Wild Man Page 41

  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. In 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. 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.

  “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 a while, 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 in a way that went beyond his 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 alone 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. Out of habit, I li
t the scented candles in my living room and turned on music, going with my “Chill Out at Home Part Trois” playlist, which 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. The scent of the candles would linger even if I blew them out, 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 as I watched 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 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.

  Then I breathed, “What?”

  “Derek tells me it’s the shit.”

  I blinked 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 marinated 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.”

  They talked about my baked beans too? This meant they talked more than a little about me. This was more than a passing comment, “Oh you gotta try Mara’s barbeque chicken pizza. It’s the shit,” or something like that. This meant more than a few sentences. My baked beans were so good they had to be a whole other topic.

  Ohmigod!

  I remained silent and tried to level my breathing. Mitch kept working. Then he kept talking to the tap.

  “You got great taste in music, Mara.”

  Oh God. I liked my music. I liked it a lot. I played it a lot and sometimes I played it loud. Damn.

  “I’m sorry, do I play it too loudly that it bothers you?” I asked. His neck twisted to the side but his head was still bent so his eyes were on me but he wasn’t exactly facing me, yet he was.

  “No, at least not so it’s annoying. I can hear it now ’cause I’m in your house. The Allman Brothers’ “Midnight Rider,” America’s ‘Ventura Highway,’ great taste.”

  God, of course. I was an idiot.

  “Right,” I whispered, “of course.”

  Something happened to his eyes. Something I didn’t get but something that made a whoosh sweep through my belly all the same. It was stronger than normal and it felt a whole lot nicer.

  “Better than your taste in baseball teams,” he stated, and it hit me that he was teasing me.

  Holy crap! Detective Mitch Lawson was in my bathroom teasing me!

  “Um…” I mumbled then bit my bottom lip and checked the impulse to flee the room.

  “Relax, Mara,” he said softly, his eyes going super warm. “I don’t bite.”

  I wished he did. I really, really did. Just like I wished I was at least a Nine. He’d never settle for anything lower than a Nine because he didn’t have to. As a Nine, I might get the chance to find out if I could make him bite me and I’d get the chance to bite him.

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  “But I am serious,” he went on, his eyes holding mine captive in a way I didn’t get but I still couldn’t look away no matter how much I wanted to.

  “About what?” I was losing track of the conversation.

  “I expect a knock on my door, you’re makin’ pizza or your beans.”

  “Um… okay,” I lied. There was no way I was knocking on his door when I made my pizza or beans. No way in hell. In fact, I was moving the first chance I could get.

  “Or just anytime you feel li
ke company,” he kept going, and I felt the room teeter.

  What did he mean by that?

  “Um… I’m kinda a loner,” I lied again and he grinned.

  “Yeah, I noticed that. Your imaginary friend who was over watchin’ TV last night sounded a lot like LaTanya though. Now she sings loud and it skates the edge of annoying. Luckily it’s more funny than annoying and it only lasts an hour.”

  Oh damn. He’d called me out on a lie. And double damn because I also sang with the kids on Glee. Hopefully he couldn’t hear me but he wasn’t wrong. LaTanya thought she was Patti LaBelle’s more talented sister. She diva’ed her way through every episode of Glee that we’d watched together. And we’d watched every episode of Glee together.

  “Um…” I repeated, my eyes sliding to the mirror, but I wish they hadn’t because I could see his broad shoulders and muscled back leading to his slim hips. I could also see him straightening, which meant I had his full attention. Not that I didn’t have it before, just that now I really had it.

  “Mara,” I watched him call, my eyes at the mirror and they slid back to his then he kept talking. “What I’m sayin’ is, I get it that you’re shy…”

  Oh God. Totally a police detective. He had me figured out.

  He moved his body closer and kept speaking. I held my breath as he held my gaze. “But what I want you to know is that I’d like you to come over, but because you’re shy, you gotta walk that breezeway, sweetheart. I’m tellin’ you you’re welcome, but I made the first move, you need to make the next one. You with me here?”

  No. No, I wasn’t with him. He’d made the first move? What move?

  And he’d called me sweetheart, which made the belly whoosh move through me like a tidal wave.

  I was pretty certain I was going to die right there, totally swept away.

  Then it I hit me as I stared into his beautiful eyes. They were so dark brown they seemed fathomless, and if I wasn’t careful, I would drown in them. But I was careful and I knew who I was and what zone I lived in. So when it hit me, I understood.

  Derek and LaTanya were both Nines. Brent and Bradon were firm at Eight Point Fives in the gay world, the straight world or an alien world (both Brent and Bradon were gorgeous, very cool and very, very nice). But they all liked me. We were not only neighbors, we were good friends. And Mitch had been living across the way from me for four years. He was a good guy. He fixed faucets. He smiled warmly.