O.C. Writers

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“Come on, Grace,” Stephen said, taking her hand and pulling her toward the dance floor and away from his aunt and laughing cousin.

Grace stumbled after him until they reached the dancing couples. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re thinking,” she began.

He silenced her by putting his finger on her lips. “Just go along with me, please. There’s a hundred-dollar bill in your purse for your trouble.”

“I’m not a prostitute.”

“I never said you were. Look, all I’m asking you to do is dance with me. Consider the money a gift.”

“No strings attached?”

“None whatsoever.”

“But only married people are dancing.”

She was right. Now, only gray-haired and stooped couples were on the floor. The DJ thanked the octogenarians, and most of them shuffled to their seats.

“Are you married?” Stephen asked, his voice suddenly loud since the music had momentarily hushed.

“Not anymore,” she said, her voice tight.

“Me neither,” Stephen said.

“And now, here’s to the new lovers in the crowd,” the DJ said. The music shifted to an old Frank Sinatra song, “Strangers in the Night.”

“An oddly appropriate song,” Grace said. “Did you plan this somehow?”

He shook his head, placed one hand on her waist, and took the other in his. She fit against him nicely and moved easily to the music. He told her what had happened.

“You didn’t want your aunt to catch you in your fib? How come?”

“I have a standard I’ve kept since high school. I don’t lie to my mom.”

She craned her neck to look around him, as if she were checking out his butt.

He tried to look over his shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

“I was wondering if your pants were on fire.”

He laughed. “I’m not a liar.”

“But you just admitting to lying to your aunt.”

“In general, I try not to lie.” He grinned. “But the rule is hard and fast for my mom.”

“So, why are you fibbing to your aunt?”

“It just happened really fast.” If he told her he’d wanted to give the money to someone who needed it—as her purse suggested—would she be insulted? Some people were touchy about money and about being on the receiving end of charity. He didn’t want to offend her, but he also couldn’t figure out what she and her scruffy purse were doing at this pricy event if she needed money. She was a riddle he couldn’t solve, and she intrigued him.

But she probably thought he was a lunatic. As well as a liar. Which he was. Sort of. Not usually, but she’d caught him in one.

Frank Sinatra’s crooning about strangers in love faded, and the DJ spoke into the microphone. “All of the couples on the dance floor—I want to see some smooching! Go ahead, don’t be shy! Plant a juicy one on your partner!”

Stephen had intended to peck the butterfly on the cheek, but she turned at the last moment, and his lips met hers. And once he started, he couldn’t stop.

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A flurry of emotions zipped through Maggie. Should she push him away? Who was this impertinent, ridiculous DJ to even suggest kissing…a stranger?

What had Sinatra been singing about? “Love was just a glance away, a warm embracing dance away.”

But…oh…was this what kissing was all about? How long had it been since she’d been kissed like this? Maybe never.

She’d loved Peter. She had loved kissing Peter. But near the end, the kisses had been so mixed up in grief and pain, they’d just as soon make her cry as curl her toes in pleasure…like this one did.

What must this person think of her? What made him think he could just kiss her like this? Maybe he kissed everyone like this. She couldn’t be someone special in his life since he had only just met her…but he hadn’t really met her, had he? It wasn’t as if they’d been properly introduced.

And she’d given him her middle name.

But this kiss, though…

She really should end it. This was exactly the sort of privileged behavior her brother and parents were always spouting off about. Rich people who thought they could do whatever they wanted with little or no regard for who they stepped on…or kissed.

Oh, this kiss. It was like kissing Clark Gable, or Gary Grant, or…Zorro.

He pulled away. She was grateful to see his dazed expression.

Maggie touched her lips. “What was that?”

“That,” he said, “was worthy of an encore.” And he kissed her again.

This time, Maggie, forgetting all about social injustice or the people on the floor surrounding them who had started dancing to a song by the Beach Boys, leaned in and gave herself over to pleasure. It rocked her world. Shook her to the core. Made her legs shake.

It took her a moment to realize that not only was her world rocking, but the lights strung above her were wildly swinging. The band had stopped playing. Pillars bearing lanterns fell with a crash and glass shattered. The hospitality tent collapsed, and one of the curtains fell into an open fire pit. The chandelier in the entry fell with the sound of tiny crystal shards dashing to bits.

And still Zorro held her in his arms. In fact, he tightened the embrace, making it more protective than sensual.

The lights went out. Women screamed and men shouted. All around her, panicked people pushed and pulled. Zorro grabbed her hand and pulled her through the chaos. She staggered after him, barely seeing through the billowing smoke.

The damp and cold seeped through Maggie’s flimsy slippers as she crossed the lawn. He took her elbow and steered her through the parking lot, passing the valets who had gathered into a tight bunch beneath the now-catawampus awning. Here, away from the party, the moonlight shone clearer.

Maggie blinked when she realized it wasn’t Zorro who had led her through the chaos, but her brother.

She wrenched her elbow out of his grasp. “Rob! What the heck?”

He stopped and stared at her. “What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” she said.

“You sound like you do.” He stepped closer. “Who was that guy you were kissing?”

She floundered for an acceptable answer and finally came up with, “I don’t know.”