by L. B. Dunbar
“If you want to dance the tango, you must have the proper attire.”
“The tango?” I choke. “I don’t want to...” Tango. It’s a sensual dance, and being up close and personal with this man—or any man, for that fact—will be a bit awkward.
“What kind of dance did you think you were learning?” Peter asks.
“Swing or something like that, which I already know.”
“You know how to swing dance?” He taps his foot like a movie diva, crossing his arms over his thin chest.
Crossing my arms in response to his shocked demeanor, I snap, “I do.”
He eyes my outfit again. “Quite.” He’s mocking me. Crossing the dance floor as if his ass holds a pen between his cheeks, he practically sashays to the opposite corner. Swish. Swish. Swish. He’s gliding as he nears a giant stereo system. After he presses a button, the room explodes in big band music.
“Let’s see,” he says as he spins and saunters back to my side. With a few snaps of his fingers, we break into stride. I’m rusty at best. It’s been years since I’ve practiced or even participated in the steps. My mother was the one who loved it, but I fall into line with Peter as my lead, and for a moment, I’m sprung back in time to our living room on the Lane. My mother’s smile. Her wiggling hips. The kick of her feet. If I wasn’t laughing so hard at myself, I might burst into tears with the memories. However, it feels good to remember her in a happier light than the years of disapproval and closet drinking.
I’m bent over out of breath as the song ends, and Peter steps back to give me a one-time clap. His hands clasp together in surprise, but another set of hands continues slow applause behind me.
Oh, God.
I spin and face him.
“What are you doing here?” My face flushes from the exertion but also the possibility Garrett saw me dancing. I don’t need an audience.
“Thanks for warming her up,” Garrett says to Peter without breaking eye contact with me. The sandy brown of his eyes roams my body and then flashes to the dress. His lips twist, and then he nods. “Okay, then.”
He steps forward, and my hands come up to stop him. “What the…?”
“Sweetheart, you didn’t think I was your partner,” Peter teases. “I’m the instructor.”
“But. I thought…” I can’t finish my thought.
“You might want to change,” Peter suggests, whispering as he leans toward me like he’s sharing a secret.
“She doesn’t need to change. She’s perfect as she is,” Garrett says, his eyes not leaving mine as his voice lowers.
Oh God. I’m melting.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say quietly, but Garrett has my hand in his and squeezes.
“I know, but I want to.” We pass another minute gazing at one another before Peter clears his throat, and I break away to change. My sweatshirt is rather bulky, and the sneakers clunky. Not to mention, the shoes aren’t conducive to sliding over the wooden floor. Peter shows me to a changing room, and I stare at myself before the mirror after I slip into the dress. Hugging my body, it accentuates my hips and highlights my breasts. The crisscross over my chest cuts low, but snug. One wrong move and I may be on display, but I feel…pretty. Sexy even. My hands coast over my hips, and I note the bright red heels. Ruby slippers.
If I click three times, will they transport me home? I may never leave this city, and Garrett might give me a good reason to stay. I smile slowly at myself and then step through the changing space curtain.
Ignore the man behind the curtain, rings through my head. As I stare back at Garrett, who wears his own set of dress shoes, fitted suit pants, and a shirt with sleeves he’s rolling up his forearms, there’s no chance I can ignore him. Tin Man, my ass. He’s definitely the Wizard.
“May I have this dance?” he asks after fixing his sleeves and stepping up to me.
Take them all, I want to say.
“You may,” I tease, and in less than a second, I’m in his arms, tugged to his chest, but held off just the teeny-tiniest bit. The dance stance. We’re so close but not close enough, and it’s the sexiest position I’ve ever been in. Hesitation and anticipation balance between us.
Peter explains how he wants us to move. It’s a simple eight count, and I follow Garrett’s lead as Peter coaches him. Garrett’s a fast learner and an amazing dancer. His hand on my hip. His fingers coasting up the side of my body. His palm stroking under my arm.
