Playing With Fire by Deborah Fletcher Mello

Romeo scanned the smiling faces, heads bopping from side to side, then nodded in Sharon’s direction. From where she stood on stage, she could see that he and Malcolm were pleased and so she sang for them both, a wide grin spreading across her face. “. . . I love you, I love you, I love you, baby, I love you. . . .”
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    A love song was playing on the radio, the lyrics chanted over and over as Justin or Chris or whoever was singing was trying to drive home the point that the woman he was singing to, or about, had his heart. Taryn rolled her eyes skyward, a gasp of exasperation blowing past her lips.
    It had been a long day and she was exhausted and in less than six hours she had to be on an airplane headed to Paris. She was trying to run down the list of everything she had to do in her head, but she was distracted, her thoughts on something and someone else. She blew another sigh.
    Roberta had worked her last nerve, the woman suddenly obsessed with hooking her up with Romeo Marshall. Every other sentence out of her friend’s mouth had been about the man until Taryn had had enough. She thought back to the conversation.
    â€œIs that why you left me stranded at the club with your boyfriend?” Taryn had asked.
    Roberta sneered. “He’s not my boyfriend. Never was. And I didn’t leave you stranded! I really had to go home!” she’d exclaimed.
    â€œBut you were hoping I’d hook up with him?”
    Roberta had shrugged. “Would that have been a bad thing?”
    â€œI don’t think it would be a good thing.”
    â€œWhy not? Romeo’s a great guy. I consider you both friends and I think you’d be a great couple. I want to see my friends happy.”
    â€œWell, your boyfriend didn’t even bother to look in my direction,” Taryn said matter-of-factly. “He was too busy looking in every other woman’s direction.”
    Shaking her head, Taryn could only listen as Roberta extolled Romeo’s merits one more time. Once the conversation was over, Taryn couldn’t get the man out of her head, and it was really starting to irritate her because she had more important things to be thinking about. And on the radio some crooner was singing about how much he loved his woman.
    Taryn turned off Duraleigh Road and pulled her Mercedes into the parking lot of the Harris Teeter shopping center. Shutting down the engine, she heaved one last sigh, determined to get her head back on track. She took a quick glance down to her watch. It was late but she hoped they hadn’t yet taken down the salad bar. There wasn’t an ounce of food in her refrigerator at home and she wanted something to eat that didn’t have to do with her ordering at the drive-through window at McDonald’s.
    Once inside, Taryn wasn’t surprised to discover she was hours too late. The late night produce clerk, a long, lean drink of chocolate with dreads down to his shoulders, apologized profusely, but he eagerly made suggestions, sharing a host of his quick and easy favorite recipes. His enthusiasm made her smile as he flirted shamelessly.
    â€œI could come cook for you when I get off,” the young man said, his eyes narrowed as he studied her intently. “I’m a great cook.”
    Taryn laughed, the gesture easing the stress she’d been feeling. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    â€œWhy not, ma?”
    She shook her head. “How old are you?”
    â€œAge ain’t nothin’ but a number, beautiful. In fact, I’m writing a book about relationships between older women and younger men. How it’s all about the physical and emotional connection and nothing at all to do with the age difference between them.”
    Taryn laughed out loud. “Sounds intriguing, but the answer is still no. Besides,” she said, with a flip of her hand, “I’m not that much older than you