Law Man Read online

  “Thanks,” I muttered, smiled and then glanced at Detective Mitch Lawson before looking down at my feet, turning and walking the short distance to my door. I opened it, walked through and held it open for him to come inside.

  He did and I tried not to hyperventilate.

  “Which one is it?” he asked as I closed the door behind him.

  I turned, stood at the door and looked up at him. He was closer than I expected and he was taller than he seemed from afar and he seemed pretty tall from afar. I’d never been this close to him and I felt his closeness tingle pleasantly all across my skin. I was wearing heels and I felt his tallness in the depth of the tip of my head which didn’t tip back that often to look at someone seeing as I was tall.

  “Pardon?” I asked.

  “Faucet,” he said. “Which one? Hall or master?”

  I didn’t have any clue what he was talking about. It was like he was speaking in a foreign language. All I could focus on were his eyes which I was also seeing closer than I’d ever seen before. He had great eyelashes.

  Those lashes moved when his eyes narrowed.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Oh God. I had to get a hold on myself.

  “Yeah, fine, um…the faucet’s in my master bath,” I told him.

  He stood there staring at me. I stood there staring at him. Then his lips twitched and he lifted his arm slightly in the direction of my hall.

  “You wanna lead the way?” he asked.

  Ohmigod! I was such an idiot!

  “Right,” I muttered, looked down at my feet and led the way.

  When we were both in my bathroom which, with him in it, went from a normal-sized master bath to a teeny-tiny, suffocating space I pointed to the faucet and then pointed out the obvious.

  “It won’t turn off.”

  “I see that,” he murmured then I stood frozen with mortification as he crouched and opened the doors to my vanity.

  Why was he opening the doors to my vanity? I kept my tampons down there! You could see them! They were right at the front for easy accessibility!

  Ohmigod!

  He reached in, I closed my eyes in despair and wished the floor would gobble me up and suddenly the water turned off.

  I opened my eyes, stared at the faucet and exclaimed, “Holy cow! You fixed it!”

  He tipped his head back to look at me then he straightened out of his crouch to look down at me.

  Then he said, “No, I just turned the water off.”

  I blinked up at him. Then I asked, “Pardon?”

  “You can turn the water off.”

  “You can?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh,” I whispered then went on stupidly, “I should probably have done that before I left for work this morning.”

  His mouth twitched again and he said, “Probably. Though you can’t do somethin’ you don’t know you can do.”

  I looked to the basin and muttered, “This is true.”

  “There’s a valve under the sink. I’ll show it to you after I take a look at the faucet,” he said and I forced my eyes to his. “You probably just need a new washer. Where are your tools?”

  I blinked again. “Tools?”

  His stared at me and then his lips twitched again. “Yeah. Tools. Like a wrench. You got one of those?”

  “I have a hammer,” I offered.

  One side of his mouth hitched up in a half-smile. “I’m not sure a hammer is gonna help.”

  It took a lot of effort but I only glanced at the half-smile before my eyes went back to his. This didn’t do a thing to decelerate my rapidly accelerating heartbeat.

  “Then no I don’t have tools,” I told him not adding that I wasn’t entirely certain what a wrench was.

  He nodded and turned to the door. “I’ll go get mine.”

  Then he was gone and I didn’t know what to do so I hurried after him.

  I should have stayed where I was. I’d seen him move, of course, I just hadn’t seen him moving around in my apartment. He had an athlete’s grace which I had noticed before. But it was more. He had a natural confidence with the way he held his body and the way he moved. It was immensely attractive all the time but seeing it in my apartment was not going to be conducive to peace of mind; something it was difficult for me to find on a good day much less a day when my faucet didn’t turn off and I was forced to endure an evening that included Detective Mitch Lawson having to be in my apartment.

  He stopped at the door and turned to me. “I’ll be right back.”

  I nodded and he disappeared out the door.

  I stood in my living area in my heels, skirt and blouse from work. Then I wondered if I had time to change before he got back. Then I wondered if he’d notice it if I’d spritzed on perfume when he got back. Then I wondered if I should do a shot or two of vodka before he got back. Then he knocked on my door which meant he was back.

  I ran to the door, looked through the peephole (you couldn’t be too careful) and saw him looking to the side. I sucked in a calming breath then opened the door.

  “Hey,” I said, “welcome back.”

  I was such a dork!

  He grinned. I stepped aside and he came through carrying a toolbox. Learning from my mistakes, I immediately led him through the living area, down the hall, through my bedroom and to the bathroom. He put the toolbox on the basin counter and opened it. He pulled out what I figured was a wrench and went right to work.

  I watched his hands which I’d never really noticed before. They were a man’s hands. There were veins that stood out that were appealing. His fingers were long and strong-looking. He had great hands.

  “So your name is Mara.” His deep voice came at me. My body jolted and I looked to his head which was bent so he could watch what he was doing.

  “Yeah,” I replied and my voice sounded kind of high so I cleared my throat and stated, “And you’re Mitch.”

  “Yeah,” he said to the faucet.

  “Hi Mitch,” I said to his dark brown-haired head thinking his hair looked soft and thick and was long enough to run your fingers through.

