The café buzzed with motion when Morgan walked in for his afternoon coffee and daily visit with Honey. Ever since the afternoon Bryce Maplecourt had paid Honey a surprise visit, Morgan had made it his mission to check on Honey as often as possible. He knew exactly what days Maplecourt would be in town since it was his job site the man visited on behalf of their mutual client. Maplecourt wasn’t due for another visit for two weeks. This gave Morgan plenty of time to warn Honey.

Honey perched on a ladder just as she had the first day he met her. This time, however, she was removing Finney’s paintings from the walls. As soon as she stepped off the ladder, Joyce, another woman who worked at The Corner, climbed up the ladder. She draped vibrant swags of colorful fabric that looked like Indian saris.

Finney’s paintings were stacked against one wall and the entire coffee shop was beginning to resemble something that belonged in 1001 Arabian Nights.

“Hi, Honey,” Morgan greeted her once she had tucked the most recent painting carefully into the stack.

She smiled at him. She seemed to actually glow with joy. “What are you doing in here?”

Morgan gestured with his hand, indicating the change of décor. “Looks like you’re setting up for a party.”

“We are.” Honey explained. “Last month we had Finney’s art opening. This month Joyce’s belly dance class is having a hafla.” Her voice chipper, she radiated happiness.

“A what-la?”

“Hafla. It’s what she calls a dance party. Her students get an opportunity to dance in public, and sometimes she even gets in a small band. It’s a lot of fun.”

“Belly dancers? That does sound like fun. You dance?” he asked with a smirk.

“Not like they do,” she attempted to demonstrate her skills with a rather awkward chest gyration. She giggled. “Nope, not at all.”

“So when is this haff-lah?”

“Saturday. You’re coming, right?” Honey glanced up at him through lowered lashes.

That was a flirt. He followed her over to the counter. Without confirming his order, she began preparing a large cup of black coffee and a random pastry but not the lemon bar.

“Of course, I’m coming. That was an invitation, wasn’t it?”

Honey blushed slightly and nodded.

“So, Honey,” Morgan leaned forward on the counter separating them. His voice lowered. Morgan prepared to take this flirting to the next level. She had started something he planned to enjoy for as long as he could. “Tell me something.” He licked his lips. “Why are you so happy this afternoon?”

Honey superstitiously glanced around. She leaned in closer to Morgan. Momentarily distracted by her scent, so close, he could kiss her. But not yet.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, “but I am not a fan of Finney’s paintings. They make this place gloomy and everything feels stagnant and superficial. It’s like they have some weird negative energy vibe.” She leaned back. “Joyce’s parties always make me happy.” Her voice returned to its normal pitch and volume. “Besides it’s hard to not be happy with all these wonderful colors. When Lana gets back, she’ll start making some special pastries, so the place will smell of honey and cardamom by tomorrow morning. And Joyce always plays good music.”

Honey had been right. The entire mood of the café did feel different without Finney’s splashes of gloom on the walls. It was a nice upbeat change.

A tour bus hissed as its air brakes brought it to a stop. Tourists piled out of the bus and straight into the shop. Joyce quickly maneuvered the ladder out of the middle of the room and into the back before she joined Honey at the counter.

Morgan watched Honey as she worked. She was busy with her customers, so he didn’t have to hide his blatant staring.

Why hadn’t he kissed her back the other day? That was stupid of him, especially when he wanted nothing more than to grab her and kiss her smiling face. No, kissing her back when she had been talking about Maplecourt would have been wrong. Too much like taking advantage of her. But this party sounded promising and she’d definitely flirted with him today. He liked that. He liked that a lot.

* * *

Friday evening music assailed Morgan when he opened the door to The Corner. Discordant to his ears, the music was clearly Eastern in origins. A rhythmic clank of finger cymbals accompanied the recorded music. He threaded his way through the crowd. He had never seen the café so crowded. His first task—locate a place to stand that wasn’t in the doorway, then try to find Honey.

He looked up and saw the dancer. The café seemed so crowded because everyone gathered along the edges, clearing a space for her to perform. Decked in sparkling red and gold, her costume picked up light and threw it back at the eye in a thousand winks of sequins and beading as she swayed her hips in time to the music. As soon as he saw her, the music settled into a melody he could follow. The clank became another of the instruments. This was a full sensory experience. Morgan noticed the place smelled like patchouli, honey, and cardamom.

The dancer swirled in a mist of fabric and hair, as the music came to crescendo. She ended in a pose, her hand reaching for the sky, her face, smiling at the ceiling.

The audience broke out in ululations and applause. She ducked a quick bow then scurried off towards Lana’s office.

Joyce, clad in a caftan, makeup that would do a drag queen proud, and an enormous mound of hair walked into the center of the dance space. Her hand covered her mouth as she continued with a high-pitched ululation. “Kazeema!” She indicated with a gesture the dancer who just left them. “So next we have Raks Habibi. They are a few of my students who put together their own little dance troupe. They have been working hard on this little choreography for you. Everybody be nice and make a lot of noise. This is their first time performing together! Welcome, Raks Habibi.”

Joyce backed out of the space as music began playing. This time the music had a more western rock’n’roll feel to it. Heavy metal guitar ground out a rhythm accompanied by the pop and thump of Middle Eastern drums.

Three dancers in full black skirts, bright crop tops, and floral hip scarves entered into the dance space. Their arms were lifted at shoulder height with their wrists undulating like snakes. Morgan found it to be an interesting dichotomy of heavy metal music with smooth motions.

