About Promise

by Jewell Dean
16 pages / 5700 words
ISBN: 978-1-60370-178-5, 1-60370-178-8
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc

Lizzie misses her husband Neil so much it hurts. Killed in an explosion nearly two years ago, fireman Neil left her, even when he promised he'd stay with her all endlessly.

When a friend at work finally convinces Lizzie to get out of the house, though, Lizzie meets a man who makes her remember what it's like to feel, what it's like to flirt and dance and burn. The man seems achingly familiar, but she can't see beyond the mask he wears to know why. Will she be able to open herself up to love again, a love that might last forever?

Sample

Liz sat at the bar, watching Naomi dance with someone she thought was supposed to be Zorro. There were probably fifty people milling around, all dressed in wild costumes, from King Tut to Napoleon. She ought to know. Most of them hit on her. She turned them down left and right, sipping her drink and feeling jaded.

"How can someone as beautiful as you sit all by herself with that ironic little smile, hmm?" Oh, great. Another one, this one dressed like Dracula, or maybe the Phantom of the Opera, with that mask he had on.

She tossed her hair, shook her head. "I'm just watching the crowds."

Go away.

"What, no dancing for the gypsy? I bet you do a mean twirl. Come on, let's give it a shot."

"I don't dance." Not anymore. He had a great voice, though, husky and warm.

"That's a shame." His fingers glanced against her spine, just barely, way too forward. But it made her shiver.

She took a drink of her wine, the flavor suddenly too sweet and cloying. "I... I think I need another drink. This wine isn't working for me."

"How about a whiskey sour?" He signaled the bartender, ordering for her. "You look like a girl who can take it."

She surprised herself by chuckling, her earrings jingling, catching in her hair. "You're the first man to offer me whiskey in a long time."

Her mamma insisted that wine was the only alcohol a lady should drink alone.

"Not all women are made for fruity stuff, honey." His voice was like honey, she thought. Mixed with smoke. She used to think that about Neil.

She shook her head, "No, I don't suppose they are. So what makes a woman look like she can drink whiskey?" Liz wasn't flirting. She never flirted. She was just being friendly.

"The set of her chin. The fire in her eyes when she watches her friend about to be fucked over by Zorro. The color of her hair." Again he touched her, this time tugging the ends of her hair. "You're something else, gypsy lady. I can tell."