Read Online Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) by Eva Shaw - Free Book Online
Authors: Eva Shaw
Tags: Romance, Contemporary
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the woman, Gramps. As you may recall, especially when you stare at the coffee all over this shirt, my actions spoke louder than my words. Forget the sterling first impression, because she knows I’m a screwball. And I have principles. I usually wait at least two hours before I meddle in someone’s business.”
That wasn’t entirely honest. I have been nosey quicker than that and he knew it, so after getting a grandfatherly shove I trotted over toward the woman I’d recently insulted.
I smiled, stayed a few feet away in case she hadn’t forgiven me and said, “Hey, Petra. Thank you for getting Gramps to come here. This is good for him.”
“Dancing is good for us all.” She nodded, like a delicate bobble head, and slipped the paper she’d been reading into the pocket of her electric blue crinkly peasant skirt, which would have made me look as big as Texas.
I replied, “I’m a good listener if you ever want to talk. Gramps thinks you might have something weighing on your heart.”
“It is a big thing, Pastor. Too big for you.” She inhaled sharply and then straightened her shoulders. “It’s too big for me.”
“It’s not too big for our God, Petra. Call me Jane. Our God is a specialist in really big problems. I don’t have any more of a direct connection with Him than you do, but I’ve solved some huge problems in my day, in and out of the ministry, and maybe I can help you find some answers.” I didn’t tell her that I’d created colossal quandaries single-handedly; no need right then for full disclosure.
She looked down her feet, which by the way were in the sweetest, softest taupe pumps, beyond adorable with a tiny strap across the top. It was enough to make me sick since I lusted for the shoes, and feet that size. We both looked up at the same time. “With permission, may I call you later?” she said.
“That works for me.” I patted her hand. In 120 minutes or less, I’d gone from making horrid, spoken accusations that Petra was a gold digger to attempting to console her.
To add a bit more drama to whatever had stirred her up she wiped a tear from her eye and patted her pocket where she’d hidden the paper I’d seen her reading. She flicked a switch on the portable CD player, and we went back to attempt the foxtrot with “You Make Me Feel So Young” crooned by Frank Sinatra pouring over the crowd.
Gramps didn’t wince more than twenty times as I crushed his toes, amazing through those alligator-skin boots he was sporting. Everything was rosy, until Petra called out, “Now everyone, it’s time to twinkle.”
That did it. I stopped dead. “Tinkle? Gramps I never have and never will tinkle in public.”
“A twinkle. It’s a twisting side step, a running in motion dance move,” he said and called across the room. “Petra, I can’t handle this.”
As if they had a secret code, she rushed over and replaced Gramps in the man’s position. The music got louder.
I’m a preacher and in the miracle business, which is a preachy line I use, but this had to be an honest-to-goodness one.
You see, as Petra took my partner’s position, I was transformed into a swirling, gazelle-like ballroom dancing professional. Twirling, twisting, and twinkling, it didn’t matter one whit that I was dancing with a girl, who happened to be a trained dancer. In all my born days, I never ever thought I’d feel light as a feather, feel the music to my marrow. It coursed in my veins. I was as free as a butterfly, free as falling leaves in an autumn breeze, light as Cool Whip on Jell-O and nary a toe came between my size eight feet and the dance floor. It was heaven. It was sublime. It was what my body was made for. I was going to throw off the preacher’s garb to scoot straight for Broadway. Look out chorus girls, look out Rockettes, and look out for Jane Angieski. I spun, smiled, and wiggled in all the right places, since I do have an abundance of those “places” to wiggle. The music turned to a
That wasn’t entirely honest. I have been nosey quicker than that and he knew it, so after getting a grandfatherly shove I trotted over toward the woman I’d recently insulted.
I smiled, stayed a few feet away in case she hadn’t forgiven me and said, “Hey, Petra. Thank you for getting Gramps to come here. This is good for him.”
“Dancing is good for us all.” She nodded, like a delicate bobble head, and slipped the paper she’d been reading into the pocket of her electric blue crinkly peasant skirt, which would have made me look as big as Texas.
I replied, “I’m a good listener if you ever want to talk. Gramps thinks you might have something weighing on your heart.”
“It is a big thing, Pastor. Too big for you.” She inhaled sharply and then straightened her shoulders. “It’s too big for me.”
“It’s not too big for our God, Petra. Call me Jane. Our God is a specialist in really big problems. I don’t have any more of a direct connection with Him than you do, but I’ve solved some huge problems in my day, in and out of the ministry, and maybe I can help you find some answers.” I didn’t tell her that I’d created colossal quandaries single-handedly; no need right then for full disclosure.
She looked down her feet, which by the way were in the sweetest, softest taupe pumps, beyond adorable with a tiny strap across the top. It was enough to make me sick since I lusted for the shoes, and feet that size. We both looked up at the same time. “With permission, may I call you later?” she said.
“That works for me.” I patted her hand. In 120 minutes or less, I’d gone from making horrid, spoken accusations that Petra was a gold digger to attempting to console her.
To add a bit more drama to whatever had stirred her up she wiped a tear from her eye and patted her pocket where she’d hidden the paper I’d seen her reading. She flicked a switch on the portable CD player, and we went back to attempt the foxtrot with “You Make Me Feel So Young” crooned by Frank Sinatra pouring over the crowd.
Gramps didn’t wince more than twenty times as I crushed his toes, amazing through those alligator-skin boots he was sporting. Everything was rosy, until Petra called out, “Now everyone, it’s time to twinkle.”
That did it. I stopped dead. “Tinkle? Gramps I never have and never will tinkle in public.”
“A twinkle. It’s a twisting side step, a running in motion dance move,” he said and called across the room. “Petra, I can’t handle this.”
As if they had a secret code, she rushed over and replaced Gramps in the man’s position. The music got louder.
I’m a preacher and in the miracle business, which is a preachy line I use, but this had to be an honest-to-goodness one.
You see, as Petra took my partner’s position, I was transformed into a swirling, gazelle-like ballroom dancing professional. Twirling, twisting, and twinkling, it didn’t matter one whit that I was dancing with a girl, who happened to be a trained dancer. In all my born days, I never ever thought I’d feel light as a feather, feel the music to my marrow. It coursed in my veins. I was as free as a butterfly, free as falling leaves in an autumn breeze, light as Cool Whip on Jell-O and nary a toe came between my size eight feet and the dance floor. It was heaven. It was sublime. It was what my body was made for. I was going to throw off the preacher’s garb to scoot straight for Broadway. Look out chorus girls, look out Rockettes, and look out for Jane Angieski. I spun, smiled, and wiggled in all the right places, since I do have an abundance of those “places” to wiggle. The music turned to a
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