Page 4 of Dance for Me
Without warning, the door bursts open, Tessa already prattling away as she comes to an abrupt halt mid-sentence.
“…would have brought this for you earlier, but the printer was stuck again. I think there is a mistake. All of Colt’s references are for bartender. Do you want me to…”
I’m still on the ground, my pants undone, belt discarded, shirt hanging open, when Harper finally drags her eyes away from mine to stare at Tessa.
“Did you just say bartender?”
3
COLTON
Ican’t decide what’s more satisfying right now—the beautiful shade of pink that is coloring the tips of Harper’s ears, or her blatant struggle to keep her eyes focused on my face.
I take the moment to rest my hands on my hips, pulling the sides of my open shirt further apart. Her eyes flick down for a split second, but I catch the movement and flex my core as tight as I can before she quickly averts her eyes.Made you look.
“Mr. West, you can put your clothes back on,” she directs through a clenched jaw, probably as mad to be caught as she is to be looking at all.
“Are you sure? We haven’t even gotten to the good part.” I smile at her, slowly reaching down to pick up my belt from where I left it on her office floor. The arrogant satisfaction is dripping off me right now, and I’m not even trying to play it cool. Flustered wasn’t the emotion I was hoping to get out of her, but it’s downright adorable to watch the pink spread from her ears down to the apples of her cheeks. A side of Harper Mathers I don’t think many people get to see.
She doesn’t even pretend to acknowledge my retort, or tomake sure I’m listening to her direction and indeed, getting redressed. Just returns to her conversation with Tessa, which is more like calmly offering reassurance that the mistake wasn’t hers to feel bad about.
It's a move I wouldn’t have expected from the woman who gave commands like she was born a war general. Most bosses, in any profession, aren’t so willing to take responsibility for mistakes, let alone someone in such a high-powered position. Inflated egos usually come as a package deal with inflated wallets and status.
In what seems to be her normal approach to things, Harper isn’t overly warm or affectionate in her reassurance to Tessa. She still maintains her slightly stiff demeanor, but there is an undertone of care that I wasn’t expecting, another surprise in the span of a few minutes. When the soothing and calm tone doesn’t seem to be enough to ease a frazzled Tessa, she rests a hand softly on her forearm, offering comfort and centering the girl in her spiral. I watch, tilting my head as I study the gesture, the gentleness unpracticed but not uncomfortable.
It could all be an act, a show put on for my benefit as the outsider in this group. Maybe Tessa is so freaked out because of Harper’s reaction, when normally she would be raging at the girl and piling the blame onto her already shaking shoulders. It would make more sense for everything I anticipated.
Harper catches me tracking the gesture and subtly arches a brow in question, daring me to comment on the tenderness displayed, as if she knows I was thinking the worst and wants to see if I’ll take the bait. Looking for an excuse to punish me.
I wonder who would like it more.
With my belt threaded back home through its loops, I fasten the last few buttons of my dress shirt and lean one shoulder against the wall behind her desk, folding my arms across my chest. I give her a toothy grin before she huffs and turns back to Tessa, who is showing her the resume and referencesheets for the position I was meant to be interviewing for, one that remains clothed.
She barely batted an eye directing me to dance, like she was doing her taxes instead of watching my clothes fall away. But this—a mistakeshemade—has made her blood boil. Her jaw tightens as she grinds her teeth before she closes her eyes, presumably taking a moment to contemplate the next move.
Anyone else would need a few minutes at best, at worst to reschedule the entire endeavor for a different day so she has time to figure out what went wrong and what to do next. But not Harper. In the next second, she’s turning to face me, composure regained and mask back in place.
“As you can see, Mr. West, I was under the impression that you were here to fill one of the exotic dancer positions, not bartender.”
“A very flattering mistake. And please, call me Colt. I think we are past the formalities, no?” I joke, taking the opportunity to tease her while I still can.
“Mr. West, Tessa will bring you backstage and show you the general order of how the club works and who you will be working closely with. Marcus is the head of performative art, and together, he and Tessa will show you the different areas of the club and how it all fits together.” Her body is facing me while she talks, but she seems to be giving the instructions more to Tessa than to me.
I don’t hear the rest of the rundown; my mind's stuck onperformative art, conjuring scenes of my future, all of them involving hip thrusting at CEOs while I pour body shots. The arrogance I held moments ago vanish as the visions flash rapid fire.
“Do bartenders need to be able to dance as well?” I blurt out. “Is this aCoyote Uglysituation and bartenders dance while serving?” I chuckle awkwardly, waiting for the punchline.
“No need to worry about that, you won’t be tending bar,”Harper replies with a wave of her hand, like I should know we moved past that idea ages ago.
Oh God, did I actually get hired as a dancer? James is going to have a field day with this.
Harper crosses her arms over her chest, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth at how quickly the tables have turned, the blood draining from my face the longer she lets me wrestle with my own thoughts.
“Unfortunately, everything on our end indicated that you were coming in today to interview for an exotic dancer position, and it wasn’t until Tessa looked through your references that she realized they were all for a bartender. Despite your little display, I’m guessing you don’t have any experience dancing?” I don’t speak, just shake my head in response. “Well, unfortunately, the only positions I have openings for right now are exotic dancer,” she pauses, taking in the way my throat works as I swallow my nerves, “and personal assistant. As an apology for the misunderstanding during the interview, I would like to offer you the personal assistant position. On a trial basis, of course.”
I’m speechless. The wheels in her head are clearly forming plans that mine can’t seem to catch up to.In the span of a few minutes, I have gone from bartender to dancer to assistant. Sensing my hesitation, though I feel like it can’t be that hard to see, she takes a step towards me, blocking out Tessa. Speaking in a hushed tone, her eyeline only coming up to the middle of my chest as she tilts her chin to look up at me, “Come on, Colt,” she purrs, eyes burning, “don’t you want toassistme?”
I’ve never been overly fond of my name. It was fine—I like that I can shorten it, and it sounds nice in the native Texan drawl I’m surrounded by.
