The F-Word

We’ve both tried to make up for the mistake we made with Vi’s parents earlier.

“Time flies,” I say softly, and I touch the tip of my index finger to Bailey’s lips.

She lets out a little breath. And smiles. Hey, I am nothing if not a problem-solver.

Violet isn’t satisfied. Her eyes—they’re piggy eyes, kind of small and too close together—narrow. Must be a family trait.

“Which is it?” she demands. “Three weeks? Or three months?”

And just that fast, Bailey takes control.

“Three months,” she says. “But we didn’t let anyone at the office know until three weeks ago. It wouldn’t have been good protocol.” She flashes me a sexy glance from under half-lowered lashes. “Then it just got so difficult to keep our hands off each other, even in the office…”

Napoleon’s eyebrows try to fly into his non-existent hairline. Violet’s mouth drops open. I know a cue when I hear one, and I happily perform what is clearly becoming my night’s duty again.

I smile, lower my head, and kiss my woman.

And my woman kisses me back.

* * *

The evening goes quickly.

Violet and Napoleon sail off to conquer the crowd, although anyone can see it’s my girl who’s done the conquering. She jokes, she smiles, she talks, she listens. She’s finally the woman she’s always been—she just kept that woman hidden.

I am enthralled.

I love watching her. Love listening to her, even when she decides to take on Uncle Arthur. Uncle Arthur is my Uncle Harry by a different name. He’s got an opinion on everything, and he’s convinced his opinions are facts.

People roll their eyes.

Bailey rolls her intellect.

She and Uncle Arthur debate the world scene. The national economy. Climate change. The environment. Bailey is firm but polite. And when Uncle Arthur suddenly grins, grabs both her hands, kisses her on each cheek and says he loves how she stands up to him, it’s all I can do not to applaud.

There’s a buffet, and we eat. Not much, though. Neither of us seems to have an appetite.

There’s also music. Soft, easy stuff. A drummer and a bassist join the pianist and a few couples take over the minuscule dance floor.

I start leading Bailey to it. She holds back.

“I don’t dance,” she says.

I shrug. “That’s good, because neither do I.”

It’s not really true. I’m not John Travolta, but I can manage. Still, the white lie works. She holds my hand and we head for the dance floor, where she goes into my arms. She’s a little stiff, but I stroke my hand down her back and tell her to just feel the music, and after a few minutes, she does.

Good. All I want is to give her family yet another view of this woman they’ve only discovered tonight.

Come on, O’Malley. Be honest.

What I want is an excuse to hold her in my arms. Like this. Just like this. Her head on my shoulder. Her hair silky and soft against my jaw. My hands at the base of her spine, gently urging her to come closer. And she does. She moves into me. Leans against me. Presses the length of her soft, sweet body against mine.

She sighs and winds her arms around my neck.

I nuzzle a curl away from her ear. I feel her tremble, but I know that this time it isn’t from fear.

We’ve been moving slowly, staying with the soft music. We’ve reached the edge of the little dance floor. There’s a hallway beyond it that probably leads to another room. It’s barely lit and I dance us into those waiting shadows.