* * * * *

I slid the pizza in my fridge, turned on the oven in preparation for baking, grabbed my phone, hit the three for speed dial and Bradon picked up.

“Hey girl, what’s shakin’?” he asked, having caller ID on his phone and knowing it was me.

“Can you do me a favor, look out your window and tell me if Mitch’s SUV is there?”

I heard silence before I heard Bradon ask, “Why?”

“He fixed my faucet and payback is me making him barbeque chicken pizza and the pizza is ready. I just want to check if he’s there before I go over and knock.”

I heard more silence then, “You made him your pizza?”

“He asked for it.”

I heard even more silence then on a shout, “Brent! Get this! Mara made her barbeque chicken pizza for Mitch. He fixed her faucet. He’s going over there tonight for pizza!”

Ohmigod!

B and B lived right across from Mitch! He might be able to hear Bradon shout.

“You’re joking!” I heard Brent shout back then I heard a closer to the phone shout of, “Excellent!”

“Bray!” I hissed. “Stop shouting!”

“I love this,” Bradon said in my ear.

“I love it too!” I heard Brent shout.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it’s cool and because it’s about time. I don’t know what your deal is, girl, but he is hot. I was a girl and I was straight, I would have made my move a long time ago,” Bradon told me.

“This isn’t a move. This is a thank you pizza,” I informed him.

“Unh-hunh,” Bray mumbled. “I hope you’re wearing that little camisole, the sage-y gray one that’s satin. It’s hot. You’re hot in it. And if I was straight and you made me pizza and I came over and you were wearing that top, I’d jump you …” he paused, “before the pizza.”

See what I mean? Friends always thought you were in a different zone than you truly were.

“It’s just a neighborly thanks for fixing my faucet pizza,” I again explained.

“Right. Wear that top,” Bradon returned.

“Definitely wear that top,” Brent said loudly in the background.

“With those jeans, the tight ones that are faded and have the split in the knee,” Bradon added.

“Oh yeah,” I heard Brent put in. “And the silver sandals. Not the wedges. The ones with the stiletto heel.”

“Absolutely. Those silver sandals are beyond hot. They’re smokin’ hot,” Bradon continued.

“I can’t wear those sandals with those jeans. Those jeans are knockabout jeans. Those sandals are fancy sandals,” I argued. “You don’t put those together.”

“Oh yeah you do, especially since those jeans do things to your ass that would knock the g*y out of Elton John,” Bradon retorted.

These guys.

“Whatever,” I muttered and got back to the matter at hand. “Can you just tell me if his SUV is out there?”

I didn’t want to wander over there and knock if he wasn’t there and I didn’t want to have to go out there to see if his SUV was there. If I had to take time out to do anything that scary, I’d lose my nerve. I’d made the pizza. I’d gone all out. I was psyched up. This had to go smoothly. Anything going wrong could put me off.

There was nothing for a second from Bradon and I figured he was going to his living room window then I heard, “Yeah, his SUV is there.”

Damn. Suddenly I decided that was bad news.

“Change, girl, into that outfit and go, go, go,” Bradon encouraged. “Then call me tomorrow morning when he’s out buying you a bagel and let us know if he’s as good with that fabulous body as the way he moves promises.”

I felt these words all over my body but my scalp, ni**les and points south tingled the most.

Would that I lived in a world where Detective Mitch Lawson ate my pizza, spent the night and left my bed the next morning to buy me a bagel. I loved bagels. I’d love Mitch leaving my bed to buy me one more. Mostly because that would mean he was coming back.

“Shut up. You’re freaking me out,” I told Bradon.

“You shut up, change and go get him, tigress,” he returned and then he disconnected.

I hit the off button on my phone. Then I sucked in breath. Then my feet took me to my bedroom and for some fool reason, I changed into the camisole, the faded, tight jeans and slipped on my silver sandals. I put on lip gloss (I’d already put on makeup, not heavy, just enough to lift me from a Two to my Two Point Five) and spritzed with perfume.

Why I did any of this, I didn’t know. I just did. Maybe it was because hope springs eternal. Maybe it was just because I was stupid.

But I did it and I really shouldn’t have.

Before I lost my nerve, I hoofed it over to Mitch’s and before my mind could talk me out of it, I knocked on the door.

I stood outside thinking I was an idiot, wishing I’d kept on my nicer jeans and semi-nice tee and flip-flops. I wished this so long I realized that he hadn’t answered the door.

My head turned to the side and I looked to the parking lot. His SUV was definitely there.

Maybe I didn’t knock loud enough.

I knocked again, louder but not insistent and not long. Just three sharp raps. If he didn’t open the door in ten seconds I was going back to my place. I could eat the whole pizza by myself. It would take days but I could do it. I’d done it before. He was probably taking a nap. He worked all hours. He probably needed naptime so he’d be alert when he was bringing criminals to justice.

The door opened, not all the way, and Mitch stood in it.

I stopped breathing.

“Mara,” he said softly, his eyes moving the length of me. The lack of oxygen and the intensity of which I liked it when he said my name made me feel faint.

With effort I pulled myself together, shot him a smile that I hoped looked genuine and not scared out of my brain and I said, “Saturday. Pizza time.”

“Who’s that?” a woman’s voice came from inside his apartment and she sounded ticked.

I stopped breathing again. The warmth fled Mitch’s face and his jaw clenched.

Then he said, “Mara, Christ, I’m sorry but now’s not a good time.”

Damn. Shit. Damn. Shit, shit, shit.

“Right,” I whispered then tried and failed to rally. “Okay then, um…”