Page 171 of Bridesmaid By Chance
“Are we paying attention?” our instructor asks, snapping her fingers at us.
“Yes,” I say, straightening up.
“Then please repeat what I just said.”
Shit.
I can feel my cheeks flame at being caught red-handed not paying attention.
“Uh, to not step on each other’s toes.”
“Solid guess,” Sloane whispers to me.
“No,” Mary Beth snaps. “I said the first thing you do when the music starts is…”
She holds her hands out and the rest of the class—in unison I might add—says, “Bow and curtsy.”
“Right,” I say. “Sorry about that.”
“Best pay attention,” Mary Beth says with an evil eye directed at me specifically. “Now.” She holds up her hands, both holding conductor sticks, and continues, “Curtsy, then promenade.”
Sloane and I turn to each other, her lips twitching in humor as she curtsies and I bow to her. Then we move side by side and connect hands at each other’s lower backs. She puffs her chest, I straighten up, and then we each slide a foot forward, then tiptoe on two. Slide, tiptoe. Slide. Tiptoe.
“Remember the day when you offered me up to Sheridan and Archie like a piece of meat, saying I could fill in as a bridesmaid?” Sloane asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Well, I hope you’re happy. You did this to us.”
I trip over my feet, losing the rhythm.
“Hudson,” Mary Beth calls out. “Stay in time with the music.”
“I’m trying,” I say, but because Sloane keeps moving as well as everyone else around us, I can’t seem to catch up, and Mary Beth ends up tapping her sticks on the lectern in front of her.
“Stop, stop, stop. We must start over. Positions.”
“Christ,” I mumble as we move back to where we started.
“It’s not that hard, Hudson,” Sloane whispers.
“Says the girl who keeps talking to me. Let me concentrate.”
“As you wish, Husband,” she says with a smirk.
“Everyone in position, and let’s begin.”
The music plays from the beginning again, and I reach for Sloane, but instead of her hand connecting with mine, my hand smacks into her head as she curtsies in front of me.
“You have to bow,” Mary Beth yells from her perched position.
“Fuck, right,” I say, dragging my hand over my mouth in frustration while Sloane rubs the side of her head.
“That was most unpleasant, my lord,” Sloane says in a British accent.
“Can you not, please.”
“Just getting into character.”
