Sway With Me(14)

Portia scooped her purse off the floor and smoothed her skirt with her palms. She still looked a bit nervous, but at least she had stopped dancing.

He rested his hand on the banister of the stairs. “I’ll drop you off at your sister’s on my way to Braden’s. Where does she live?”

She licked her lips as she stared at his hands. “Novi. Is that close?”

Interesting. What was so great about his hands? He rubbed one back and forth over the knob at the end of the wooden banister and her eyes grew large, tracking his movement.

He couldn’t contain his smile. “Not too far. I live—lived—in the next town over.” He lifted his hand and walked toward her, thrilled by the blush on her cheeks which had deepened to a red. Keeping his hands off her would be painful.

“What should we do about this?” she asked, waving over the door which remained on the floor.

“I’ll bring over my tools, but for now, we’ll just prop it up so it looks closed.”

He hadn’t had an opportunity to use his tools since he’d worked on his car all those years ago, but repairing a car was far different than fixing up a home. He’d never had to fix a leak, or sand floors, or pour a driveway, and he knew next to nothing about electronics and plumbing. Not that he’d admit it to her.



He had three months to get the house ready to sell and at the same time, prove to Portia it was too much effort to remain living here. What difference did it make what house she lived in? With a couple million dollars, she could buy ten houses. He hated to hurt her feelings, but the fact was she wouldn’t have enough money to buy him out at the end of the ninety days.

This house would never belong to her.





Chapter 5



    . . . for in companions

That do converse and waste the time together

Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love,

There must be needs a like proportion . . .

William Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, act 3, scene 4



“Opa!”

Heat slapping her cheek, Portia glanced over her shoulder at a waitress dousing the saganaki with lemon juice. She sighed, regretting she hadn’t ordered the flaming cheese that she’d always wanted to try. Oh, well. She’d probably get another chance since her sister worked here now.

When Viola had told her she’d gotten a job as a singer at a bar, she’d never pictured the place as an upscale Greek restaurant. The menu offered a few Americanized dishes, but primarily served authentic Greek cuisine. Because of Southeastern Michigan’s thriving Greek community, there were several Greek restaurants. Detroit even offered a small area known as Greek Town, with restaurants, bakeries, and a casino.

Portia glanced at the decor of the room, wondering if the scenes of half-naked Grecian women spanning the walls behind the booths should offend her. Several tables littered the floor and a stage sat in the far back corner of the spacious room where bands played every night of the week. One of them being Viola’s.

“You’re really gonna live with a stranger?” asked Viola, stirring her Corona with a straw. “Is he hot? I bet he’s hot. I’ve seen pictures of that family. They’re all hotter than one of Reina’s jalapeno poppers.” She sipped her beer through the straw and waggled her pierced eyebrow.



Portia would never get used to her sister referring to their mother as “Reina.” Still, her sister never failed to make her laugh. While Portia required order, Viola thrived on chaos. She’d enjoyed every minute of their gypsy-like upbringing and perpetuated the lifestyle as an adult. She rented by the month, collected as many friends as she could in the few months she remained, and then left on a whim without looking back. Adding her own unique spin, she acquired a new tattoo in every new place she lived as a memento. If she continued, she’d run out of space on her back and arms by the time she turned thirty, and Portia didn’t want to know what she’d choose to tattoo then.

Portia eyed her sea bass warily and poked it with a fork to make sure it was cooked enough to eat. “Where’d you see their pictures?” Satisfied, she took a bite, surprised at how flavorful the fish tasted. She’d forgive the restaurant’s oversight at drenching her green beans in a sauce rather than serving them plain as she’d requested.

Viola’s jaw dropped. “They’re practically royalty around here. The President always stops by their home to have dinner whenever he’s in town. I can’t believe you didn’t know this.” Her sister took another loud sip of beer and studied her. “You like him.”

“No, I don’t. I mean, yes, he’s nice and we’re practically family.” Of course when she said ‘nice’ and ‘practically family,’ she meant she wanted to do the naked mambo with him. Not that she’d admit it to her sister. Or him. She hated admitting it to herself.