Page 22 of The House on Forgotten Hill

I looked at his hand, then at him. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“We’re in the kitchen.”

“Why does it matter where we are? Come on. I don’t see a problem with two friends dancing.” He stepped closer. “One dance. That’s all I ask.”

I hesitated, considering his request.

It was one dance.

Nothing more.

I placed my hand in his, and his fingers closed around mine. He led me to the center of the kitchen as though what we were doing was familiar and we’d danced together a hundred times before. One hand remained in mine, while the other settled against the small of my back.

“You’re a good dancer,” he said.

“I’ve had practice.”

“An old boyfriend or a current one?”

“Something like that.”

“I noticed you’re not wearing a wedding ring. Are you dating anyone?”

“Not at the moment.” I looked up at him. “What about you? Why aren’t you married?”

“I’ve never met the right woman.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I’ve been in a few relationships. They didn’t last long.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I suppose I’d chalk it up to the natural course of things. You meet someone, sparks fly, and for a while they consume your thoughts. Then something shifts. A small crack becomes a larger one, and before long, the excitement fades, leaving behind something far less interesting, and the thrill you once felt is replaced by something much less satisfying.”

It wasn’t what I expected him to say, but his answer seemed honest.

We continued swaying for another few moments, and then he stopped.

“I’ve been wanting to do something all evening,” he said.

He stepped closer.

Close enough that I could smell cedar and expensive cologne.

His eyes searched mine. “If you don’t want me to, tell me now.”

Before I could say ‘tell you what,’ he kissed me.

Not asking.

Expecting.

And in my confusion, I kissed him back.

Then I rested a hand against his chest. “I think we should …”