“What’s the matter, Dolores?” Garrett mutters to me as we practice this sultry move, and I shiver. I’m Baby in Dirty Dancing when she laughs at being tickled.
“Nothing,” I mutter, though I lie. I’m so turned on when I’m supposed to be concentrating. “Just lead.”
I follow where Garrett takes me, spinning us, gliding us. Our legs tangle. Our hips collide. Our cheeks brush, and I want him to kiss me. We take another turn, and then his nose drags along the corner of my lip. My eyes close, and I falter. Garrett catches me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, growing flustered and wet. So wet. The aroma—and the aura—of sex lingers between us. I want him like no man I’ve ever wanted. Not James. Not Rusty. I want Garrett to take my body, and I’ll do anything he asks.
Peter snaps out another direction. “Dolores, stand at his back. Wrap a hand around his chest. Garrett will capture it, and he’ll do the rest.”
I roll around Garrett’s shoulder and stand directly behind him. Normally, he’s the one to sneak up on me. Garrett shivers as I exhale.
“What’s the matter, Garrett?” I singsong in the tone he used with me. He chuckles.
The music starts.
I do as Peter directs. My hand starts on Garrett’s bicep and then skims forward to press into his chest. My fingers spread before they are captured by Garrett, who sways us to the side. I step around him to place my body in front of his, and he tugs me into him. His hand splays on my lower abdomen, his fingers so close to the promised land, but I will myself to keep steady as Garrett dips me back and then tugs me forward.
My body screams for his.
He spins me out and pulls me back. We glide in the not-close-enough dance stance a few paces until he turns me so my side leans against him. His fingers spread just under my breast. When he nudges upward, I’m certain that’s not part of the dance. We step one, step two, and then he faces me. His one hand rests high on my back; the other lowers for my hip and then drags up my side in the move we’ve been practicing. His palm skates under my arm to my wrist as his nose traces down the side of my face.
Oh, God. I might orgasm from this.
We bend at the knee and then more steps. Step. Step. Turn. I’m lost to his lead until he tips me backward. His palm flattens on my throat and skims down the front of my dress, between my breasts and lower, narrowly missing my center again.
Take me already.
He slowly pulls me up, and my eyes freeze on his. The melody beats in tandem with my heart…and my sex. Garrett stops moving, and then he kisses me. Tender. Light. Too quick.
The music halts, and I step back. Peter stands in the corner, fanning himself with his hand.
Tell me about it.
“Let’s take five.” Peter points with his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just be a minute.” Judging from the sweat on his forehead, he might need more than five, but I’m not concerned with Peter. I turn back to Garrett, who steps into my dance space and cups my cheeks. His eyes volley back and forth, searching mine.
“Come away with me this weekend.”
My mouth pops open. What is he saying?
“I have somewhere I’d like to show you. Get your opinion on something.”
My cheeks, already flushed, heat further.
“Okay.” I have no willpower to refuse him. His lips curl at the corner, and then his mouth falls to mine, hungry, eager, divine. I’m so worked up from the dance I can’t deny him. I open and take him in, matching his lead once again like a ravenous hussy. I want him to take me on this dance floor with the mirrors so
I can watch us. His hand skims the side of my body like it did while we danced. When he reaches my hip and tugs me forward, I’m rewarded with the pressure of his excitement against my lower belly.
“What are you doing to me?” he mutters against my mouth before pulling back and resting his forehead on mine.
Same thing you’re doing to me, Tin Man. Finding my heart.
16
Wine and dine
[Garrett]
A weekend away seems like the perfect thing for Dolores. She needs to see another part of California before she returns home, though I don’t like to think of her going back to Georgia. Not to mention, I want to visit the winery for ideas. My personal investment? I’d like to own a vineyard. It gives me a way to honor my granddad—who invested in me and always wanted land—while creating something long term. A retirement plan even though I’m way too young to retire. I still have a lot of buying and selling inside me yet. My next purchase, though, needs to be a long-term purchase for me.
