Fireman Chad—yes, that is his proper title—has both his enormous hands at the small of her back, and Dani has one of hers fisted in the collar of his shirt like she’s worried, even now, that he might evaporate into thin air.
She’d never let him get that far. I mean, look at her face. Whatever ghost of an ex-fiancé used to live in Dani’s eyes, that’s gone now. It’s been smoked out and replaced by a square-jawed, six-foot-two redhead who calls her Bunny without irony and cooks a mean rack of ribs.
I take a bite of cornbread and have to bite back a quasi-orgasmic moan. Chad’s grandma made it, apparently, though I refuse to believe that the whip-sharp, refuses-to-use-a-cane woman I met on the dance floor is anywhere near the ninety-seven years old she claims to be.
Beer cans are cooling in
