are you having an art show?"

"I don't sculpt anymore." Some days the loss of his art was worse than losing Giselle.

He winced.
Sorry, Honey
, he said silently.
I didn't mean it.

The only reply he got was silence.

Max leaned in, concern sobering his lively expression. "What do you mean, you don't sculpt? It's what you do."

"Not anymore." He sipped some of the juice. The sweet tang of pineapple tasted like everything he'd lost. He set it down, away from him. "I'm done sculpting."

"Does not compute," Max said, shaking his head. "That'd be like me saying I've decided to stop being sexy. You can't quit being who you are."

Yes, he could. He'd stopped being who he was when Giselle was hit by that taxi. But Max couldn't understand that—Remy hoped his friend would never have to. "Do you want to know why I'm here or not?"

Max motioned with his hand. "Lay it on me."

"I'm looking for a tango partner."

His friend's eyes brightened with interest. "You haven't tangoed in years. Have you started again?"

He ignored the hope in his friend's voice. "I started again last year."

"And you came here to find a partner." Max crossed his arms, his active brain obviously processing Remy's revelation. "Do you have someone in mind?"

He nodded, thinking of Georgina Connolly. "I met her parents in Buenos Aires last month."

"So you came here to meet her." Max's eyes widened. "It's like an arranged marriage."

Remy recoiled. "No one said anything about marriage. I just need a dance partner. I've been teaching again, but I need someone to help."

"So this blind date lives around here, huh?" Max looked around as if hoping to spot her.

"She works here."

His friend froze, mock horror on his face. "Tell me she's not the eye doctor with the freaky Barbie display. I'd have to step in and do an intervention."

"She works at the repair shop," Remy said.

"So she's like the office manager." Max nodded. "Tell me more about her. Are you going to see her now?"

"Yes," he replied, relieved Max was already distracted from asking more about Georgina. Other than the fact that her mother assured him she danced like an angel, he knew nothing.

Max pushed his chair back. "Should we go see her?"

"No." The last thing he needed was Max meddling. "I'm going on my own. You're going home."

"But I came all this way to see you."

Remy narrowed his gaze. "Didn't you say you live a few blocks away?"

"Yeah, but there's a hill." Grinning, his friend stood. Then he pulled him into another hug. "It's good to have you back, Remy."

He nodded, his voice caught in his throat. Then he extracted himself.

"Let's have a drink tomorrow night," Max suggested, walking him to the corner. "You can tell me all about this tango dancer, and I can tell you about the girl I've been thinking about dating."

"There's a woman who'd go out with you?" Remy asked with a raised brow.

His friend held his arms out. "I'm Sexy Max, dude. The women have always dug me."

"There's no accounting for taste," he joked, feeling the hint of a smile lift his lips and his spirits. It reinforced that this was a good idea. It was time to do
something
; he'd go insane otherwise.

"Good luck, man. See ya tomorrow."

Remy watched his friend amble away. Then he strode across the street toward the garage.

Out of nowhere, a small woman darted in his path. She looked like she was dressed up as a gypsy for Halloween, with a lot of scarves and cheap bangles going up her forearms. Her hair was completely covered, and her eyes were ringed in black.

And then she smiled, and everything about her changed. "There you are," she said brightly as if she knew him. "I've been hoping you'd come today."

He frowned. "Are you Georgina?"

"Not at all." An impish light lit her gaze. She pointed to the garage. "
Georgina
is in there. She's waiting for you."

Had her mother told her he was coming? He stared at the repair shop.

The small woman put her hand on his arm. "She likes flowers. A lot. Especially roses that are such a deep red they look obsidian."

"Obsidian?"

"Black," she said with a roll of her eyes. She patted his arm as if he wasn't completely hopeless. "Go on. She's waiting for you."

"You said that," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but you didn't seem to hear it." Shaking her head, she walked across the street to the house with the neon PSYCHIC sign.

He turned to the garage, exhaled, and went to get himself a dance partner.

The moment he walked inside and heard the
milonga
playing over the speakers, something in his chest relaxed. Giselle would have called it a sign. He just viewed it as promising.

He expected she'd be at the desk, but the chair behind it was empty. There was a lone glittery red shoe casually forgotten on the top. He strode to it and picked it up. Comme Il Faut, of course. Even more reassured, he turned to look for Georgina Connolly. Maybe she was in the restroom.

But the only person in the shop seemed to be the mechanic who was under a car, tapping his combat boots to the rhythm of the music.

Remy went up to the man and nudged the shoes with his foot.

The mechanic shot out from under the car, a wrench in her hand.

