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  Therefore, I didn’t explain because friends could be convincing. That was why I got messed up with Destry who had the looks of a Seven but was a Five Point Five since he was a jackass. Friends could be very convincing. I’d been convinced of other things due to friends. Some of them good, like when Lynette talked me into getting the hell out of Iowa and away from my crazy mother. Some of them bad, case in point Destry.

  Because I couldn’t tell Roberta this, I gave in on the pizza. Since Mitch had moved in, I had managed to go from nearly fainting every time I saw him to being able to say good morning. I’d survived him in my place being nice and teasing me. Perhaps I could have pizza with him. Maybe if he came to another one of Brent and Bradon’s parties or LaTanya’s cocktail extravaganzas, I could chit chat with him before escaping. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

  Because of this I went to the grocery store after work, got the ingredients for the pizza, two bottles of red, two bottles of white and two six packs (one of fancy beer, one of good old American beer) so Mitch would have choice. Friday morning I set the chicken to marinade and Saturday morning I went back out to the grocery store so the salad fixings would be fresh.

  * * * * *

  And that brought me to now. The salad in the fridge, the beer and white wine chilled. I was staring at a prize winning pizza that, after twenty minutes in the oven, would be a pizza feast fit for a king.

  * * * * *

  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 gay 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, nipples 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…”

  God! I was a dork! Why was I such a dork? Being a dork knocked me down to a One Point Five.

  “Mara –”

  I talked over him. “I’ll just,” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, “let you go.”

>   Then I turned. I didn’t want to but I couldn’t stop myself from running across the breezeway, my heels clicking triple time on the cement.

  I didn’t make it to the door. I was brought up short and this happened because Mitch’s hand caught mine and tugged. I had no choice but to whirl to face him.

  “Mara, just give me –”

  I pulled at my hand but didn’t succeed in freeing it. His hand was big. It engulfed mine. It was strong and so warm. Unbelievably warm.

  “Some other time,” I told him.

  “I asked,” a woman’s voice came at us. I looked around his body and saw a stunning Nine Point Seven Five standing in his doorway, arms crossed on her chest, face pissy. Even so, nothing could change how incredibly beautiful she was. She was wearing an outfit that cost about five times what mine did and my shoes were pretty expensive. “Who’s that?”

  “Give me a minute,” Mitch growled and my eyes went to him to see he was looking over his shoulder and he didn’t seem very happy.

  “Baby, you don’t have a minute,” she shot back, all attitude.

  “Give me a minute,” Mitch clipped and I knew from the way he spoke he really wasn’t very happy.

  “Mitch,” I called and his eyes came back to me. “Some other time,” I repeated but it was a lie.

  I’d learned my lesson. I’d chitchat with him at LaTanya and Derek’s and B and B’s should they have get-togethers but no more pizza. No more. No thrill or belly whoosh was worth this. This was humiliating.

  “I’ll be over in fifteen,” he told me and I blinked.

  “You’ll what?” the Nine Point Seven Five snapped.

  “No, really, that’s okay,” I said quickly. “Some other time.”

  “You made pizza,” Mitch stated, squeezing my hand. His eyes moved down the length of me telling me he knew what the camisole meant, what the sandals meant, that I’d aimed high. He was a good guy and he wasn’t going to shoot me down. Not now. Not in front of her.

  I felt like crying.

  “Promise, it’s okay,” I told him.

  “I’ll be over in fifteen,” he repeated.

  I couldn’t take anymore. With a rough twist, I pulled my hand from his and took a huge step back, my shoulders slamming into my door.

  “Some other time,” I whispered, whirled, turned my doorknob and flew into my house, slamming my door.

  I wished I didn’t slam my door but I couldn’t help it. My momentum was such I couldn’t stop it. Then I ran to my oven and turned it off. Then to my bedroom where I changed clothes and shoes, grabbed my bag. I checked my peephole and listened, opening my door a crack to look. When I saw the coast was clear, I ran into the breezeway, down the stairs and to my car.

  I took off and I wasn’t home in fifteen minutes. I wasn’t home after an hour. I went to Cherry Creek Mall and bought a ticket for a movie that started in an hour and a half. I got myself a pretzel for dinner. I kicked around in a few stores not seeing anything, not allowing myself to feel much of anything and then I watched the movie.

  I didn’t get home until late.

  Even so, I’d barely walked in and turned on the lights when I heard the knock on my door. I closed my eyes and went to the door, looking through the peephole.

  It was Mitch.

  God.

  I put my forehead to the door and stood there, not moving. He knocked again. I still didn’t move.

  “Mara open the door,” his deep voice called.

  God!

  I moved, opened the door a bit and stood in it.

  “Hey,” I said and the minute my eyes hit him, I again felt like crying.

  They needed to separate the zones. Mandatory boundaries. Ones to Threes got Canada (because there were a lot of us and we needed the space). Fours to Sixes got the US. The fewer numbered Sevens to Tens got the sultry, tropical beauty of Mexico. If they separated us, things like this wouldn’t happen and therefore hurt like this wouldn’t be felt.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “It’s late,” I answered.

  His whole face warmed. God, he was beautiful.

  “Sweetheart let me in,” he said gently.

