*Reese

"Whoa! Hold up, that sounded bad," Reese said, waving her arms like a teacher erasing cuss words from the chalk board. "This isn't at all what you're thinking!"

"I don't care if you're a call girl or not, no one tells a woman when to drink in this establishment," the bartender said. He pointed at Kenneth. "And this asshole thinks he can tell you what to do."

"I'm not a call girl! I swear, I'm a life coach. I'm his coach. I told him to try and buy me a drink so he could practice approaching women with confidence and ease. He has nothing but respect for women. Tell him, Kenneth." She elbowed him.

"Absolute, total respect. For women," Kenneth said.

"I'm finding that hard to believe."

"No, it's true," he insisted. "I have so much respect that I still have my V card. And I need all the practice in wooing I can get between now and Friday if I don't want to screw up my chances with my second date in the last five years."

"V card?" He backed away in alarm like virginity might be contagious. "Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately."

The bartender studied Kenneth, astonished, then squinted at Reese. "You really have nothing but respect for your life coach?"

"She's a lovely woman. She took me shopping today."

"And that's what she picked out for you?" He raised a bushy eyebrow.

Reese's stomach flipped. He must think she's ripping him off with terrible advice. "No, that's not what I picked out for him. That's what he picked out for himself this morning. Which is why we are working together, as personal coach and client."

"Good to know. I was about to advise my bro to find a new life coach. You want something to drink?"

"Spritzer. Thank you." Her hand went automatically to her purse, but Kenneth was quicker on the draw. He dropped a five for her drink and sat down to nurse his beer.

"On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it if the bartender threatens to kick your ass?" Kenneth asked.

"It's an eight, eight and a half."

She grinned at him, and he cracked a smile. Reese liked his smile. She wanted to lick it. She had a feeling the smile would disappear soon, though. After a few moments of respite, she leaned towards him. "I want to see your moves on the dance floor, Kenneth."

He coughed and smacked his beer glass on the bar. "My moves are to get as far away from the dance floor as possible," he said.

"This is part of your training. It will be hard to really get a woman if you never dance a single time with her." She grabbed his hand and wended between the tables, Kenneth in tow.

Then they reached the dance floor.

Kenneth stopped walking. He was as solid and solitary as a boulder at the end of an ancient glacier path. She put her hands on his back to nudge him forward, but he turned slowly to face her.

"I understand," she said. "Normally, this would be a situation I work up to with my clients, and I would encourage them to find a professional teacher for private lessons—which I've tried myself by the way—or to go in a group of good friends. The more the merrier. But, Kenneth, we don't have time to beat around the bush. You have to grapple your fears head on. You are the ram, put your head down and charge ahead!"

"More like, I'm the king of the back doors in the Matrix sense. I slip unnoticed from the crowd."

The music changed, and a familiar twanging guitar piped from the speakers. Reese squealed and jumped up and down. "Oh, it's my favorite from the eighties! Come on!"

"Footloose" blasted in the bar, the iconic drum and guitar entry sending a thrill to Reese's heart. "Feel that beat in your chest and hips, not too fast, not too slow. Dance with me, Kenneth."

She dragged him mercilessly to the near-empty floor.

"Do you feel it?" She stomped and jumped to the music in a circle around Kenneth, letting the music guide her body in the Molly Ringwald moves her aunt had taught her on their weekends together.

"I'm feeling something," he said through a clenched jaw.

"But you're standing stiff as a board. Relax! Pretend you are playing one of your online games with a bunch of dudes from the comfort of your living room. Trust me. No one is watching."

"That guy sitting by himself at that table is watching me, and I stay fairly tense when I play games."

"Just copy me." She simplified her movements to a bouncy, stationary march. Anything to get him started.

"Hold on, I have to break this down and analyze." He studied her, concentrating. "Alternating kick and swing of arms and legs, snap fingers—"

"Stop, Kenneth, and feel the music. Here"—she touched his chest—"and here." She put her hands on his hips, hooking her pointer fingers through his belt loops and tugging, left then right, in time to the music. "Let yourself go for a one minute with me."

When he barely budged, she got a good grip on his hips and pulled him in closer, matching her swaying to his. He grinned.

"That's it, you just smiled again. Second time this evening, and the first time while dancing—am I right?"

"This is the first time I haven't hurt any dancers within arm's reach, but the night is young."

She would have laughed, but suddenly she felt him move on his own under her hands. He was dancing, dancing with her. And that electric thrill from the music transformed into something deeper and harder to resist. Kenneth's body moved with hers. Her stomach clenched. The closer, the better.

He is my client. Client.

She had to make it a lesson, not take advantage of him.

"Now let's get really brave, I'm going to spin." She put her hand in his and spun outwards, expecting him to keep her going for the full circle.

He didn't. He spun at the same time and they wound up back to back.

"Hey, Kenneth, you weren't supposed to turn at the same time."

"But you said to copy you. I'm following orders tonight."

He was following orders? Damn, she would love to test that.

They bumped butts. Her platform shoes that gave her an extra five inches were paying off, she realized. He matched her rhythm, and they were pressed together by the lengths of their backs.

They must look ridiculous, dancing butt to butt, but she didn't care. They both laughed out loud. To think she had spent a ton of money on ballroom dance lessons for that charmed moment she met someone refined enough to ask her to waltz.

Not once had she laughed during those lessons.

Kenneth broke away, but in the same instant he turned and wrapped his arms around her chest, his cheek to her ear.

"There's a problem, Reese," he said.

The music changed.

Sinead O'Connor's plaintive "Nothing Compares to You" followed the brief silence. Kenneth swayed more or less in rhythm, holding her.

"No problems. You're doing great," she said. She lifted her chin half an inch to rub her ear to his warm skin, taking advantage of his nearness.

"But she's here."

Reese froze. She? His date for Friday?

If his date saw them together it would ruin his training, his chances, and the reason he had paid her a fat envelope of cash.

She stepped free and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good job," she said loudly. "Which one is she?"

"Brunette with three friends. Hair in a ponytail." He cocked his chin towards the entry.

"I though your date was blonde."

"It's not Amanda, my Friday date. It's Sheryl, my two-weeks-ago date that ended in disaster. What do you recommend I do? Ignore her?"

Reese peeked around him toward the bar. It looked as though a group of girlfriends had come in after work in the medical lab. The brunette with a ponytail was ordering a drink.

"There are two ways to react," Reese said. "You can be an adult and give her a friendly hello or nod if you happen to get close enough. Or..." her voice faded as she contemplated what she would do in his shoes.

Should she suggest it?

Yeah, she should suggest it. "Or you can get a little petty revenge by buying me a drink at the bar."

He grinned. "Admittedly, I have a hard time saying no to petty revenge."

"It's all in the name of just desserts. Shall we?"

Kenneth took the hand she offered, as if it was a real date. The calm part of her brain checked off an item in the running list in her head.

Escorts his dance partner from the floor.

The rest of her was singing Hallelujah in the choir.