“Yeah, but do you have to think about each one while you’re acting?”
“No,” I say, tucking my chin. “I just do it.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. “So, you’re not thinking.”
“It’s not the same,” I tell him, and then I knee him—accidentally and not in the balls—when I go to the right and he goes left. The way he presses his lips together tells me it hurt, and I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” But his voice is strained, and I wince with guilt.
“I’m such a klutz.”
“You are not.”
I give him my snarkiest of looks, “Oh? You think I’m as graceful as a swan?”
He pulls a face. “Swans look graceful gliding on the water, but have you ever seen swans fight? They’re vicious.”
“You’ve seen a swan fight?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I blink in disbelief. “There are swans in Louisiana?”
Beau’s laughter seems to take him by surprise. “No. We have geese and ducks and even turkeys, but, sorry, no swans.”
I like watching him laugh. “Where did you see these ferocious swans?”
“I’ve only ever seen them in Switzerland and The Netherlands.”
I halt mid-step. “You’ve been there? Both of those countries?” My surprise is unchecked.
“Keep dancing,” he instructs. “You were doing great.”
I start dancing, but then look down. “I was?”
And then I wallop him again.
Beau pinches his eyes shut.
“Oh God,” I mutter.
Eyes still closed tight, he gives a taut shake of his head. “No, no. It’s fine. What’s a few bruises?”
“Oh God.”
He clears his throat and shakes like a dog after a bath. “We were onto something,” he says, eyes on me again. Beau sets his hands on my shoulders, and I stop moving.
“What? What were we onto?”
“You. Not thinking.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out his phone. “Let’s start over. This time don’t think.”
The music restarts, and I’m immediately off on the wrong foot, but at least I don’t knee him.
“It’s okay. Keep going.”
I botch it again. If someone were filming this, it would be the world’s longest blooper reel.
“Are you thinking about your steps?” Beau asks, a touch of accusation in his tone.
“What else am I supposed to think about?” I try to throw my hands up, but I only manage the one at his waist. The other’s trapped in his hand, and he isn’t letting go.
“Don’t think about anything,” he says, dark brows drawing together.
I look at him like he’s crazy. “I have to think about something.”
“You can’t just clear your mind?”
My eyes nearly fall out. “Are you serious?”
His face clears, and his lips shape into a smile. “Yes. I know exactly what the problem is,” he mutters.
The way he’s looking at me makes me nervous. Well, more nervous. “What’s the problem?”
Intrigue sparks in his gaze. “You’re stuck in your head.”
“I thought we established that,” I say, no less confused.
Beau shakes his head, looking pleased with himself. “No, you’re completely stuck in your head, which means you’re out of touch with your body.”
I want to shake my head in denial because I’m constantly thinking about my body—if my butt looks fat, if my belly is too big, if my clothes look too tight—but I don’t say this.
“How can I be out of touch with something I’m stuck inside?” I blurt.
It’s only after Beau’s face flashes with shock that I hear myself.
Stuck?
“Stuck? Why would you say it like that?”
Why would I say it like that?
I wave my hand like it’s nothing. “If you were five-three, you’d say stuck too.”
He frowns at me for another long second. “I don’t think so.”
“Forget I said anything. You said stop thinking. How am I supposed to do that?”
His frown clears. “Right.” He takes out his phone and restarts the music again. “Listen to the song,” he says as the music plays.
I listen. It’s the same song I’ve heard half a dozen times now, opening with the cheerful wheeze of an accordion.
At the second measure, Beau grabs me, and we begin to dance at the same time he asks, “What do you hear?”
I grip his hand and waist, holding on as he leads. “W-what do you mean?”
“What do you hear?” he repeats.
Right-together-right-together.
Left-together-left-together.
“Music,” I answer dumbly.
“What’s it made of?”
I move, trip once, but Beau steadies me. “Instruments?” I look up at him like he’s crazy.
He grins down at me. “What kind?”
“Accordion.”
“What else?”
Right-together-right-together.
Left-together-left-together.
I listen to the music. “A violin.”
“Cajun fiddle,” he corrects, his smile soft but still reaching his eyes. I feel it in my stomach.