At least she was fantastic. I waited while she doused herself with rose-scented perfume that made my sinuses itch, combed her hair, fussed with her earrings, put on a scarf, took it off and finally was ready to go. “Shall we bring Ollie?” I asked.

“Oh, yes! He’ll help me stand out in that crowd of shriveled hags. Men love dogs.”

“Good point. Come on, Ollie, let’s go.” I scooped up my dog, who was looking extra cute today, and kissed him on the head.

The Village of the Damned did a nice job of offering different things. Cooking classes, tai chi, dancing, crafts, holiday parties, outings... It was just that not many people seemed to want to do them. Or weren’t able to do them.

As Gram-Gram predicted, there were roughly thirty women in the gym and three men. Each man had at least four dance partners vying for his attention.

Wait. There were five men.

Jonathan Kent stood in the doorway, his hands on the back of his father’s wheelchair.

My face grew hot, same as the time I’d hidden in the boys locker room in eleventh grade to see Juan Cabrera without his shirt. Would Jonathan think I was stalking him? Was I stalking him? I’d been at that window a long time.

He looked over, saw me and gave a cool nod.

Right. Captain Flatline.

His father looked distressed, however, and I knew how to fix that. “Do you know that gentleman over there in the wheelchair?” I asked Gram-Gram. “Mr. Kent?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “He’s rather handsome. Is he senile?”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure. He’s my boss’s father.”

“Well, if he’s nice, who cares about a little senility? Let’s go say hello.” She marched over to them, using her sharp little elbows to negotiate the crowd. I followed, Ollie trying to lick everyone we passed.

“Hello, hello, hello, boys!” Gram-Gram said, neatly cutting off an incoming female, who glared at her.

“Hi,” I said to Jonathan. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Hello.” He looked tense. Normal, in other words.

“You remember my grandmother?”

“Of course. Mrs. Carson, lovely to see you again.”

“Oh! Don’t you have the nicest manners, young man! This is your father?”

“Yes. Malcolm Kent. I’m afraid he’s not—”

Malcolm Kent caught sight of Ollie in my arms. “Good dog,” he said.

“Would you like to hold him?” I asked. “He’s very friendly.”

Gram-Gram took Ollie from me and put him gently on Mr. Kent’s lap. The old man lifted a gnarled hand and petted him, then smiled at my grandmother.

“Shall we get out there?” Gram-Gram asked. “Come on! It’s fun.” She hip-checked Jonathan out of the way and grabbed the wheelchair handles.

“Is that all right, Dad?” Jonathan asked, but they were already out there, Gram-Gram’s head bouncing to Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean.” Not what I’d consider salsa music, but hey.

Jonathan’s eyes were on his father. “He’ll be okay,” I said, hoping it was true.

“He likes dogs,” he said.

“And Ollie likes people. We actually volunteer here, Ollie and me. Well. Mostly Ollie. But I tag along.”

He dragged his eyes off his father and looked at me for the first time.

Damn. Those eyes did not play fair. The gold chip in his left eye just invited staring. I dragged my gaze off him, my stomach hot and tight. “Are the girls here?” I asked.

“No.”

I watched the seniors for a minute. “Does any white person really know how to salsa?” I asked. “Where does a person even learn salsa dancing?”

“You should know,” Jonathan said, “since you wrote a story about it for the magazine last fall.”

“Did I? Right. I did, didn’t I? I forgot.”

“Clearly.”

“I never took a class, though.”

“I did.”

I snorted. Jonathan, dancing. It was probably against his religion. “Oh, yeah? Can you paso doble, too?”

“No. I can jitterbug, though.”

“Get outta town! So when did you become lord of the dance? Was it to meet women?”

“No. It was when my wife and I were engaged.”

I winced. “Sorry.”

“Why would you be sorry?” He gazed at me with that expression—human apologizes for no apparent reason.

Out on the dance floor, my grandmother was shimmying in front of Mr. Kent, who didn’t seem to notice, as he and Ollie were staring deeply into each other’s eyes.

“Would you like to dance, Ainsley?”

I actually jumped. “What?”

“Would you like to dance?”

“Um...no. I mean, I’m not very good. I inherited my grandmother’s gift, in other words.”

His mouth twitched. “Well, then, at least you’re enthusiastic.”

“If uncoordinated.”

“Don’t be a coward.” He took my hand, and a jolt ran up my arm. He pulled me out to where his father was, put his hand on my waist and, much to my shock, seemed to know what he was doing.

I stepped on his foot and found myself against his chest.

“It’s sort of a rocking thing,” he said. “Eight counts. Step forward, step in place, step back, pause. Or in your case, back, in place, forward, pause.”

Whatever. He was holding my hand. I tried to follow him and tripped.

This time, he did smile, and my legs threatened to splay.

“One, two, three, back, five six seven pause.”

I stepped on his foot again.

He laughed, the sound low and sooty, and everything inside me seemed to swell and squeeze.

“Okay, let’s freestyle it, what do you say?” he asked and stepped a little away from me (self-preservation, no doubt). But he kept holding my hand and twirled me.

“Good girl, Ainsley!” Gram-Gram crowed. “You look like a professional!”

Jonathan twirled me again, and this time, I found myself with my back pressed against his chest. “Thank you for the fairy presents you left,” he murmured, and my bones practically dissolved. “I went to leave something and saw that you beat me to it. And your gifts were better.” He moved me so we were facing each other again.

Then I accidentally smacked one of the female residents in the cheek, got a glare, apologized, then looked at Jonathan.

He was definitely smiling. It was an odd smile, and he looked dorktastically adorable and so, so appealing that I didn’t quite know what to do.

Captain Flatline, smiling. At me.

“Son,” Mr. Kent said, and Jonathan’s smile dropped.

He knelt next to his father. “Yes, Dad.”

“I want to go home. Will you take me home?”

“Of course.” He straightened up, then gently picked up Ollie and handed him to me.

Our eyes held for a second.

“Thank you,” he said.

Then he turned to my grandmother, took her hand and kissed it. “Mrs. Carson, always a pleasure.”

“Oh! So courtly!” she cooed.

He looked at me once more. “Try not to be late tomorrow,” he said.

Then he left, pushing his father’s wheelchair. He didn’t look back.

Damn.

Gram-Gram put her hands on her hips and looked around. “Well, I don’t have a chance in hell at getting close to a man. Let’s just dance, sweetheart.”