Mister Romance by Amelia Simone (the reading list .txt) 📕

nursing experience would have been useful, but her field was spot on for the help I needed plotting my next book.

VirginiaRothman: Any chance you’d be up for helping me with some book research? My next book features a nurse, and I want to get the details right.

TamraRN: Let me think about that ... YES!

VirginiaRothman: LOL. Sounds good. Let me put together my questions and an outline for my next project, then I’d love to reach out.

I bit my lip. It didn’t sound dirty. She didn’t know my real identity or how true those words were. Yes, I’d love to reach out ... because, those lips—but I wouldn’t.

TamraRN: Would love to help.

VirginiaRothman: You say that now, but I can be a terror.

TamraRN: Nurses can stay calm under the wildest conditions.

I smiled at her response. I needed that kind of calm in my life. Maybe she wouldn’t flinch when I inevitably stuck my foot in it.

VirginiaRothman: I’m going to hold you to that.

I closed the app with a happy sigh and another sip of coffee. That hadn’t been so hard. Conceivably I could pull this off. My only dilemma was whether I’d send Tamra my questions in writing or try for something more synchronous and personal. I liked her sense of humor. It didn’t hurt that she was sexy. Though, in terms of meeting via video chat or talking on the phone, it might. My track record with attractive women was poor. Possibly ranking as dismal. And there was the whole pseudonym issue. No way I had enough charm to convince her to keep my secrets.

My stomach sank. Few people were in my circle of trust. The thought of adding anyone new filled my gut with plumes of sawdust as buzzsaws took aim at my self-confidence, carving it to kindling. Being myself with Tamra could be dangerous to my poise, not just problematic for my career. For a man with all the words, sharing them in real-time usually left me wishing for an edit button.

Chapter 6 - Tamra

I grinned non-stop after my latest exchange with Virginia. If I played my cards right, would she name a character after me? Helping to create something I loved was a dream come true. Following the confidence of that contact high, I was ready to take on the world of dance. Revel in my body and build confidence that I could be as sultry as the women I admired in Virginia’s books. To be safe, I hadn’t had any flatulence producing foods in days. No one needed a repeat of the sugar plum farter.

I dressed carefully for my intro to pole dancing class, smiling as I thought of Gina’s quote for the day. “Be a stiletto in a room full of flats.” Hah. I loved Gina, but I was not stiletto material. Yet.

The studio welcome email had suggested comfortable yoga gear and bare feet. I was grateful it wasn’t a bra and stilettos, like YouTube videos had led me to believe. My nursing footwear ran toward comfortable shoes with good traction. Open-toed shoes in labor and delivery rooms with the ever-present possibility of leaking body fluids were not a winning combination.

I left for the studio with plenty of time to spare. Knowing they would lock out any latecomers, had made me paranoid that I’d miss my class. I pulled up to the strip mall where the studio was located. It was subtly signed, with instructions to go to the entrance in the back of the building. The studio shared space with a dog grooming business and a vacuum supply store. Luckily, neither were hopping on a Saturday evening.

I parked and walked around back to try the door. Locked. They weren’t kidding. My Fitbit confirmed I was early, so I settled in to wait for the current class to end and tried to look inconspicuous instead of like a creeper lurking in yoga pants.

To activate my blending superpower, I had to dress the part. The Athena Pole and Dance website was a little vague, but gave off strong self-love vibes, which I figured was positive. Affirming quotes like “don’t judge your beginning by someone else’s middle” were prominently displayed on different pages of their website. They emphasized the “personal pole journey” that was unique “for every body.” I hoped the motto was true. I was picturing a class full of bikini baristas with a level of confidence I couldn’t come close to. The practical nurse in me believed any profession that involved mixing steaming hot liquids and bare skin was a bad combo, but apparently it sold coffee. I theoretically could understand the appeal even though I had yet to find the hot, shirtless male version of that business model, which was a damn shame.

Fifteen minutes before class was scheduled to start, the door unlocked, and a few sweaty women trickled out. I surreptitiously checked my outfit against theirs and was relieved that most had also followed the yoga gear advice. A few were wearing short-shorts, and I admired their moxie. I needed a few thousand squats and some extra courage to rock that look. “Bait in the bucket,” I murmured to myself.

I got a sideways glance from an Amazon in black Lycra and shuffled my feet as my face suffused with color. I forced a smile. “Going fishing tomorrow,” I muttered.

As the outgoing traffic tapered off, I wandered inside. The vestibule had a tufted bench and cubbies for our stuff. I stowed my purse and shoes, then wandered into the main studio. The light was low thanks to large curtains covering the storefront windows, and five poles were strategically attached to the ceiling and floor around the room. Yoga mats had been laid out in a rough circle, and the instructor welcomed me and invited me to claim a spot. Her tank top and yoga pants stretched to encompass an athletic figure with the full hips and curves of middle age. Her long blond hair was streaked with pink and her friendly smile made me feel less intimidated.