Unbound - Rachel's Story
Copyright© 2025 by A Kiwi Guy
Chapter 7
On Wednesday afternoon, Rachel’s inbox pinged with the reply she’d been hoping for.
Hi Rachel,
That’s fine. The hall will be clear by 6.30pm on Thursday. Just leave the key on the hook when you’re done.
She smiled, tapping out a quick thank-you before pulling out her phone.
Rachel: We’ve got the hall Thursday night — 6.30 to 7.30.
Matt: Perfect — I’ll bring the music!
Rachel: And I’ll bring the determination not to stand on your toes.
Matt: No promises on my toes surviving ... but I’ll risk it.
The reply came with a winking emoji that made her grin at her desk.
The next morning, over coffee in the staffroom, Rachel mentioned her plans to Sarah.
“Dance practice at the community centre, eh?” Sarah arched an eyebrow. “Sounds suspiciously romantic.”
“It’s for the performance,” Rachel said quickly, stirring her coffee. “We’re just trying to not look like a pair of startled giraffes on the dance floor.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Sarah smirked. “And the hot chocolate afterwards?”
Rachel blinked. “What hot chocolate?”
“You mean he hasn’t thought of it yet? He will. Trust me.”
Rachel rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at her mouth.
Thursday evening, Matt appeared promptly at 6.30 at the community centre, casual in jeans and a soft grey hoodie, laptop bag slung over his shoulder and a thermos in hand.
“Told you,” Sarah’s voice echoed in Rachel’s mind.
“Evening, partner,” he said, stepping inside. “I come bearing technology ... and hot chocolate.”
Rachel laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”
“True. But I’m also punctual, so let’s make the most of this hour.”
They started with the basics — a slow walk-through of the paradance steps he’d shown her the previous weekend. The hall echoed with the sound of their shoes on the polished wooden floor, and Rachel felt a strange mixture of focus and self-consciousness.
The first few attempts were clumsy. She overthought the turns, he misjudged the spacing. Once, they spun a fraction too far and collided shoulder to shoulder, both dissolving into laughter.
“You’re supposed to glide, not rugby-tackle me,” he teased.
“Tell that to my brain.”
Gradually, the movements began to feel smoother. The music shifted to a slower section, and instinctively they matched its rhythm — moving together in a way that felt ... easy. Natural. Rachel was suddenly aware of how close they were, the warmth of his hand against her back. The moment lingered until she broke eye contact, making a joking comment about the next move.
By the time they called it a night, both were a little breathless. They sat side by side on the stage steps, sipping from Matt’s thermos.
“So,” he said between sips, “Friday night — supper with Sarah and her boyfriend beforehand, then taxi to the ball?”
Rachel nodded. “I think it’ll be more fun going in as a group. And less chance of me chickening out at the last minute.”
He gave her a mock-serious look. “Not allowed. We’ve put too much work in. Besides”—his eyes twinkled—”I’ve seen your competitive streak.”
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