Page 100 of Working for the Mob

Art swayed back and forth more than he danced, but at least he stayed on beat. I tried to slide back to our booth, but Art grabbed me before I could. He wore an entertained expression the entire time, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

I closed my eyes and moved my arms the way my sister and I did when we were kids. Art gave my elbow a squeeze, and I couldn’t help laughing and moving along with the beat.

I lost myself in the song. I moved to the bassist’s progression and bopped to the melody. I spun in a circle while Art looked on, and just as I found my groove, the song stopped. I was pulled from my trance like a slap to the face.

“How about something a little slower for you lovebirds out there?” the raspy voiced singer called out.

A handful of people headed back to the bar, but those who stayed paired up and drew themselves into each other. I felt an overwhelming panic. Would Art want to slow dance? Did Art even slow dance?

Without waiting to find out, I stepped towards our booth, but Art seized my arm again and pulled me into his chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

One of his arms found the small of my back and the other clasped my hand. Was Art Necci really slow dancing? The same man who physically moved me out of a coffee line on my first day here?

He led me in each step, in perfect synchronization with the music. I let myself be swept away. After the first verse, I no longer felt out in the open and vulnerable. It was just the two of us on the dance floor. The band played for us, and us alone.

In my dress and his suit, we were two nickelodeon stars, connected and flowing. I buried my head into his chest and his heart pounded against my cheek. This is what it felt like to have everything in the world I cared about fall into place.

“Genevieve?” Art whispered into my ear.

“Yeah?”

“What are you going to do about your dad?”

“What?”

I pulled my head up a fraction to look up at Art. But it wasn’t the Art I knew looking back. Instead, his eyes were filled with pleading.

“Are you staying here? In Lannington?” he asked. His torso was suddenly rigid against me.

“Why? Are you afraid Lucy won’t be able to afford rent by herself?”

I began to laugh, but his glare shut me up.

“You know that’s not why I’m asking,” he said.

Why was he asking? Did he want me to stay for him? Did he want to move beyond the occasional romping and push our relationship forward? But … would my dad let me stay? Or, would he haunt me every step I took in Lannington?

“If I stay, there are some changes I’d like to make to the café,” I said, and stuck my chin out.

I couldn't see his face well, but his body relaxed. How long had he been worried about that?

“You already run the place. What more could you want? Are you going to take down Jamie’s Phillies paraphernalia?”

“While he’s out on medical leave? Definitely not,” I said. “But I’d like to give Lucy more artistic freedom.”

“Artistic freedom?”

“I want her to be able to edit the menu as she sees fit. If she wakes up and wants to sell marmalade cream puffs, I don’t want to ask for permission,” I said.

“Is she considering marmalade cream puffs?”

I fixed him with a pointed glare.

“Fine. Artistic freedom.” Art sounded close to laughing. It was an unusual expression for him. He hugged me back in.

I stayed there in his arms as we stepped along to the soft melody, and I wished the song could last forever. I wanted time to stand still in this moment and never leave his arms. If only I knew how right I was.

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