Chapter 2

Saturday dawned bright and clear.

I was up by seven, and Mike joined me shortly after I began moving around in the kitchen. I wondered if he'd been awake, courteously waiting until he heard me, so as not to disturb me too early.

I scrambled eggs and cooked sausage for both of us while Mike manned the toaster. I'd cut up fruit the previous morning, so by the time we were through, we had a nice little buffet.

After the dishes were cleared, I suggested an excursion, eager to get out of the house. Mike was quick to agree.

I didn't want to struggle with parking, so we rode the bus to a small holiday street fair set up in one of the city's picturesque plazas. We meandered through the crowded aisles between the booths, stopping here and there when some trinket or other caught our attention. Most of the items had been handcrafted by their respective vendors, and the prices were quite reasonable.

Mike stopped to admire a series of hand-cast medallions, each strung on a twinkling silver chain. "Look, a St. Christopher's medallion." He picked it up and turned it toward me.

I leaned closer, our shoulders brushing, and he pointed out the saint's image and the X-shaped cross below.

"He's the patron saint of sailors. A lot of guys wear 'em on board ship. I used to have one, but the cord broke and I lost it somewhere after I got out. I keep meaning to replace it, but I've never gotten around to it." He turned the silver disk over and looked at the tag on the back. "I might have to come back."

I thought how lovely the medallion would look, nestled just below the hollow of his throat, warmed by his skin. "If you like it, you should get it."

He rubbed a thumb over the price tag. "Maybe later." Carefully, he eased the medallion back in line with the others.

When Mike turned his back to look at the carved wooden animals in the next booth, I caught the proprietor's eye, held a finger to my lips for silence, and pulled a couple of bills out of my wallet. He dropped the necklace into a small paper bag and winked at me as he handed me my change. "Your boyfriend's a lucky guy."

He's not my boyfriend, was on the tip of my tongue. But there was no need to go into the details. "Thanks."

"Have a Merry Christmas," he called after me as I turned away.

For lunch, we had steaming hot bratwurst from one of the carts surrounding the food court, and split a funnel cake, its powdered sugar dusting reminiscent of snow.

All morning long, Christmas music had pulsed from speakers throughout the plaza. Now the recording stopped abruptly and there was the brief whine of a microphone being turned on. A tinny voice announced that for the next two hours, a local orchestra would present an open-air concert for the market's patrons.

I grinned at Mike. "Shall we?"

He grinned back. "Why not?"

The music began, Christmas songs with a 40s swing tempo. As we drew closer, I couldn't resist stepping in time.

Mike noticed and drew to a stop, quirking an eyebrow.

I felt myself blushing. "Sorry. Jerry and I used to do a lot of this kind of dancing." My breath caught a little. "It's one of the things I've missed this past year."

Mike took my hand. "I took a dance class a couple semesters ago as one of my electives. Needed one more credit for a full time load, didn't want to bog down in something academic." He shrugged. "I can't promise how much I'll remember, but I'd be happy to give it a go." He lifted my hand slightly and bowed over it.

I couldn't help grinning. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?"

I cast a dubious glance at my jeans--the nice ones this time, but still--and holiday sweater. "I'm not exactly dressed for dancing."

His eyes twinkled. "So?"

"Mike, I'm-"

He took my other hand as well and swayed to the rhythm. "You're what?"

I felt myself moving, pulled into the dance. "Mike, middle-aged moms don't dance in the middle of the plaza on a Sunday afternoon."

He lifted his hand and I twirled under it, breathtakingly close for a moment before we fell back into position again. "They can if they want to." He dropped his hands slightly. "Do you want me to stop?"

No, I realized. I really didn't. I tossed my head and looked him in the eye. "All right, then. Let's do it."

Mike was a beginner and out of practice, but he had an inate grace and a natural sense of rhythm that served him well. In the years Jerry and I had spent at swing dance clubs, we'd often paired off with beginning couples, and I'd learned to use body language and subtle cues to suggest moves without taking the lead away from a less-experienced partner. Mike picked up my cues easily, and by our second dance he began to lead more assertively. By the third, he even attempted some spins and turns of his own, though not always with perfect grace. He didn't seem perturbed by his missteps, just grinned and kept going. I couldn't help thinking of Jeff, and how flustered he'd be at performing badly, especially in public. If, that was, I'd been able to get him to dance at all.

When the music slowed, it seemed entirely natural to follow Mike's lead and slip into his arms for a waltz. It felt good to be held in his arms, moving in time, despite the discreet distance we maintained.

We began with a basic box step, then Mike segued into a grapevine which ended in a twirl that left me breathless. Grinning, he pulled me back into his embrace and a basic box once more.

"You're good at this!"

He winked. "I may or may not have had to learn that for my cousin's wedding.

I squeezed his shoulder. "Well, you learned it well. You'll make some lucky woman a great partner somewhere down the road."

A shadow flitted across his face. "Maybe."

"I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?"

He grinned ruefully and shook his head. "No, you're fine. I just ... don't want to think about somebody else right now. I'm dancing with you."

I didn't know what to say to that. Fortunately, he led me into a series of more complicated moves that demanded all my attention, so I didn't have to say anything right then.

We drifted to a stop as the music ended, like waking from a dream. Looking around, I noticed that several other couples had joined our impromptu dance, as well as another two or three on the opposite side of the seating.

"Hey, Lynne." Mike jostled me and looked up. We'd come to a stop under a beribboned sprig of mistletoe.

I eyed him with good-natured suspicion. "Did you do that on purpose?"

He gave me a rakish grin. "Could be." Relenting, he stepped back. "We don't have to if you'd rather not."

"Oh, what the heck." It was just a kiss, after all, in a public place. What was the harm?

Our lips brushed gently, almost chastely, at first. His parted slightly, and I followed suit, molding my mouth to his. The tip of his tongue brushed my bottom lip. His body pressed against mine, warm and firm, and I could feel a hint of his erection where our hips came together. He didn't press it into me, but he didn't pull away, either.

At last, he ended the kiss and stepped back. "I think I'd better stop for now." He winked. "There's more where that came from, if you decide you're interested."

I was interested, very. And with each passing hour I was seeing less and less reason not to take him up on the offer. "Let me think about it," I said at last.

He smiled, a smile that lit up his eyes and transformed his face. "Sure."

When we got home, I slipped off my shoes and sat on the couch, curling my legs up underneath me. Mike sat beside me. "All right." I waved my hand to encompass the situation. "What do you see happening here?

He took my hand. "What I see," he said after a moment, "is two mature, healthy people who like each other and are attracted to one another. We've got a week to spend alone with each other, outside both our normal routines, and I see no reason not to make the most of it,."

"And after?"

He gave me a wry smile. "Well, I'm about to graduate college and looking for a job. Could be here, could be anywhere in the country. And you have roots here--a beautiful place, work, friends, a lot of history. So ... who knows?" He looked intently into my eyes. "I'd like us to stay in contact, stay friends."

I made air quotes with both hands. "Friends with benefits?"

He recaptured my hand. "Could be. Or friends with a delightful little bit of shared history."