**Dance With Me**
George had always fancied Emily. A tall, slender blonde with hazel eyes—he’d noticed her the moment she joined their office.
The women in the office were divided about her. Some insisted her hair was dyed—no one had hazel eyes with natural blonde locks. Others swore her eye colour came from coloured contacts. Weeks passed, and her roots never darkened. Sometimes she wore glasses at work—why would she need them if she had contacts?
Ladies’ man Charlie noticed Emily too. Unlike shy George, Charlie wasted no time wooing her—lunchtime coffee runs, rides home in his flashy car. Every move twisted the knife in George’s jealous heart.
What chance did George have against Charlie? The man was effortlessly charming, cracking jokes that left women weak. But once he won them over, he lost interest and moved on. Now, he was showering attention on Emily, leaving Susan—his previous fling—plotting revenge in the loo.
George… well, George was broad, ruddy-cheeked, perpetually untucked, with chunky plastic-framed glasses. His surname didn’t help either—Brown. Like his namesake from that famous novel, he was naive and awkward. But he knew computers.
*”George, help—my screen froze!”*
*”Mate, this video won’t edit!”*
His fingers flew over the keyboard, and minutes later, the issue was fixed.
*”Cheers, George!”* said Lucy or Alice, pecking his cheek, making him blush.
*”Brown, you’re a genius! I’d have been stuck for hours. Drinks on me!”* promised the lads—though they always forgot.
George didn’t drink. He preferred the girls’ thanks.
His name was technically Geoffrey, but “George” had stuck. He’d protest, but no one listened.
*”Come off it—suits you!”* Charlie would say, slapping his back. George never knew if it was kindness or mockery.
He wasn’t a wealthy heir like his literary counterpart—just a single mum’s boy. When he finally asked about his dad, she didn’t sugarcoat it. She’d had him late, just before her youth faded.
*”I was plain, skinny. Only bloke at the party who’d walk me home was barely out of school. I never told him about you—why ruin his life?”*
George grew up quiet, sharp, obsessed with computers. By university, he was earning decent money. His mum doted on him—no boozing, no trouble, just work.
She retired when he could support them, baking pies that made him pudgy. Sports? Never.
Then Emily arrived. Suddenly, sleep and appetite vanished. He downloaded her photos, stared for hours. She never glanced his way.
One morning, George tampered with her computer. Chaos erupted—reports due, systems down. Emily rushed over.
*”Help!”*
He played the hero, “fixing” the issue he’d caused. She bit her lip nervously until he stood, smug. *”Sorted.”*
Relief washed over her. *”Thank you! Ask for anything—within reason.”*
George hesitated. *”New Year’s party. Dance with me?”*
Emily blinked. *”…Promise.”*
A week later, the drinks flowed, music pounded. George approached—only for Charlie to swoop in, whisking her away. He left without a word.
Next day, Emily apologised. *”You left early—I’d have danced!”*
George adjusted his glasses. *”I get it. I’m not Charlie.”*
*”You’re kind. Smart,”* she said hurriedly. *”But maybe lose the glasses? Dress sharper? Women notice looks too.”*
That night, he faced the mirror. She was right.
No more pies. His mum fretted—*”Not hungry?”*—but he handed them out at work.
*”No wonder you’re round,”* Charlie joked, grabbing a third.
Diet alone wasn’t enough. Google suggested running or gyms—until an ad caught his eye: **Dance Classes**.
A woman answered his stammered call. *”Come at seven. I’ll see what we can do.”*
Her warmth surprised him. *”Who’s teaching?”*
*”Me. I competed internationally—before my knee went.”* Her voice dipped. *”Adults rarely sign up.”*
The next evening, he met Laura—not the waif he’d imagined, but warm, curvy, older.
*”Too fat for this?”*
She laughed. *”Dancing’s for everyone.”*
They moved awkwardly at first, his steps clumsy, hers patient. By week three, his trousers sagged. Charlie noticed first. *”Blimey, got a secret girl?”*
New clothes, contacts, shoes—Laura helped pick them.
*”Like Charlie’s,”* George murmured, checking the mirror. *”Think she’ll like me now?”*
Laura’s smile faltered. *”…You’re learning for *her*?”*
*”Yeah.”*
She looked away. *”She’ll love it.”*
Spring party night, Emily approached. *”You look different. I remember my promise.”*
George’s heart leapt.
Laura dressed him sharp—black shirt, sleeves rolled. *”Charlie just gyrates. *You* can dance.”* Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
The music slowed. George guided Emily like Laura had taught him—spins, dips, the room staring. At the final note, he bent her back, holding her steady. Applause erupted.
Charlie clapped his shoulder. *”Teach me?”*
Emily lingered as he left. *”Going already?”*
*”Forgot something.”*
He ran to the studio. Laura was still there.
*”Well?”*
*”Nailed it,”* he grinned. *”She stepped on my toes, though.”*
Laura’s face fell.
George kissed her. *”Age doesn’t matter. This is for *you* now. Tomorrow, you’ll have students—I’ll make sure of it.”*
Next day, Emily asked, *”Who taught you?”*
*”Someone I love.”*
True to his word, George posted his story online. Laura’s classes filled. He kept dancing, proposed within months.
His mum sulked at first—*”She’s older!”*—but relented. Better than lonely old age.
Funny thing—he’d chased Emily, only to find happiness where he least expected. Sometimes, you don’t find love. It finds you.
