Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,17

over the top of the car. “What are you going to do about the meeting at the casino tonight?”

“I’ll go if I feel like it.” I shrug. “I have a counteroffer that’ll make his ass clench.”

Her disapproving glare rolls off my shoulders. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Not knowing what I’m doing is kind of my superpower.” I grin.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Chapter Five

PRESENT

“Look at all those smiles.” Father Rick Ortez leans against the wall beside me, his own grin twitching his gray mustache. “I’m always amazed at how many of them you can get on the dance floor.”

It’s not easy. No one at a homeless shelter has a reason to dance or smile. But I’m persistent, because when they finally give in and participate, they focus on learning the steps and laugh at their fumbling feet. In those small moments of levity, they forget about the tragedies that thrust them onto the streets.

Rick runs the shelter, and he doesn’t wear his white collar here, so it’s easy to forget he’s a priest. Which is the point. He wants all people to feel welcome, no matter their religion, race, or background.

On any given night, there are about fifteen-hundred homeless people in St. Louis. Since Gateway’s occupancy permit only allows seventy-five beds, the shelter is always maxed out.

I recognize some of the faces tonight. Those I’ve never seen before are the hardest to coax into dancing. They don’t know me, don’t trust my intentions, and I don’t blame them. But I have a strategy that works.

Line dancing. Anyone with two working legs can do it. I always start off alone, traveling through the steps and explaining each movement. After I draw a crowd, I cajole the most enthusiastic ones into joining me. Eventually a few more jump in. Then more and more.

I’ve been at it for hours, but they’re finally warming up and letting go.

“Don’t you have to dance at the restaurant tonight?” Rick runs a hand over his bald head, watching twenty people of various ages and dress teeter through the Cupid Shuffle.

I don’t know what time it is, but my seven o’clock meeting with Trace Savoy is probably nearing. Or passed. I rather enjoy the thought of him waiting.

“My schedule changed.” I guzzle the remainder of my water bottle. “Don’t worry, Rick. I’ll still be here a couple of times a week.” I wish I could donate more time, more money.

“You have a good heart, Danni.”

Good and broken. But no one here knows my background. I came to Gateway after I lost Cole, and I always move the engagement ring to my right hand before walking in. No questions. No past.

Two years ago, I started in the kitchen, hoping the volunteer work would direct my focus to other people’s misery instead of my own. The line dancing lessons evolved from there. I figured if my goal is to put smiles on troubled faces, I’ll find my own happiness in the process. It mostly works out that way. Sometimes I leave here feeling sadder than ever, but those times are rare.

I slide back into the dance line, rolling my hips and grinning at the elderly woman beside me. She’s stiff and hunched over, her weathered complexion knitted with a lifetime of hardship. But her toothless smile makes my heart soar.

“Look at you.” I touch the paper-thin skin on her elbow, guiding her through a turn. “You caught on quick.”

“Oh, I…” She sidesteps, staggering and laughing at herself. “I don’t know about that.”

With my music player set on repeat, the Cupid Shuffle loops two more times before my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I stay in the line, twirling through the steps as I glance at the screen.

Unknown: You’re late

According to my phone, it’s only 7:01 PM. A grin lifts my cheeks. If Trace had to pull my number from my website, I bet it really puckered his scowl to do so.

I step out of the dancing line and add his number to my contacts list. Not that I intend to talk to him after tonight. But I might be in the mood to make prank calls.

Flexing my hand, I type a response.

Me: Well-timed lateness is an art.

Trace: Punctuality is a professional courtesy.

Me: You’re scowling, aren’t you?

Trace: Where are you?

Me: Between here and there.

Trace: Your here better be in the casino.

He types fast, his texts pinging within seconds of mine.

Me: What do I get if it is?

Trace: A job.

Me: Oh right. The one that objectifies me. Tempting.

Trace: Tell