Momma always told him to watch out for certain girls, and after a while, he learned “certain girls” was Momma’s code for “girls who want in your pants to break your heart or make off with your wallet.”
The girl in front of him was Momma’s worst nightmare.
It was Valentine’s Day in Southwest Washington. That meant the cold, ever-present rain. The fireplace was going at it with the snap and crackle to remind everyone that it was there, the sleeping dog next to it, trying to will herself closer in warm doggie dreams.
The Merlot bottle stood half-empty, sitting on the table next to the photo album. They had been giggling over the photos for quite some time.
She had disappeared while he was fetching cheese and pouring the rest of the wine, but now she was back, wearing her dancing heels and the red dress she loved to wear salsa dancing, the one with the slit that went to the ceiling. She put on slow jazz, the singer with her sensual tale of love and longing in French, all sexy and warm.
He stood and put a hand around her waist, and one across her back. One of her hands came up behind him and she ran fingers through his hair. She swayed into the music, swayed into him, and her lips came up to his ear. She smelled of grapes and flowers, but also that dangerous woman scent that she loved to use like a weapon.
“Dance right into me,” she whispered. “Dance into me.”
Momma was wrong. The girls that knew how to say the perfect things at the perfect time were the ones that needed watching.
It was their eighteenth wedding anniversary.
“Dance right into me,” she said again, and sighed when he kissed her.