Page 139 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

My jaw sets. Of course, they exchanged phone numbers. I take Katie’s arm as we walk and pull her closer.

“You know who that was, right?”

“I do. I mean I didn’t at first, but yeah.”

“And that didn’t stop you.”

She looks up at me. “Is there a problem, Michael?”

Reign it in, Michael. Do not piss off the tiny raccoon.

“No. Just surprised.”

“She’s nice. And funny. And interesting,” Katie says, narrowing her eyes at me.

She nearly walks straight into someone, but I catch her at the waist and guide her around them.

“You exchanged phone numbers?”

“Yeah. We’re going to meet for lunch next week and then go to the bookstore.”

Dear God.

I let out a quiet breath and force a smile. “That’s great.”

I pull her chair out when we get back to the table. She smiles and sits down as I push it forward. I sit down next to her, settling my hand in her lap under the table. She laces her fingers with mine.

“Oh, Michael. You’re back,” Teresa says. “I think Katie left us so she wouldn’t have to answer any more questions.”

Katie’s cheeks turn red beside me.

“Can you blame her?” I say. “You old biddies are relentless.”

The women laugh, not the least bit offended, and their husbands grunt in agreement.

“We were all surprised that Katie was a bartender,” Maria Caruso says from across the table.

I turn to her slowly. I’m not sure who the fuck she thinks she’s speaking to.

“She’s also an accomplished English teacher,” I say. “And a talented painter.”

“Oh. Yes, yes. I didn’t mean any harm by it,” she says quickly.

I don’t respond. If these women weren’t friends of my mother’s, I wouldn’t be entertaining this bullshit. Katie’s hand tightens around mine.

“I work hard at a lot of different things,” she says. “Michael appreciates that about me.”

The table goes quiet. The expectation settles in—waiting to see if I correct her, if I draw the line. I don’t. I lift my hand and brush a curl away from her face, letting my touch linger for a second before I smile.

The rest of the night settles into place. No one else crosses a line. Dinner comes, then dessert. No one approaches me unless they’re friends of my parents. The rest know better.

After the speeches, the dancing begins. Couples start gathering on the floor, falling into something structured. The kind of dancing I was raised on.

“So,” Katie leans in, her voice a whisper. “We’re not twerking tonight.”

I let out a quiet laugh, but it still carries enough to pull a few looks. She smiles and drops her forehead to my shoulder for a second.

“No. There will be no twerking,” I murmur.