“Don’t be silly.”
“You told me dancing was never silly.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek. “Dance with me.”
Every muscle in her body tensed. Had Ezekiel lost his hearing or his mind?
“I said I didn’t want to dance.”
Ezekiel moved closer to the bar, talking to Crazy Pete. “The young lady and I are going to dance. Would you hold on to these items for her, sir?”
He passed Pete her coat, purse, and shopping bag, which he’d somehow removed from her grasp.
Pete appeared confused, mirroring her own emotions. “Are you sure you want to dance with him, Miss Honoree?”
“No, I don’t want to dance with him. I said no. Twice.”
Dewey walked over and stood next to Pete. “You having some trouble with this man?” He glared at Ezekiel, and his body seemed to expand with rage. Ezekiel countered Dewey’s dangerous stance with one of his own.
“Everything’s jake.” Except it wasn’t. She feared the next move by both men would include pounding fists.
“When did my dancing with this young lady become your business?” Ezekiel’s voice had dropped an octave, and he’d moved closer to the bar.
Honoree hooked her arm into Ezekiel’s elbow and pulled. She’d drag him to the dance floor if she had to. But moving him was not easy. He was a mountain stuck in the mud.
“If the barkeep has a problem with us dancing”—Ezekiel’s voice vibrated dangerously—“he should explain why.”
“I don’t have to explain shit to a piece of driftwood like you.” Dewey braced both hands on top of the bar, shoulders bunched. “If you don’t agree, we can step outside to discuss it.”
They were well matched. Both muscular men, except one was long and the other stout. Ezekiel was the Tribune Tower, and Dewey was a milk truck. If the boys fought, Honoree’s chance of leaving Miss Hattie’s unnoticed would disappear. All eyes would be on the fight, and the girl at the center of the brawl, which everyone would assume was her.
“Stop making such a fuss over a dance. You’re behaving like madmen.” Honoree smiled sweetly, hoping to dampen the violence in the air. “It would be my pleasure to dance with Ezekiel. So mind your business, Dewey.”
She tugged at Ezekiel’s arm and felt a flood of relief when he moved, albeit slowly, toward the dancers in the middle of the cafe. “Come on. You wanted to dance. Let’s dance.”
Still eyeing Dewey, he wrapped a possessive arm around her waist, pulled her to him, and took the lead in moving them away from the bar.
A slow blues tune played, and Miss Dolly’s soulful wail filled the cafe. Dancers surrounded them, moving skin on skin, heat rising from their bodies like smoke in a bonfire.
Honoree looked up at Ezekiel. “You’ve changed more than I thought possible for someone to change. How could you let the likes of a Dewey Graves rile you into a fight? Have you lost your mind? Or are you just drunk?”
“Takes more than a little panther piss to get me soused.”
“You never used to drink. You never dressed in a fancy suit. You certainly would never start a fight in a bar.”
“I didn’t start it.”
Had he just dared to disagree?
“Hush your mouth. Too much about you has changed.” The crowd pressed in, pushing them closer together. She felt his arm tighten around her waist, and firm fingers pressed into her side.
Was he protecting her? She didn’t need him to do that. “How long have you been in the city?”
“You won’t like what you hear.”
“I’ve grown accustomed to not liking things you say.”
He stopped dancing, or whatever they’d been doing and, extending his arms, held her away from him. “I returned to Chicago two months ago.”
The air rushed from her lungs, but she kept enough breath to yell. “Two months! You’ve been in Chicago for two months?” She twisted out of his arms. “Where? Where have you been staying? Where do you live?”