“Where are we going?” she asks as I enter her brother’s apartment. It’s hard to remember it’s his as we’ve spent the past few nights in here. I’m feeling like a teenager each night as we kiss and kiss and kiss some more with wandering hands but respectful boundaries. I don’t need to cross the line, but I want to with her. What’s that saying: parting is such sweet sorrow. The hardest part of each evening—is leaving. A weekend retreat will allow us to spend the nights together.
“Napa.”
“As in Napa Valley?” She stops pacing to her suitcase and spins to face me.
“Yes. Wine country. Did you bring a dress?”
“I didn’t know I needed one.” She actually doesn’t, but I’d like to see her in the black dress I had sent to the dance studio again, and if we eat at the restaurant, she may want to dress up.
“Bring the black one I bought you.” She stares at me, folding something over her hands.
“You need to stop buying me things. You kind of spoil me.” She isn’t being coy like some women can be, or even encouraging me to spend more on her. She’s stating a fact, but I find I enjoy spoiling her.
“It’s my pleasure,” I say, stepping up to her and removing the item from her twisting fingers. It’s a T-shirt material, and I ask her if she needs it. It looks extra large, like a sleep item. Reaching for it, she folds it and stuffs it in the suitcase.
“What about Wally?”
“He’s going with us. They have a place to keep him while we stay at the inn.”
“An inn,” she states. Now she does sound coy. “How quaint.”
“I’m hoping so.”
As we drive north, she asks about my upbringing in southern Missouri. I ask about her diner. She has a wealth of knowledge about the food industry, and I’m glad I asked her to visit the winery. She might have an eye for things I won’t notice, but I haven’t told her my dream yet. I’m nervous. I want her to like what I have planned.
One thing we have in common is a deep respect and admiration for our grandparents. I tell her more about Granddad before he died.
“He was a spirited old coot.” I throw my voice to add a Southern drawl. “He always told me nothing was impossible.”
“Sounds a little like Magnolia. She didn’t believe everything was for everyone, but she did believe in me.”
“You’ve never told me, why do you call your grandmother Magnolia?”
“When we were young, her mother was still alive and Magnolia didn’t want the same title as her mother. It made her feel old.” She chuckles and I smile.
“So, what do you mean everything for everyone?”
“Magnolia knew love had limits.”
I don’t like the sound of that, but I also know all too well she’s right. I’d been in love once. I’d never do it again.
“Some people just don’t get the love they deserve,” she adds.
“Wow, what a downer.”
Dolores chuckles. “I guess it is.”
“Have you been in love?”
“I thought I was. His name was James, and he was the boy next door with a bad boy reputation. We fooled around a lot, but then he fell in love with someone else.”
She shrugs, and I want to take her hand.
“What about Rusty?” I swallow back the bile mentioning him brings me. I told myself I would not ask. I’d take the time she gave me and accept she might go back to him.
“Love does not exist with Rusty.”
“More fooling around,” I tease although there’s no humor in my jest.
“Can we maybe not talk about him?” She looks out the windshield, her eyes narrowing at the traffic ahead. This time, I do reach for her hand and pull it to my lips.
“Definitely.” I don’t want to talk about him either, but I’d like to know where I stand. As much as I want to suppress the thing, my hollow heart feels an echo of a beat.
Dolores and I have spent a lot of time kissing this week. We’ve made out on her couch with some pretty serious petting for lack of a better word. Grinding at our seams with our hands groping, I haven’t allowed us to cross any lines. No bare breasts. No naked pussy. Nothing but mouth on mouth.
It’s strangely juvenile and hot as fucking hell. Dolores knows how to kiss, and her body moves like sin even if we aren’t getting down to business. I separate from her each night with a hard-on that could hammer nails, but after a whack or two inside my front door, I’m done. She winds me up like no one I’ve known. She’s wound too. Denial is the best foreplay, and I can’t wait to finally watch her implode.
