"Women tend to lose their heads over a good dancer."

"A fact I've exploited whenever possible." He smiled down at her. "You look so pretty, Gran."

"I look dignified. Now, there was a day when I turned plenty of heads."

"You still turn mine."

"And you're still the sweetest of my sweethearts. When are you going to bring that pretty writer to see me?"

"Soon, if that's what you want."

"It feels like time. I don't know why. And speaking of-" She nodded toward the open double doors. "Those two turn heads."

He looked. He noticed Layla, in that she was there. But his focus was all for Quinn. She'd wound that mass of blond hair up, a touch of elegance, and wore an open black jacket over some kind of lacey top-camisole, he remembered. They called them camisoles, and God bless whoever invented them.

Things glittered at her ears, at her wrists, but all he could think was she had the sexiest collarbone in the history of collarbones, and he couldn't wait to get his mouth on it.

"You're about to drool, Caleb."

"What?" He blinked his attention back to Essie. "Oh. Jeez."

"She does look a picture. You take me on back to my table now and go get her. Bring her and her friend around to say hello before I leave."

By the time he got to them, Fox had already scooped them up to one of the portable bars and sprung for champagne. Quinn turned to Cal, glass in hand, and pitched her voice over the music. "This is great! The band's hot, the bubbly's cold, and the room looks like a love affair."

"You were expecting a couple of toothless guys with a washboard and a jug, some hard cider, and a few plastic hearts."

"No." She laughed, jabbed him with her finger. "But something between that and this. It's my first bowling alley dance, and I'm impressed. And look! Isn't that His Honor, the mayor, getting down?"

"With his wife's cousin, who is the choir director for the First Methodist Church."

"Isn't that your assistant, Fox?" Layla gestured to a table.

"Yeah. Fortunately, the guy she's kissing is her husband."

"They look completely in love."

"Guess they are. I don't know what I'm going to do without her. They're moving to Minneapolis in a couple months. I wish they'd just take off for a few weeks in July instead of-" He caught himself. "No shop talk tonight. Do you want to scare up a table?"

"Perfect for people-watching," Quinn agreed, then spun toward the band. "'In the Mood'!"

"Signature piece for them. Do you swing?" Cal asked her.

"Damn right." She glanced at him, considered. "Do you?"

"Let's go see what you've got, Blondie." He grabbed her hand, pulled her out to the dance floor.

Fox watched the spins and footwork. "I absolutely can't do that."

"Neither can I. Wow." Layla's eyes widened. "They're really good."

On the dance floor, Cal set Quinn up for a double spin, whipped her back. "Lessons?"

"Four years. You?"

"Three." When the song ended and bled into a slow number, he fit Quinn's body to his and blessed his mother. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me, too." She nuzzled her cheek to his. "Everything feels good tonight. Sweet and shiny. And mmm," she murmured when he led her into a stylish turn. "Sexy." Tipping back her head, she smiled at him. "I've completely reversed my cynical take on Valentine's Day. I now consider it the perfect holiday."

He brushed his lips over hers. "After this dance, why don't we sneak off to the storeroom upstairs and neck?"

"Why wait?"

With a laugh, he started to bring her close again. And froze.

The hearts bled. The glittery art board dripped, and splattered red on the dance floor, plopped on tables, slid down the hair and faces of people while they laughed, or chatted, strolled or swayed.

"Quinn."

"I see it. Oh God."

The vocalist continued to sing of love and longing as the red and silver balloons overhead popped like gunshots. And from them rained spiders.

CHAPTER Twelve

QUINN BARELY MANAGED TO MUFFLE A SCREAM,and would have danced back as the spiders skittered over the floor if Cal hadn't gripped her.

"Not real." He said it with absolute and icy calm. "It's not real."

Someone laughed, and the sound spiked wildly. There were shouts of approval as the music changed tempo to hip-grinding rock.

"Great party, Cal!" Amy from the flower shop danced by with a wide, blood-splattered grin.

With his arm still tight around Quinn, Cal began to back off the floor. He needed to see his family, needed to see...And there was Fox, gripping Layla's hand as he wound his way through the oblivious crowd.

"We need to go," Fox shouted.

"My parents-"

Fox shook his head. "It's only happening because we're here. I think it only can happen because we're here. Let's move out. Let's move."

As they pushed between tables, the tiny tea lights in the centerpieces flashed like torches, belching a volcanic spew of smoke. Cal felt it in his throat, stinging, even as his foot crunched down on a fist-sized spider. On the little stage, the drummer swung into a wild solo with bloodied sticks. When they reached the doors, Cal glanced back.

He saw the boy floating above the dancers. Laughing.

"Straight out." Following Fox's line of thought, Cal pulled Quinn toward the exit. "Straight out of the building. Then we'll see. Then we'll damn well see."