That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (8 page)

On the other side of the shop, a man in jeans and a T-shirt was bent over the hood of a car. The guy stood up, giving him a look that said Remy was treading in enemy waters.

Protective of Georgina. Was that her boyfriend? Remy met his look measure for measure so the guy, whoever he was, understood this was serious. Then he turned away from the guy's disapproving glare and faced Georgina. "How long have you owned this place?"

"Over a year, since my grandfather passed away." She folded her arms. "Why are you wasting your time with me when there are plenty of women who'd tango with you?"

He had no idea. "Siobhan thinks you're the best partner for me."

She snorted. "Siobhan smokes crack."

Finally understanding, he nodded. "You don't get along with her."

"I love her. I especially love her when she's three thousand miles away." Georgina folded her arms. "Are you going to listen to what I want you to paint? Because you're wasting my time if you're not helping with the mural."

"I told you I want you to tango with me."

"Not a chance in hell."

Talk about her garage
, Giselle's voice prodded him.

He frowned, not sure he wanted the help. "Why are you getting the mural?" he heard himself ask.

She hesitated. Then she said, almost grudgingly, "My friend Sebastian came up with an idea for branding the garage to increase business. Part of it was the mural. It also includes an overhaul in here." She gestured around the dumpy waiting area.

He nodded, getting it. "It's time to make it your own."

"Yeah." Her sharp gaze turned on him. "It needs to get done in three weeks. Sebastian's set a date for a party. He wants to invite the neighborhood and local media and stuff."

"That's smart." He stuck his hands in his pockets, refusing to feel guilty that he had no intention of doing her mural.

"Poppy would have liked me to make it my own," Georgina said, almost to herself.

"Poppy?"

"My grandfather. It was his shop." She smiled softly. "I learned at his knee."

He stared at her, stunned. Good God—when she smiled, she was stunning. Thank God she didn't smile more.

Then her expression hardened. "This is what I'm into, not tango."

He shrugged. "I don't believe it, and neither does your mom."

Georgina threw her arms up. "That woman drives me crazy."

"And your dad?"

"He does whatever she wants to do," she replied bitterly.

Out of the blue, he heard himself say, "My dad thought I was a pansy who needed to get his ass kicked to toughen me up."

She was silent a moment, but then she said, "Your dad was an idiot."

For some reason, that loosened something in his chest and made him smile. Giselle used to tell him that it was his family's loss that they didn't want to understand what he did for a living—their choice for not talking to him because he didn't do "man's work." It'd bothered him less over the years, but Georgina's instant defense made him happy.

Because she understands you.

Shut up
, he told his wife. Then he remembered what that odd woman told him outside. "Do you want children?"

Georgina wrinkled her nose. "Are you offering your sperm?"

"Not if you don't dance with me."

"Then, no."

He smiled. "Do you know Esme?"

Georgina whirled toward him. "You know Esme?"

"I just met her."

"She's crazy." Georgina poked him in the chest. "Don't listen to anything she says."

"I figured she was crazy."

Georgina looked at him strangely. "Why? What did she say?"

He arched a brow. "Dance with me and I'll tell you."

She rolled her eyes. "You're relentless."

Taken over by a strange urge, he took her hand and then stepped back to open her into a
volcada
.

He knew he had her at a disadvantage; she was in work boots rather than dancing shoes, and the move was meant to take her off-balance at first, with him as support, to give her space to find equilibrium again. It was a challenging move on its own, but taken by surprise and in the wrong footwear made it doubly hard.

But she flowed right into it, her palm anchoring on his bicep instinctively so her weight didn't topple him. The closeness of her, the touch of her hand, was really . . .

Nice.

"I knew I should believe Siobhan when she said you were good," he said.

She shoved him away as she stood upright, glaring. "I
was
good, but I don't dance any longer."

"Why not?" He pulled her back, not ready for the dance to be over, wanting to grasp that elusive feeling he'd had with her in his arms.

"Because." She arched her brow. "Why don't you do art?"

Her question was like cold water thrown at his head. He dropped his arms and frowned at her, not because he didn't like her question but because he was oddly tempted to tell her his entire sob story.

Arching her brow, she crossed her arms. "See? It's not so easy, is it?"

It felt very easy, which was the problem. He lifted her chin. "Why are you scared of one little dance?"

She glanced at his mouth.

He felt it, too—there on his lips, her gaze burning.

Kiss her.

No. He blinked, stepping back.

"You need to find a different girl," Georgina said, her voice husky. She fiddled with a long curl that trailed over her shoulder as she stepped farther away from him. "I'm not who you think."

