One is a Promise by Pam Godwin

Author:Pam Godwin [Godwin, Pam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-06-06T07:00:00+00:00

“Don’t get me wrong. The cuisine is superb.” A distinguished man with silver hair and a sharp suit corners me in the back of Trace’s restaurant. “But Chermoula mackerel isn’t the only thing I’m interested in eating tonight.”

I hear the come-on loud and clear. The man is old enough to be my father, and he’s staring at my chiffon belly dance skirt like he wants to tear through it. With his dick.

It’s closing time, and no one’s around to witness the confrontation. I’m tempted to head butt his leering look into next week. But I’m an employee here, and I take my job seriously.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll pass your feedback along to the owner.”

Speak of the devil. Here he comes, storming through the dining room in all his scowling glory. It’s after midnight, and Trace looks like a million bucks, all freshly starched and vibrating with energy in his charcoal suit. I just finished eight hours of dancing and feel like death slapped in glitter.

It’s been three months since I spent the night in Trace’s penthouse, and I haven’t been back since. Not because he hasn’t invited me. It’s confusing. The sexual tension that ignites the air whenever we’re together isn’t one-sided. It stretches and fires between us with no relief, no resolution, no budging.

I said I wouldn’t pursue him, and I’ve had plenty of distractions to stop me from accepting his invitations. Five weeks ago, Nikolai and I nailed our Samba performance at the Fourth of July celebration at the Arch. I’ve also been juggling dance lessons at home and the shelter in between the evenings I work here.

The schedule is killing me, and after a lot of internal debating, I’ve decided to transfer my dance students to Nikolai. He teaches at another school and needs the income more than I do. I can always take the students back, if and when this casino gig goes south.

As Trace charges around the empty tables, I cast him a cease-and-desist order with my eyes. He slows his roll, hovering at a distance behind the creepy restaurant patron.

“Do you do private dances?” The man’s tongue slithers like a dying slug along his bottom lip. “I’ll pay handsomely for the lap variety.”

Bile creeps up my throat. Do I look like an exotic dancer?

My cherry-red half-circle skirt wraps low on my hips and attaches to a metallic gold mini underskirt. Chunky glass rhinestones and beaded appliques fringe the hardshell bra, red satin panel draped around one hip, and matching satin upper-arm bands. The belly dance costume is feminine and artistic. Certainly not designed for a lap dance.

I lift my chin and meet his beady eyes. “Do you miss the warm wet center of your mother’s loins?”

So much for taking my job seriously.

“My mother’s what?” His face pinches, deepening the pucker of wrinkles on his brow.

“Her loins. You spent nine months there. I assume that’s why you’re staring at mine with pathetic longing.”

His shoulders snap back, and his gaze darts toward the exit. “You don’t need to be nasty.

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