“You okay?” She leaned into his tense shoulder.
“Fine.” Rolling his neck again, he eyed his mother and her husband sitting at the other side of the large table. Cali found it odd that they hadn’t scooted over to converse with them. From what she could see, his family appeared perfect. She supposed appearances could be deceiving. Nevertheless, considering she’d just lost her mother, it took everything she had not to pull his face close to hers and say, “Love them, Brit. You won’t have them forever.”
“Come on,” Susan called from the door. “We’re dancing. Brit, Cali. You too, Frank and Mom. It’ll do the muscles good, Mom.”
Brit stood. “We should leave.” He led her to the door.
“No,” Susan said when Brit whispered his goodbye. “We haven’t opened presents or cut the cake. And we’re not going to until you dance with Cali. Now go cut a rug, brother.” She shot him a firm glance and Cali got the feeling that whatever reservations Brit had about his family, it wasn’t with his sister.
Brit’s frown deepened, and he turned back to her. “Would you dance with me so we can get this show on the road?”
She put her hand in his and smiled. “I’d be honored.”
He walked her to the dance floor just as a slow song started. He exhaled. “This could be dangerous.”
“It’s just a dance.” She placed her hands on his shoulders.
He put his hand on her waist. “You’re lethal tonight.” His breath smelled of wine.
“Thank you.” She sighed when his fingers found that spot between her jeans and sweater and he touched her bare skin.
Just a dance. She told herself.
The music flowed. So did they. The band changed songs, but kept the pace body-brushing slow. Brit’s fingers kept slipping under her sweater and onto her waist. He never explored too high, or too low, but the feel of his warm hands against her body made her dizzy. She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he whispered in her ear.
“Thanks for asking.” Why did this have to feel so good?
“I would have asked you earlier. It’s just…my family can be hard to take sometimes.”
She looked up at him. “Susan is a joy and your mom seems sweet.”
“Oh, she’s sweet all right.” His voiced dripped with sarcasm.
She continued to move with him. “Is it her husband? You don’t like him?”
He brushed his face against her cheek. “You smell so good.” His fingers slid under the sweater again. “You feel so soft.”
She laughed nervously and pulled back. “Behave.”
He gave her an inch, but her breasts still brushed his chest as they swayed, and an inch wasn’t enough. She felt her body tightening and longing to move back in. “Is it her husband?” she asked again.
He frowned. “Could be, but I keep forgetting which husband this is. Can we not talk right now?”
“She loves ‘em and leaves ‘em, huh?” She rested her head back on his chest.
“Something like that.”
His hips brushed against hers. “Where’s your father?”
His body grew tense. “He died when I was fourteen.”
Empathy filled her instantly. “I’m sorry.” She looked up.
“Don’t be. He deserved it.”
She flinched at the bitter words.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was cold, considering you just lost your mom.”
“What did he do?”
He moved around the dance floor with practiced ease. “Women, booze and crime.”
“And you blame your mom?” She met his steps, even as those steps brought them closer. His hard body felt right.
“I blame them both.” He stared down at her. “What about you? Where’s your father?”
“Gone,” she said.
“Dead?”
“Don’t know.” She rested her face back on his shoulder, and part of last night’s dream vibrated through her thoughts. She remembered what her mom had said about her dad. Then she remembered something else. Don’t stay at the same hotel.
He leaned his head down and asked, “Did you get along with your mother?”
“Yeah. I mean, we had our share of disagreements, but we loved each other.” She pushed the thoughts of the dream from her mind. They were just dreams.
“What kind of disagreements?”
“Small stuff,” Cali lied, remembering the very last disagreement they’d had.
He stepped back just a bit and stopped dancing. “Your mother didn’t like Humphrey?” His tone held the slightest edge, reminding her that he was a cop, and she was still his case.
“She never met Stan,” she said honestly. She couldn’t tell him that since her mother died she’d nicknamed the guy a weasel. But she hadn’t really nicknamed him. Those were just dreams.
“Why not?” He moved her back into the easy rhythm of the dance.
“Because she was so sick and maybe because I knew she wouldn’t approve.”
“Smart lady.”
“Yeah.” Cali looked away.
“What else?” he asked. “What else did you fight about?”