  That head twisted so I was looking into dark brown eyes whose depths were so deep you could lose yourself in them for eternity.

  Those eyes were also smiling.

  “Hi Mara,” he said softly and my nipples started tingling.

  Oh God.

  I scanned my memory banks to pull up what underwear I’d put on that morning. I thanked my lucky stars that my bra had light padding all the while thinking maybe I should leave him to it.

  Before I could make good an escape, his head bent back to the tap and he asked, “How long have you lived here?”

  “Six years,” I answered.

  Shoo! Good. A simple answer that didn’t make me sound like an idiot. Thank God.

  “What do you do?” he went on.

  “I work at Pierson’s,” I told him.

  His neck twisted and his eyes came back to me. “Pierson’s Mattress and Bed?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  He looked back at the faucet. “What do you do there? An accountant or something?”

  I shook my head even though he wasn’t looking at me. “No, I’m a salesperson.”

  His neck twisted, faster this time, and his eyes locked on mine. “You’re a salesperson,” he repeated.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “At Pierson’s Mattress and Bed,” he stated.

  “Um…yeah,” I answered.

  He stared at me and I grew confused. I didn’t tell him I was a pole dancer. I also didn’t tell him I spent my days in my den of evil masterminding a plot to take over the free world. He appeared slightly surprised. I was a salesperson. This wasn’t a surprising job. This was a boring job. Then again I was a boring person. He was a police detective. I knew this because I’d seen his badge on his belt on numerous occasions. I also knew this because LaTanya told me. I reckoned, considering his profession, he’d long since figured out I was a boring person. I
n my mind police detectives could figure anyone out with a glance.

  “You good at it?” he asked.

  “Um…” I answered because I didn’t want to brag. I was good at it. I’d been top salesperson month after month for the last four years after Barney Ruffalo quit (or resigned voluntarily rather than face the sexual harassment charges that Roberta lodged against him). Barney had been my nemesis mainly because he was a dick and always came onto me along with every woman that worked there or walked through the door; and because he stole my customers.

  Mitch looked back at my tap, muttering, “You’re good at it.”

  “Pretty good,” I allowed.

  “Yeah,” he said to the faucet and continued, “put money down that ninety percent of the men who walk in that place go direct to you and make a purchase.”

  This was a weird thing to say. It was true. Most of my customers were men but then that was the way of the world. Firstly, men needed mattresses and beds just like any other human being. When they came to Pierson’s, since we had excellent quality, value and choice, they’d not want to go anywhere else. Secondly, if men were with women, they tended to be the decision-makers whether that was right or wrong.

  “Why do you say ninety percent?” I asked Mitch.

  “’Cause the other ten percent of the male population is gay,” he answered the faucet. I blinked at his head in confusion at his words, he straightened, putting the wrench down and lifting his other hand. Between an attractive index finger and thumb was a small, round, black plastic doohickey with a hole in the middle that had some shredding at the edges. “You need a new washer,” he informed me.

  I looked from the doohickey to him. “I don’t have one of those.”

  He grinned straight out and my breath got caught in my throat. “No, don’t reckon you do,” he told me. “Gotta go to the hardware store.” Then he flicked the doohickey in my bathroom trash bin and started to exit the room.

  I stared at his well-formed back but my body jolted and I hurried after him.

  “No,” I called. “You don’t have to do that. The water is off now and I have another bathroom.” He kept walking and I kept following him and talking. “I’ll pop by the Management Office tomorrow and let them know what’s up so they can come fix it.”

  He had my door open. He stopped in it and turned back to me so I stopped too.

  “No, I’ll go by the Management Office tomorrow and tell them how I feel about them lettin’ a single woman who pays for their service and has lived in their complex for six years go without a callback when she needs somethin’ important done. And tonight, I’ll go to the hardware store, get a washer, come back and fix your faucet.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I assured him courteously.

  “You’re right but I’m doin’ it,” he told me firmly.

  Okay then. Seeing as his firm was very firm, I decided to let that go.

  “Let me get you some money.” I looked around trying to remember where I put my purse. “You shouldn’t be out money on this.”

  “Mara, you can buy about a hundred washers for four dollars.”

  My head turned to him. I stared at him then asked, “Really?”

  He grinned at me again, my breath caught in my throat again and he answered, “Yeah, really. I think I got it covered.”

  “Um…thanks,” I replied without anything else to say.

  He tipped his chin and said, “I’ll be back.”

  Then I was staring at my closed door.

  I did this blankly for awhile. Then I did it for awhile wishing I’d shared with someone that I was in love with my Ten Point Five neighbor so I could call them or race across the breezeway and ask them what I should do now.

  It took a while but I decided to act naturally. So Mitch had been in my house. He’d grinned at me. I’d discovered he had beautiful hands and beautiful eyelashes to match all the other beautiful things about him. He actually was a nice guy and didn’t just communicate this knowledge with a warm smile, what with turning off my water, going to get his tools, finding my shredded doohickey, planning to have a word at the office on my behalf and then heading out to the hardware store to buy me another doohickey. So what? After he fixed my faucet, he’d be back in his apartment and I’d be in mine. Maybe I might say something more than “morning” to him in the mornings. And maybe he’d say my name again sometime in the future. But that would be it.