Her hand
. Because there was no mistaking that the person in the coveralls and backward hat was female.

And then he read the name on the coveralls. George.

Remy took a step back. "You can't be Georgina."

Her smudged face darkened, and she shook her wrench at him. "Call me that again and I'll brain you. What do you want? Did you bring in a car?"

He blinked, stunned speechless.

Then a light dawned in her eyes. "You're the artist. Right. Sorry. You startled me. Come here."

She got up, waving at him to follow, and he found himself unable to resist. She led him outside and turned to stare at the building. He watched her and the way her lips pursed as she studied the façade of the shop. The sun caught on her hair, lighting it like she was a fire goddess.

He shook his head, bemused.

She faced him suddenly. "I don't know what I want."

"Who does?" he answered automatically.

She grinned a charming, crooked smile. "I know, right? So you just think about what you think will work best with Sebastian's ideas for the branding."

"Sebastian's ideas?"

"Yeah." Her grin faded. "You saw the list of ideas for the mural, right?"

"Mural," he repeated, feeling like he was in a strange dream—the kind where he grabbed the woman and they made love on a cloud, hoping he'd never wake up.

"For the building." She jabbed a thumb toward it. "You're an artist, right?"

"Yes," he said before he caught himself.

"Then will you do it?" she asked, rubbing her face and smearing more oil on it. "I have other people I can contact, but you're here and you seem capable. I'll pay," she added as an afterthought.

He couldn't care less about money—he had more than he could spend in three lifetimes. He'd come for her.

For a tango partner, he corrected.

"Listen," he said, facing her.

She was tall, just a few inches shorter than him. He knew that she'd fit perfectly in his arms. He felt like they'd danced in another life.

"Well?" she asked, her gaze anxious. "Will you do it?"

He didn't paint. He didn't do any art anymore. But he got caught in her gaze, everything turning hazy, and he heard himself say, "Yes."

Dana lay on the yoga mat, watching all the women slowly filter out of the studio. She was usually chatting right along with them, but there wasn't any point because she wasn't going to be able to afford to come here anymore.

She closed her eyes, tired. Last night she'd stayed up late making a budget and a list of options, the same way she had when she'd left Kevin. She wasn't as strapped as she had been then, but a girl had to prepare for the worst. San Francisco was expensive, and it wouldn't take long to run through her savings and the bonus money if she wasn't careful. Yoga and lattes were out; her old '90s aerobic videos and Two-Buck Chuck were back in, at least until she had another job lined up.

Exhaling, she tried to let it all go—it'd worked out last time, and it would again. She had a lot of skills and was diligent. Someone would realize that and hire her.

But why did this have to happen? She'd been so happy, on top of the world. Now she was going through the same mourning process as she had when she got divorced.

"Hey."

She opened her eyes to find Aaron, the guy who owned the studio and taught some of her classes leaning upside down over her. "I didn't die," she assured him. "I'm just resting."

"I was wondering." He sat down cross-legged next to her. "Want to tell me what's up?"

She was almost tempted. Aaron was
hot
—really, really
hot
. Thick hair usually in a man bun, bold cheekbones, broad shoulders . . . And he often wore tank tops.

Dana had never been a fan of men in tank tops, but the way his nipples peeked from the loose corners was provocative. And distracting—she'd once caught a glimpse and almost fell out of a shoulder stand onto the woman next to her. She wanted to suggest that he wear pasties.

But, more than that, he was really kind. The reason so many women flocked to the studio was because he was nice to look at, but Dana knew they stayed because Aaron cared.

Truthfully, he'd always felt like a big brother to her, which was why it sucked that this was her last session for the foreseeable future. She faced him, rolling onto her side in the fetal position. "I won't be coming back, at least not until I find another job."

His brow furrowed. "What happened to your current job?"

"I was fired." Why sugar-coat it?

"For?"

"They needed to cut back on expenses and I was the last one hired." She pouted. She knew life wasn't fair, but this
really
wasn't fair.

Aaron said nothing, just staring at her in thought. Then he said, "Come in twice a week, two hours each time, and work the reception desk, and you can take all the classes you want, free."

"Seriously?" She sat up, blinking at him. "Do you mean that?"

His smile was gentle and kind. "I wouldn't have offered if I didn't."

"Yes," she said immediately. She recognized a life preserver when she saw one. She held out her hand. "You won't be sorry."

He took her hands in both of his and just held it. "I know."

Tears flooded her eyes, and she had the strangest urge to put her forehead on his shoulder and sob. But she didn't do emotion like that anymore—it didn't get her anything but puffy eyes—so she retracted her hand and hopped off the mat. "Want me to start tomorrow?"