The Frog Prince Read Online Free PDF Page B

the server. “Can you pop upstairs in about five minutes to see what Leigh wants to order? I’ll have the rack of lamb and a Fat Tire.”
    “Sure thing.”
    I follow as Roman gets up and walks past the door we came in, and through the opening of another set of red velvet curtains. This brings us into an open area with café-sized tables, and a small stage. He turns left at the far corner of the room, and then up a flight of painted concrete stairs. As we climb, I can hear the soft chatter of people, and the voice of a woman louder than the rest.
    “If you can hear me, say ‘shhhh’!” she says.
    We round the corner just in time to hear the dutiful group hiss at each other. This has the effect of silencing the entire crowd, which is made up of about thirty or forty women and men in an elongated circle that is pushed to the outer edges of the rectangular room.
    Red and white Christmas tree lights are strung from one end of the ceiling to the other and oversized ornaments—the ones I’ve seen hanging in trees outside during the holidays—dangle here and there from the light strands. The wood floor is worn, and appears to buckle slightly in places.
    “Roman!” says a woman. She walks towards us, and a few of the assembled break ranks to make way for her.
    “Hey, Shea,” says Roman, gathering her in a friendly hug.
    Shea is a lovely, petite woman–younger than me–with big blue eyes who appears not to have gotten the memo that it is no longer 1930. Her hair is piled on top of her head in pin curls, with the back being held in place by a sparkling, black-knitted snood. From the neck down she’s dressed more contemporarily in jeans and layered camisoles underneath a tight-fitting, short-sleeved, blue sweater. I look her up and down a few times and decide that she has the buffest body I have ever seen. I wonder if she runs or lifts weights.
    She looks over at me. "I am so sorry I ruined your date!” she says with a big, pretty smile. “Feel free to stay for lessons–no charge.”
    “Thank you,” I say, without knowing what I’m thanking her for exactly. Maybe she gives the hula lessons.
    Roman gives my hand a squeeze. “This won't take long,” he whispers. “I'll make it up to you.”
    My heart does a back dive with a half twist as Shea pulls him to the middle of the floor. “This is Roman Lorraine,” she announces to the group, still loosely holding his hand. This makes me absurdly jealous. “My regular partner wasn’t able to make it today, so Roman was nice enough to offer to help me out.
    “Okay,” she says, circling around to face Roman, “so what you’re here to learn is called Lindy Hop. Depending on which part of the country you're from it may be called East Coast swing or jitterbug. Lindy Hop is essentially 1920s and 1930s African American street dancing which was a mish-mash of tap dancing, jazz, breakaway and the Charleston. It is technically classified as a ballroom dance, but that’s pretty much where the similarities end.”
    Suddenly Roman grabs Shea in a very stiff-armed embrace, his left hand holding her right hand high in the air, and sort of marches and spins her around in a circle in one of those waltzy dances I dislike. “This is traditional ballroom dancing,” Roman says as they twirl, “which is done with this very upright and rigid frame.”
    I’m relieved when they move apart from each other, connected by only one hand with at least two feet between them. They’re much looser now, slightly bent at the waist and bouncier in the knees. Shea makes a pointing gesture at someone beyond the circle of onlookers. I turn in unison with some of the others to see a short, curly-haired guy at the helm of a sound system next to the deserted bar. Catching her signal, he nods before tapping away on some buttons. The room booms with the jazzy, trumpet-filled sounds of Big Band Swing.
    Roman pushes Shea away from him, allowing her to do some very sexy swiveling of her legs and hips