  So I did what I normally did. I changed my clothes, taking off my skirt, blouse and heels and putting on a pair of jeans and a Chicago Cubs t-shirt. I pulled the pins out of my chignon, sifted my fingers through my hair and pulled it back in a ponytail with a red ponytail holder to go with the red accents in my Cubs tee. Then I lit the scented candles in my living room and turned on music, going with my “Chill Out at Home Part Trois” playlist that included some really good tunes. After that I started to make dinner.

  I was cutting up veggies for stir fry when there was a knock on the door and my head came up. I spied the candles, heard The Allman Brothers singing “Midnight Rider” and immediately panicked. I burned candles and listened to music all the time. I was a sensory person and I liked the sounds and smells. But now I wondered if he’d think he’d walked into a Two Point Five setting the mood for an illegal maneuver on a Ten Point Five.

  Crap!

  No time to do anything about it now. He’d smell it anyway and he had to hear the music through the door.

  I rushed to the door, did the peephole thing and opened it, coming to stand at its edge.

  “Hey,” I greeted, trying to sound cool. “You’re back.”

  His eyes dropped to my chest and I lost all semblance of cool. There wasn’t much to lose but what little existed was quickly history.

  Then his eyes came back to mine. “You’re a Cubs fan?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered then declared, “They’re the best team in the history of baseball.”

  He walked in and I closed the door. Through this neither of us lost eye contact. This was because he was smiling at me like I was unbelievably amusing and this was because I was staring at him because he was smiling at me like I was unbelievably amusing.

  He came to a halt two feet in and I turned from the closed door which meant I was about a foot away from him.

  “They haven’t won a pennant since 1908,” he informed me.

  “So?” I asked.

  “That fact in and of itself means they aren’t the best team in the history of baseball.”

  This was true. It was also false.

  “Okay, I amend my statement. They’re the coolest most interesting team in the history of baseball. They have the best fans because their fans don’t care if they win or lose; we’re die-hard and always will be.”

  His eyes warmed like they always did before he’d smile at me and I felt my knees wobble.

  “Can’t argue with that,” he muttered.

  I pressed my lips together and hoped I didn’t get lightheaded.

  “Colorado bleeds black and purple in spring and summer, though, Mara. Careful where you wear that tee,” he warned.

  “I like the Rockies too,” I replied.

  He shook his head, turning toward my hall.

  “Can’t swing both ways,” he said as he moved into the hall.

  I watched him move. I liked watching him move. I liked it more watching him move down my hallway toward my bedroom. I knew I liked it so much I would fantasize the impossible fantasy that such a vision would happen so often it would become commonplace.

  I wondered if I could call out to him that I really needed to run an errand. Like say, take care of an old relative who needed me to get her out of her wheelchair and into her bed. Then read her a bedtime story because she was blind. Something I couldn’t get out of that would make me seem kind and loving but would really be an excuse to escape him.

  Then I realized that would be rude and I followed him.

  When I hit the bathroom, he said, “This shouldn’t take
long and you can get back to making dinner.”

  Oh boy.

  Should I ask him to stay for dinner? I had plenty. He was a big guy but I still had enough. I just had to cut up another chicken breast or two. Add a few more veggies.

  Could I survive a dinner with him? Would he think candles, music and dinner was a play he had to somehow extricate himself out of without seeming like a dick? Or would he know it was just my way of saying thanks?

  Crap!

  I listened as “Midnight Rider” became America’s “Ventura Highway” and I did what I had to do.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner as an, um…thank you for helping out?” I asked. “I’m making stir fry,” I went on.

  “Rain check,” he told the faucet, not even looking at me and I was immensely disappointed. So much so I felt it crushing my chest at the same time I was not as relieved because his answer meant all was right in Mara World.

  Then he continued talking, making Mara World rock on its foundations.

  “Knock on my door when you’re makin’ your barbeque chicken pizza.”

  I blinked at his head.

  Then I breathed, “What?”

  “Derek tells me it’s the shit.”

  I blinked at his head again.

  They talked about me?

  Why would they do that?

  Derek was definitely a firm Nine. LaTanya was too. Nines could be friends with Two Point Fives but male Nines didn’t talk to each other about Two Point Fives. They talked about other Sevens to Tens. If they were younger or were jerks, they made fun of Ones to Threes. But they never talked about Two Point Fives and the really great pizza Two Point Fives could make. Ever.

  His head tipped back and his eyes hit mine. “Derek tells me your barbeque chicken pizza is the shit,” he repeated and explained, “as in, really fuckin’ good.”

  Derek was right. It was really good. I made my own pizza dough and marinaded the chicken in barbeque sauce all day and everything. It was awesome.

  Seeing as I was unable to respond, I didn’t. Mitch looked back at the faucet and carried on rocking my world.

  “Or when you’re makin’ your baked beans. Derek says those are even better. But tonight, I gotta take a rain check because I gotta get back to work.”