  He was also nice. So nice. Why did that suck? Why couldn’t he be one of those arrogant Ten Plusses? Sure, if he was, it might knock him down to an Eight but he’d still be an Eight and out of my league.

  “Mitch, it’s really late.”

  He studied me. Then he nodded.

  I thought I was off the hook but then he said, “Does your pizza keep?”

  I blinked at him. “Pardon?”

  He asked a different question. “Did you eat it?”

  “Um…no,” I answered.

  “Does it keep?”

  “I think so,” I told him though I didn’t know. I made it. I baked it. I ate it. I’d never tested to see if it would keep in raw form prior to baking.

  “Tomorrow night. Seven thirty. I’ll be back.”

  My breath left me.

  When I sucked some back in, I told him quietly, “You don’t have to do this.”

  His brows drew together and he replied, “I know that. What I don’t know is why you’d think I’d think I do.”

  There was no way I was going to explain it to him especially since I knew he knew, he was just being nice, so instead I said, “I’m just saying.”

  “What?” he asked when I said no more. I didn’t respond so he continued, “What are you just saying?”

  “I’m saying you don’t have to do this.”

  He started to look impatient before he said, “Mara, let me in.”

  “I’m tired and I need to work tomorrow.”

  “I’m thinkin’ we need to talk right now.”

  I shook my head. “There’s nothing to say. I should have maybe slipped you a note or something to tell you when I’d be over. I’m sorry that I put you in that –”

  He cut me off, definitely impatient, “Mara, just let me in.”

  “Mitch, really. Sundays are crazy at work. I need to sleep.”

  “That wasn’t what you thought it was,” he told me.

  I shook my head again. “There’s no need to explain.”

  “Jesus, Mara, just let me in.”

  “I’ll knock on your door next time, leave you a note, give you a warning, make sure you’re free.”

  “Mara –”

  I stepped away from the door and started closing it, “’Night, Mitch.”

  “Damn it, Mara.”

  I closed the door, locked it and ran to my room, closing that door too.

  Then I got in my nightgown, slid into my bed and finally let myself cry.

  A long time later, when I was done, I wiped my face, got out of bed, went to my open plan living room-slash-kitchen-slash-dining area and turned out the lights.

  Then I went back to bed. Alone.

  Like many Ones to Threes did every night.

  Chapter Three

  Messes

  It was a week after the Mitch Incident.

  My candles were lit and I was lying on my couch listening to my Chill Out at Home Premier Edition, the first of the Chill Out playlists I’d created. Al Green was singing “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart” and I was doing nothing but listening to him sing and drinking a glass of red wine.

  I didn’t know if Mitch had come over Sunday night because I wrapped up my pizza and took it to work. I put it in the fridge in the break room and took it to Roberta’s after work. I cooked it in her oven and both Roberta and I managed to eat a piece before her children decimated it. I hung out with Roberta watching action movies until it was way late and I needed to get home before I was too tired to operate a motor vehicle.

  Incidentally, this proved my pizza kept prior to baking.

  Roberta asked about pizza with Mitch mainly because she was curious but also because it didn’t bode well she was eating Mitch’s pizza. I told her that Mitch hadn’t been able to make it. She looked about as disappointed as I felt.

  Okay, maybe no
t that disappointed. Since I felt the need to scan newspaper ads to find an apartment somewhere on the other side of Denver from the one in which I lived across the breezeway from Mitch. But not before I became an alcoholic in order to numb the pain.

  But she did look really disappointed.

  Luckily, I’d worked the next two days and found reasons to get home later than normal. Both nights this effort proved unnecessary as his SUV wasn’t there when I got home.

  Wednesday, however, I was off and that night at five thirty there came a knock on my door. I went to the door and looked through the peephole to see Mitch standing outside. He didn’t look happy. He looked impatient and maybe a little angry. When I kept looking and he kept looking angrier, I stopped looking and put my forehead to the door again. He knocked again. I didn’t move or make a noise.

  He stopped knocking and when I pulled in a breath and chanced a look through the peephole, he was gone.

  There was no more from Mitch. He didn’t come back even though for the next three nights when I got home, later than normal each time, his SUV was in the parking lot.

  It was now Sunday, my day off. Since I ran all my weekly errands after work, I could hole myself up in my apartment, clean, putter around and avoid even the possibility of running into Mitch. I also avoided the phone that day and the many times throughout the week that Brent and Bradon and LaTanya (who, clearly, B and/or B told about Mitch and pizza) had phoned, left messages and texted – all asking about Mitch.

  I definitely had to move.

  On that thought, my phone rang and I really wanted to ignore it but I didn’t. It might be Lynette and I could use talking to Lynette. I’d known her since seventh grade. She’d get it about Mitch. She wouldn’t agree with it but she’d get it. I was toying with calling her anyway. We talked once a week at least and we were due.

  When I got to my phone, I saw my caller ID on my house phone said Stop ‘n’ Go - Zuni.

  I felt my brows draw together at the same time I felt my heart speed up. I picked up the phone, beeped it on and put it to my ear hoping B and B or LaTanya hadn’t headed out to some Stop ‘n’ Go to wangle a conversation with me. I was hoping more that whatever it was wasn’t about Billy and Billie.