He had the feeling she was more, and watching her back away made him want to chase after her.

He recoiled. He did
not
want that. "I just want a dance partner."

"Then go to a
milonga
and find one," she said, turning away. She walked over to the guy on the other side of the garage and ducked her head to join his under the hood.

Remy should leave. He didn't need this—he didn't want anything more than someone good to dance and teach with. He didn't need sparks.

Sparks are pretty though. Especially from up here.

"I need Xanax," he muttered to himself, getting the hell out of there. A lot of Xanax.

Aaron didn't have a Facebook page or an Instagram account for the yoga studio.

Dana shook her head. Good thing he'd hired her to work a couple days a week. She'd already set them both up as users and added a couple pithy posts. One of her favorite parts of her job had been getting to play on social media; she didn't mind doing it for him. She supposed she should have been sad she wasn't getting paid for the work, except in yoga classes, but it kept her skills sharp.

And it was for a good cause. The studio had hit a plateau in new members, she'd discovered today. She had ideas on how to fix that though.

This was fun, she realized suddenly. She blinked a few times. She hadn't expected to have so much fun manning the reception area.

One day maybe she'd be able to do this all the time. She paused, fingers poised over the laptop keys. Once she cashed out her stocks, maybe she'd even start her own boutique agency.

She closed her eyes and sighed.
Her own agency
.

"You look blissful."

Her eyes popped open to find Aaron standing over her shoulder. Flushing, she closed her laptop out of reflex. "Hey."

Smiling impishly, he nodded at her computer. "Porn?"

"You want me to pull up porn?" She glanced at her laptop, her face going up in flames. "Is that in my job description?"

He chuckled. "Last year, I caught someone working for me watching porn. I had a flashback."

She recoiled. "Do I look like I watch porn?"

"Not at all, but lately I've been questioning my judgment."

He looked so sad that she had the urge to hug him. Clearing her throat, she decided to change the subject instead. "You're here early."

"I wanted to stretch a bit before I taught." He looked around the desk. "You okay here?"

"Yes."

"Good." He started to turn away.

"Oh"—she grabbed his arm—"I have something to ask you."

Aaron smiled at her. "It must be important."

"It really is." She pointed to the computer. "So I noticed that memberships were stagnant, and that's probably not what you want."

"It isn't," he said, intently focusing on her.

She nodded. "I have ideas on how to fix that. Like I think we should offer a Groupon deal. Stuff like that. If you want, I can do it myself, and then you won't need to be bothered with it."

He studied her with a laser-like gaze. "You'd do that?"

She shrugged. "I could do it in my sleep. It's no biggie."

"Let's try it." He smiled at her, tapped the counter, and then wandered back to the studio.

Dana waited until he was out of the room with the door closed to pump her fist in the air and exclaim, "
Yes.
"

The door opened and Angie, one of the other instructors, walked in, her eyes wide. "Was that Aaron talking to you?"

"Yes."

Stepping behind the counter, Angie whispered as she set her bag down, "I think he was leaning. Was he leaning? You're all flushed."

"I've never met a woman who didn't get flushed when Aaron looked at her. That man has more charisma than should be legal. It chokes a person." Not that she was affected that way. Her flush had to do with being useful. "Are you good here? I have to take off."

"Big plans for the day?" Angie asked.

"Just some loose ends from my last job to tie up." She smiled as she slipped on her jacket and picked up her bag. "The sign-in lists for the rest of the day are ready, and everything's restocked."

Angie shook her head. "You know you're not being paid, right? You don't need to work so hard."

"It's no biggie. I was here." Waving over her shoulder, she hustled out of the studio.

She was going to go home to change out of her yoga clothes, but the 22 Fillmore bus never showed up. In the end, she was so late she just took a different bus to her former offices. She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. Oh well—she didn't have to be glamorous to accept her bonus.

She arrived at the WL&W offices a few minutes late. Rushing in, she waved at Kendra. "How's it going?"

The receptionist looked goggle-eyed. "Dana," she said, as though she didn't expect to see her.

It stopped her in her tracks. "I have an appointment with HR, remember?"

"Right." Turning away, Kendra pushed a button. "Sit down and someone should be out to take you back."

Weird. Dana shrugged and sat to wait. Sure she'd been fired, but she hadn't been escorted out in shame. Kendra was acting like she was a pariah.

She was overreacting. She took a magazine from the coffee table and flipped through it, hoping it'd calm the sudden butterflies that fluttered in her stomach.

It was okay. She was going to go in, sign papers that would likely say she couldn't sue them for anything, ever, and then collect the bonus. Easy.
Piece of cake
, she told herself.