Most people at the Lakeside Social Club thought Carla Jennings was just another widow who came for Thursday trivia and the occasional glass of red wine. They didn’t know the fire she hid under her calm, sixty-year-old exterior—or how carefully she controlled it. She had that graceful confidence older women carried without trying: a softness around the eyes, a steadiness in her posture, and a smile that always felt like she was two steps ahead.
Mark Donovan noticed it the first time he saw her. He was sixty-four, a former construction foreman with calloused hands and a habit of overthinking everything. Divorced twelve years. Lonely for the last five. He liked simple things—coffee strong enough to fight back, old muscle cars, slow evenings. But nothing about Carla ever felt simple.
They’d been partnered for trivia three weeks in a row. And every week, Mark caught himself watching her longer than he should—watching the way she tucked a strand of chestnut-gray hair behind her ear, or how she leaned in when she laughed, her hand brushing his forearm like she wasn’t even aware she was doing it.
But she was aware. Very aware.
Tonight the club was a little louder than usual. A live band was warming up, soft jazz spilling into the room like warm honey. Mark arrived late, shoulders tense from a long day of home repairs, expecting to sit alone. Instead, he saw Carla at the bar—alone, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass.
She saw him before he reached her. Her smile hit him like a quiet shock.
“You made it,” she said, voice warm but carrying something else underneath… something deliberate.
He shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d be here this early.”
“I didn’t think you’d come at all,” she teased. Then she slid off the barstool and stood close—close enough that Mark could smell her perfume, a faint mix of sandalwood and something sweet. It wrapped around him before she even touched him.
He opened his mouth to say something safe, something ordinary, but she stepped forward, fingers curling around the front of his jacket. A small tug. Gentle, but unmistakably intentional.
She pulled him toward her.
Just a few inches—but enough to tilt the air between them.
Mark froze. Her fingers stayed there, warm through the fabric. Her eyes softened as she looked up at him, lips parting just slightly, like she was letting him see a part of her she usually kept locked away.
She didn’t speak at first. She didn’t have to.
“When a woman does that,” she finally whispered, “I hope the man isn’t too shy to know what it means.”
He swallowed, heart thumping with an intensity he hadn’t felt since his forties. “And what does it mean?”
She held his gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting him feel every second.
“It means,” she said slowly, “she wants you closer. Closer than she’s willing to admit out loud.”
Her thumb brushed the edge of his jacket. Not accidental. Not hesitant. Intentional.
But then she stepped back—just an inch—like she needed to test if he’d follow.
And he did.
He leaned in, his breath brushing her temple. She didn’t move away. Instead, she exhaled, a soft, shivery sound that sent heat rushing through him. Her hand stayed on his chest a moment longer before sliding down to his wrist, fingertips tracing the veins there as if memorizing them.
“Carla…” he murmured.
“Don’t overthink it, Mark,” she said, finally letting his jacket go. “I’m not asking for fireworks. Just… don’t ignore me when I pull you in.”
She walked toward their usual table, leaving him standing there—not confused, but awakened. He followed, drawn like she’d tied an invisible thread between them.
Later, when the band started a slow, smoky tune, she didn’t wait for him to ask. She reached across the table, hooked one finger through his, and tugged gently.
Again, that small pull.
He stood. She stepped close. The room faded until all he could feel was her body aligning with his—her hand sliding up to his shoulder, her breath warming the side of his neck. When he placed a hand at the small of her back, she melted into him with a quiet sigh that lit him up from the inside.
As they swayed, her cheek brushed his jaw. “See?” she whispered. “It’s not complicated.”
Mark tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer than before. She smiled against his skin, lips curving slow and satisfied.
When the music ended, she stayed pressed against him, her hands resting lightly on his chest.
“So,” she said, eyes gleaming, “did you finally figure out what it means?”
He nodded. “Yeah. It means you want me beside you.”
“It means,” she corrected gently, sliding her hand to the back of his neck and tugging him toward her one last time, “I want you… and I’m done pretending otherwise.”
He didn’t ignore it.
Not this time.