Once I know what Rusty means to her.
+ + +
We arrive at Vineyard Inn roughly around dinnertime. I made a late evening reservation, although the availability of the restaurant ebbs and flows. Being a week after the holiday, I assumed it wouldn’t be busy, but the room overlooking the dark vineyard is packed. As the first weekend of a new month, the First Wives Club is present.
“They’re a group of women who celebrate their divorces. They’re the first wives,” I explain after we are seated for dinner. The last hour has been rough.
First, I only had one room because the original reservation was for me. I had planned to arrive alone until Dolores.
“We can’t stay in the same room,” she mutters.
“Why not?” I ask, my eyes shifting to Isabelle Vincentia, the elderly woman who owns the place with her husband, Francisco. The couple has been together for an eternity, and I’ve seen them interact. Francisco looks at his wife like it’s the first time they’ve met. He’ll stop and touch her hair or kiss her temple. It’s love incarnate, and I wanted a love like that once.
“Because we aren’t…” Her voice falters.
We aren’t what? I want to snap, but with the owner as our audience, I don’t.
“Could you give us a second?” Taking Dolores’s elbow, I guide her to the center of the lobby. “Look, this place is known for discreet affairs. The rich and famous hang out here…to hide. The owners are used to couples not being together-together.”
Dolores’s eyes widen, and she scans the empty lobby as if she’ll find a couple in a nefarious act.
“Oh,” she drones. “Is that what we’re having?” The question feels like a slap. We better not be having an affair. I’m not into cheating. Her or me. My teeth grind.
“What we are having is a weekend away because I want to show you something.”
She nods, a bit contrite, and leads us back to the concierge desk. Waving a hand over the counter, she allows me to complete our registration.
The second issue is still the room. Dolores goes into the bathroom to change, and when she steps out, all shower fresh and done up in her dress, I can’t breathe. Maybe one room was a mistake. I’ll never be able to contain myself. However, I realize, if I only get to hold her again, it will be enough. I’ve missed her in my bed, which surprises me. I don’t snuggle, but I want to with her.
I’m turning into a sap.
So here we finall
y sit. A glass of wine before each of us, and she demands more details about the First Wives Club.
“They’re mainly from the Hills as far south as Laguna Beach. Their rich husbands cheated on them, and they received a large settlement. Typically, they come together when a new one joins the rank.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’ve been here before when they’ve been present.” I take a deep breath. Pain riddles my chest with this admission.
“And all the affairs here. Like who? What?”
“Hollywood producers and young upstart actresses. Or rock stars hiding out from their wives. Or…”
“Not you,” a deep voice from my left catches me off guard.
“Or high-profile MMA fighters who own the joint.”
“This isn’t a joint,” he snaps. Dolores sits back and looks up at him. He’s a beast of a man with short hair cropped close to his head and bulging biceps. To my surprise, Dolores doesn’t seem impressed.
“Dolores, this is Cain Callahan. His wife’s family owns the winery.”
“And the vineyard and the wine distribution. And the place is not for sale.”
I hold up a hand because I’m no longer interested in buying. I’ve already gone that route, wanting a piece of the place. Instead, I want to scope it out, appreciate the view, and maybe enjoy my company a little better this time around.
Cain points at me. “No scenes.” He’s making one himself, but I understand. Dolores eyes me, and I know I won’t have a choice in the matter. It’s time to come clean.
Thankfully, a little girl skips into the restaurant with a very pregnant woman toddling behind her. Sofie Callahan must be a saint to be married to such an intense man. She’s a doctor, so I suppose she’s close enough.
“Daddy,” the girl with wild dark ringlets calls out, and Cain’s demeanor shifts. He turns to catch her when she leaps, and he hikes her up to his hip. She nuzzles her head into her father’s neck but keeps her eyes on me.
“Hello, beautiful,” I say, but Cain’s eyes snap back to me.
“You have your own beautiful woman before you. Don’t be hitting on my daughter.”
