Long Summer Nights by Kathleen O'Reilly Page A

wine, aren’t you? Only alcohol should be responsible for logic that twisted.”
    “Insulting me only proves my point further,” she stated confidently.
    Whenever he smiled at her with that uncomfortable curve to his mouth, she felt a little tipsy. Sadly, diet soda did not cause tipsy, only punch-drunk lust. “Why are you here? To annoy me?” he asked.
    She leaned in, living dangerously, flaunting dangerously, and not really caring, because she desperately wanted to sleep with him again. Properly. With full coital joining and a mutual sharing of orgasms. The way the rest of the world did it. The way that involved personal connections. Those very connections that he shunned.
    “I’m here because I’m attracted to you. Your naked body. Your twisted mind. Do you care?” she added in a mocking voice.
    But he surprised her once again. “I care. Do you want to dance?”
    The shock of it numbed her normally instinctual need to delve further. “Do you dance?” she asked instead, which was much more innocent, and much less dangerous. A woman could live on the edge for only so long.
    “You believe I don’t dance? Another assumption?”
    Now she had a chance to fully recover and she was ready this time. “Nope. I just said it to annoy you. You are so much fun to annoy. Your mouth sets into this grim reaper smile and your eyes narrow to slits.”
    He grabbed her hand and led her out to the floor, and his eyes were not narrowed, and his mouth was set into something that almost resembled a smile.

7
    A ARON EXCELLED AT the waltz. Jenn had never waltzed in her life, but he was surprisingly patient, not swearing too loudly when she trounced on his toes, and eventually she got the hang of it.
    “Who taught you to dance?”
    “A female friend of my father’s. His set was a great believer in the odd and the eccentric.”
    “It explains much,” she noted, but she kept her voice nice and gentle and noncombative.
    When the crowd started getting too dense, he took her hand and led her outside, wandering down the primrose path, meandering close to the lake. Some people who were not attuned to the intricate workings of his mind might have considered it romantic.
    Jenn knew better than to believe that. Although secretly she hoped.
    Gas lanterns flickered with light. Possibly environmentally irresponsible, but pretty nonetheless. Aaron walked slowly with all the relaxed temperament of a man grown apart from the city.
    “Why did you want to be a writer?” she asked, not that she was surprised at his choice, but it was unconventional,it was radical, it spoke of a man who listened to no one but himself.
    He paused for a moment, and stared out over the quiet waters of the lake. “My father considered himself a great literary genius. An undiscovered talent who was passed over by publishing bean counters because of their vacuous tastes for monetized drivel. He always said he didn’t care, but then he’d go through the bookstores, thumbing through titles and making fun of everything there. It ruined his life. He wanted to be recognized. He hated that he wasn’t. And he hated that he cared.” His voice held the disdain of a man who despised the obsession. Fascinating.
    “And you chose writing because?”
    Aaron shrugged, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the present. “I don’t know.”
    “Can I ask you a personal question?”
    “Now you think about respecting personal boundaries? Go ahead.”
    “How can you afford not to work?”
    At her question, his shoulders hunched tight and tense, and his eyes grew cool and aloof. “About eight years ago I got lucky and came into some money. It’s enough to keep me in my cabin in the woods.”
    “What happens when the money goes? What will you do then?”
    “Be poor,” he stated, sounding cavalier about the possibility. It was only rich people who thought like that. Poor people knew that being poor sucked.
    “Why not do something else?” she asked, sounding exactly like her mother,