Back at the reception, the lady is on the phone—again.

“Excuse me,” I call for her attention. She lifts a finger for me to wait, and I don’t even blink. After a minute, I call for her attention again only to be met with her raised index finger. This is a pretty poor service for the price I’ve paid.

“Hellooo?” Candee slaps the table a few times. “Are you getting paid to talk to your boyfriend? If yes, then I’d like to meet the manager because this job seems pretty cool, and I want it too,” she says, deliberately raising her voice.

The lady whispers to the other person quickly and disconnects the call. “I’m sorry, it was my mother. She’s not very well,” she explains.

I press my lips in an understanding smile, knowing she’s lying. “I was here earlier, and I think there’s a little confusion. I wanted to enroll for the Zumba classes but got enrolled for the kizumba classes instead. So …” I leave the phrase hanging there, hoping she’ll catch what I’m saying, but she just stares at us, waiting for me to continue.

“We don’t refund if that’s what you’re here for,” a voice replies behind us. I turn around and—

Holy hotness.

My gaze scrolls over the faded jeans and his SHIRTLESS broad chest, travels to his square, unshaven jaw, and pauses on his hard lips before moving to his messy, dark-brown hair and finally settling on blazing amber eyes. Our eyes lock, and with all that masculinity oozing from him, gravity stumbles—holy hotness is the right phrase indeed.

By the time I’m done checking him out, he’s standing right in front of me. “There’s just been a slight misunderstanding,” I start to explain, my voice crumbling like flaky pastry. I glance at Candee, hoping she’ll nod, but she hasn’t finished checking out Mr. Holy Hotness. “I wanted to enroll for the Zumba classes, but she handed me the kizumba dance form—”

“Kizomba,” he interrupts.

I nod. “And I thought they were the same and signed me and my friend up”—I point at Candee, and she waves at the guy, a slight frown marring her forehead—“but we’re not interested in dancing, you see?”

“That’s sad,” he says, cocking his head, but his voice and expression don't show an ounce of sadness. “But we don’t refund.”

“No, I don’t want a refund,” I clarify. “I just want to switch classes from kizumba to Zumba.

“First, it’s kizomba,” he points out and takes a step closer. His proximity does something to my oxygen supply, making it difficult for me to breathe. Why is the man shirtless? Unable to stop myself, I feel myself leaning forward—drawn to him like a magnet. “And second, it’s not possible to switch classes once you’ve paid.” With each word he utters, I like him less.

“But I don’t want to dance. It’s useless,” I say, cringing. I used my father’s word when he used to chastise Mom for dancing. I remember hating when he said that, and I hate I’ve used this word now.

One second his eyes are amber, and the next they catch fire—oh-oh. “Then you’re welcome not to attend if it’s that useless,” he finishes with tight lips.

“It was two hundred and fifteen dollars.” I raise my voice, hearing my dad’s chide at the back of my head. “Raising your voice is a signal to the opponent that you’re losing the battle.”

“Any problem, Remi?” another voice calls out, and I turn to see a blond guy with headphones around his neck, walking toward us.

“Nope,” Remi says. “Everything’s good.”

“Good morning, Nicholas,” the lady at the reception greets the blond one, twirling her hair like a nine-year-old. Nicholas replies with a slight nod and returns his attention to us.

“I want my money back,” I continue, bringing my attention back to Remi, my pulse accelerating.

Did he drop his gaze to my boobs? I glance down and realize he’s reading the “Don’t Cluck with Me” on the shirt.

His lips twist into a cold smirk. “For the third and last time, we do not refund.”

I switch my attention to the Nicholas guy, but he’s busy looking at his shoes. “I don—”

Candee finally finds her tongue. “I love dancing. I’ll be here,” she admits.

My head whips to her. She’s checking out the blond guy—Nicholas. And there we go.



“Be here on Tuesday at seven-thirty p.m. And bring the chicken.” Remi smiles at Candee and walks away with Nicholas. Candee nods, her eyelashes fluttering after their retreating figures.

$215 gone, an argument lost, and a dance class looming ahead. Dad will be so proud.
But the chicken … what chicken?

My gaze snaps down to my T-shirt.




If you enjoyed this snippet, you can read it for FREE IN KINDLE UNLIMITED


Sign up to my Newsletter to receive alert for new releases, bonus chapters, sales and giveaways.