Their movement changed with the music. A smooth crooning voice began singing in a foreign language, while the dancers’ hips lifted and popped and were tossed around as if they weren’t attached to the rest of the body. He could see why Honey enjoyed these parties. His ear took a minute to adjust to the music, but that was only because it was new. He actually enjoyed the combination of dancing, costuming, and music. It was a show, and he enjoyed a good show. The music changed again, and the dancers began moving in a slow sinuous way. They were still in time with the music and they were well synchronized. Morgan became confused when several members of the audience started hissing.

“Hey.” Honey surprised him as she suddenly appeared next to him. He smiled, she glowed. Distracted by the dancers, Morgan hadn’t had a chance to look for Honey. Now she was next to him, he wanted to reach up and play with the wispy curl in front of her ear to see if it had spring.

He leaned over to speak into her ear. “Why are they hissing? Am I missing something? They seem to be doing a pretty good job.”

“It’s a belly dance thing,” Honey explained. “They are doing really good, and it’s slow and snaky, so the audience is hissing in appreciation. Those are mostly other dancers making all the noise. They’re the ones who do that la-la-la-la-la thing instead of clapping.”

Morgan nodded in understanding.

“You want anything?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure, but it’s kind of packed in here. Hard to eat.”

“Drink then?”

“The usual,” he answered. The dancing mesmerized Morgan. He found that he wanted to keep watching.

Honey moved away to get Morgan’s order. The troupe left the stage, and Joyce returned announcing another first-time performer. This one was clearly nervous, but the audience supported her by clapping to the music and hissing when she did slow turns and arm waves.

Honey returned to stand next to Morgan. She elbowed him slightly to get his attention before handing him his coffee.

“This is fascinating,” he said, leaning over to speak into her ear again.

“Scantly-clad women gyrating—isn’t it every man’s fantasy?” Honey asked with dripping sarcasm.

“Not that at all. I mean, most of the crowd here are women. And I hadn’t even thought of any of these dancers that way—yet. Thanks for the hint.” He glanced sideways at her, smirking. “No, the whole performance and showmanship of it all. The decorations, the music, the costumes. I mean, that’s Joyce right?” He indicated the woman standing against the pastry counter who had emceed earlier. “I didn’t recognize her at first under all that hair and makeup.”

“It is a show and a lot of fun. And Lana even bakes a special batch of baklava for the event. Some of the dancers are the most normal people under all that glitter and makeup.”

Morgan nodded. “It gives them a chance to be exotic, not normal, don’t you think?”

Honey turned to look at Morgan. “That was incredibly observant of the human psyche.”

“Naw.” Morgan shook his head. “Just me coming up with random BS.”

Honey stayed next to Morgan, and they watched the dancer finish by rapidly vibrating her hips, before slamming them to the side in time to the last recorded drum beat. Joyce announced the end of the show and that everyone was welcome to stay for the rest of the party, but it was time to put the tables back into place.

That was Honey’s cue to start moving tables. Half the audience filtered out the front door. The other half helped with the furnishings arrangement, before claiming tables and chairs for themselves. Morgan managed to procure a small table against the side wall with a single chair.

Middle Eastern music continued to play, only not so loud. A few of the dancers emerged from Lana’s office draped in caftans, carrying large duffle bags and swords. Morgan wondered what he had missed. Honey stopped by his table as the crowd shifted and settled into the after-show dynamic.

“You want something to eat now that you have a table? Surprise you, no lemon bars?”

Morgan laughed at his predictability as far as his ordering at the café. “How about a piece of baklava?”

“I thought you’d say that.” Honey slid a plate she had been holding behind her back onto the table in front of him. “The last one. I actually saved it for you.”

“Why, Honey, I’m touched.”

“I saw you look like you were gonna drool when I mentioned that Lana made baklava. So I made sure you got a piece.” She posed wiggling her fingers around her face “Stellar customer service.” She paused, holding the pose with a silly grin on her face.

Morgan laughed. “Yes, it is.” He shook his head at her silliness, grinning. She left to return to her job. He liked that she had started to loosen up around him, being silly. That, he thought, was a very good sign.

* * *

Honey had made a fool out herself in front of Morgan. He had laughed, but still, she felt stupid.

Well, crap! He’s not going to like me. He’s going to think I’m a weirdo.

Now that the show had ended, the work began. More orders were coming in, more drinks to make, more dishes to pick up and dump in the kitchen for later. Lana would normally be at the party for the entire time, but something had happened to one of their dogs, and she wasn’t coming in until it was practically time to shut down. Joyce would help out a bit but tonight her job was party hostess, not café worker-bee. Honey could handle the café on her own during busy times, but she wasn’t free to socialize, which meant no blatant flirting with Morgan tonight.

She noticed a few tables had been moved again to clear the way for a tiny dance area. Nothing like the earlier performance space, but enough room for a few people to move. Dancers were already up having a good time. It wasn’t until the cheering got louder and on the rowdy side that Honey really looked up from her work.

Morgan danced in the middle of the floor, surrounded by other dancers cheering him on. He had a handkerchief swirling from one hand, held way above his head, as he stomped around following the foot patterns of the dancer holding his other hand. No wonder the hooting and hollering had increased. When his eyes found hers, her breath caught in her chest. He really was incredibly handsome when he smiled like that. He had shaved off the beard, but a shadow of stubble graced his chin. Stubble that made her want to scrape her teeth over that damned dimple in his chin. Stubble that looked entirely too good on him.