**Dance with Me**
Emma had caught George’s eye the moment she joined their office. A stunning blonde with warm brown eyes, she stood out effortlessly. The women in the office were split—half convinced her hair was dyed (“Natural blondes don’t have brown eyes!”), the other half swore her irises were just cleverly disguised contact lenses. Weeks passed, her roots remained untouched, and occasionally, she’d wear glasses. Why glasses if she had contacts? The mystery deepened.
Ladies’ man Jake, ever the charmer, had also noticed Emma. Unlike shy George, Jake wasted no time—coffee runs, lunch invites, even offering her lifts in his flashy car. Each gesture twisted the knife of jealousy deeper into George’s heart. How could he compete? Jake was effortlessly handsome, quick with compliments, and had a joke for every occasion. The downside? Once he’d “won,” he moved on. This time, his target was Emma, leaving poor Lucy—former object of his affection—plotting tearful revenge in the loo.
George, meanwhile, was… well, George. A burly, red-cheeked IT wizard with square-framed glasses and a wardrobe of clothes that seemed to drown him. His surname, Barlow, didn’t help—fittingly unglamorous, just like his namesake from that famous novel. But George had one superpower: computers. Any glitch, any crashed system, he’d fix it before you could say “Ctrl+Alt+Delete.”
“George, *help*!”
“My screen’s frozen!”
“Mate, can you edit this video?”
George’s fingers would fly across the keyboard, and voilà—problem solved. The girls would peck his cheek in thanks, turning him crimson. The lads would slap his back, promising pints they’d never deliver. George didn’t drink. He preferred the blushes anyway.
Officially, he was *Geoffrey*, but “George” had stuck. He’d protest, but even Jake would chuckle, “Relax, mate. Suits you.” Was it a compliment or a dig? George could never tell.
He wasn’t some lottery-winning heir. Raised by a single mum who’d been frank about his origins—conceived over a cuppa with a younger man who’d vanished by morning. No point ruining *his* life, she’d reasoned. George grew up quiet, clever, and obsessed with tech. By uni, he was earning decent money, much to Mum’s pride. No wild nights, no trouble—just him, his monitor, and a steady diet of her legendary pies.
Then came Emma. George lost sleep, saved her photos, daydreamed. She didn’t notice. At all.
Desperation breeds creativity. One morning, George “accidentally” crashed her computer.
“*Please* fix it!” Emma begged, biting her lip as George—with theatrical gravitas—undid his own sabotage.
“Done.”
“Really? Ask for *anything*!”
“Anything?”
“Within reason!” she backtracked.
The office Christmas party loomed. “Dance with me,” he blurted.
Emma blinked. “You can *dance*? Alright… promise.”
Come the party, Jake swooped in the second George approached. Heartbroken, George left early.
Next day, Emma apologised. “You’re kind, smart,” she said gently, “but maybe lose the glasses? Hit the gym? Looks *do* matter, George.”
Cue the mirror epiphany. He ditched Mum’s pies (her devastation: “Not *bad*, are they?”), shelled out for contacts, and googled “how to not be a disaster.”
Then—*bingo*—a flyer: *Ballroom for Beginners*.
A woman’s voice answered his awkward call. “Come tomorrow at seven.”
Laura wasn’t some waif-like prodigy. She was warm, curvy, older—and *kind*. “Weight doesn’t matter. Wanting to dance does.”
Three weeks in, George’s trousers sagged. Jake noticed. “Blimey, mate. Who’s the lucky girl?”
Laura helped him shop for smarter clothes, even shoes (“Jake’s got these,” George murmured, admiring his reflection).
“Will she like me now?” he asked.
Laura’s smile faltered. “You’re learning for a *girl*?”
The Spring Fling arrived. Emma remembered her promise. George, coached by Laura, waltzed her across the floor—*spin, dip*—leaving the office gobsmacked.
“Teach me?” Jake clapped him after.
But George was already gone—racing to Laura’s studio.
“It worked,” he panted. “But *you* taught me. Not her.”
Laura’s studio was struggling. “Adults just want hip-hop,” she sighed.
George kissed her. “Age is just a number. And your class? It’ll be packed.”
Next day, Emma asked, “Who taught you to dance like that?”
“Someone I love,” George said.
He kept his word. Blogs, posts—his “dancing saved me” story went viral. Laura’s classes filled. He proposed. His mum huffed, then yielded. (“Rather *her* than some stranger.”)
Funny thing, chasing a girl to learn to dance—only to fall for the teacher instead. Sometimes, happiness finds you when you’re not even looking.
