Then I called Lynette to fill her in on everything. As in everything. Including Mitch. Before she could wind herself up into lecture mode and try to convince me I was the Ten Point Five I was not, I told her I was tired and had to crash. She let me go because she was nice and because she knew after years of trying her lecture wouldn’t get her anywhere.

LaTanya had the day off on Thursday and watched the kids for me that day. Since LaTanya wasn’t on the pickup and drop off list, this necessitated me driving the twenty minutes to their school, the half an hour to the complex to drop them off at LaTanya’s, then the half an hour back to Pierson’s, which meant my lunch hour went long. Mr. Pierson didn’t say a word but I knew I couldn’t do that often or the kids and I wouldn’t be eating canned soup. We’d be dumpster diving and living under a tarp.

Friday I had off. After dropping the kids off that morning, I rushed home and started to clean the house. Child Protective Services were an hour late showing up which was good because this allowed me to deep clean as if surgical cleanliness proved my ability to raise children. The guy who showed up gave the house a cursory look through, proving that surgical cleanliness didn’t mean much and it seemed nothing actually did. He checked some stuff off on a clipboard and informed me that my boss, Bradon, Brent, LaTanya, Roberta and “one Detective Mitch Lawson” gave me stellar references “the like we never see”.

Then he declared the kids were mine as long as Bill was in jail and I successfully completed foster parent classes but CPS would be calling around frequently to make sure all was well.

Finally good news.

Then I went to get the kids and off we trudged to childcare centers to check them out. The kids liked the more expensive one, of course. Or at least Billie did. Billy just agreed with Billie. I signed them up and told them my schedule for the next week, nine thirty to six thirties with Tuesday off. I also had Saturday off but the childcare center didn’t care about that since they weren’t open on weekends. I had no clue what I’d do with the kids next Sunday.

As I pulled in the spot beside Mitch’s SUV, I added that to tomorrow’s to do list.

Tonight, I was getting a glass of wine, lighting candles, putting my Premier Chill Out on low and relaxing.

That was after I got rid of Mitch who showed at eleven just like he said he would. I’d had a chat with Billy to try to rectify my mistake but I’d made a muddle of it. The fact that he didn’t come out of his room to greet Mitch (the way Billie did, enthusiastically) proved I made a muddle of it. This made an already not happy to see me Mitch look less happy. Luckily he was good at hiding it when he lifted up Billie and gave her a kiss on the cheek while she giggled.

I quickly explained his choices for lunch and dinner for the kids and told him to make himself at home. I then went to say good-bye to Billy with another word to him to be cool to Mitch because Mitch was cool and from the hard way Billy stared at me, I figured I made a muddle of that too. Then I had a cuddle and kiss session with Billie. Finally I said good-bye to Mitch, he lifted his chin at me and I skedaddled.

Now I was back, climbing the stairs and after executing that herculean task, deciding no wine, candles or music, just bed.

I unlocked my door, opened it, walked in and saw Mitch stretched out on my couch watching a baseball game.

God, he looked good stretched out on my couch.

His eyes came to me and did a head-to-toe.

“Jesus, you look wiped,” he announced but other than that, he didn’t move a muscle.

Great, I looked wiped. Undoubtedly attractive.

“That’s because I am,” I replied, walked in and dumped my bag on the coffee table. “Were they okay today?”

“Billie thinks I hang the moon but then I think Billie thinks everyone hangs the moon. Billy still thinks I’m a dick.”

So then, batting five hundred. Could be worse. Though, probably not fun spending the day with a nine year old who thought you were a dick.

Mental note: have another chat with Billy.

I pressed my lips together and stared at him stretched out on my couch. Since he looked so hot stretched on my couch that prolonged watching could conceivably burn out my retinas and I needed my retinas, my eyes drifted to the TV. I stared vacantly at the action on the screen. What I didn’t know was once I started, I was so zoned out and tired, I did this for a while.

“Shoes off Mara,” I heard Mitch order and automatically I put my hand to the back of my armchair to steady myself. I put my toes to my other heel and flipped off one shoe and then repeat on the other.

Nice. That felt better.

Mitch’s voice came to me again. “You mind if I finish the game?”

I did. I did mind. I wanted to go to bed. I wanted hot Detective Mitch Lawson off my couch before I did something in my extreme exhaustion that I’d regret, like jump him. I was tired but I reckoned I’d never be too tired to do that.

But after he watched the kids all day, if he didn’t want to miss the mere seconds he would miss walking from my apartment across the breezeway to his, who was I to say no?

“Be my guest,” I muttered, still staring mindlessly at the screen then asked, “Want a beer?”

“You got enough energy to get me one?” he asked back.

“Just,” I mumbled, turned and wandered into the kitchen. I opened the fridge and called, “Bud, Coors, Newcastle or Fat Tire?”

“Coors,” Mitch called back.

I decided against wine and went for beer. Wine required a corkscrew and a glass. Beer you just popped the cap and sucked it straight from the bottle. I didn’t have the energy to fiddle with a corkscrew and a glass. And anyway, wine didn’t go with baseball. Even Cubs fans who accepted everybody might look down on someone drinking wine while watching baseball.

I popped the caps, wandered back to my living room and got close enough to Mitch to stretch out an arm so he could take the bottle from my hand. He took it and I moved to the armchair and collapsed in it.

I sucked back beer. A lot of it. It tasted good.

“Ah,” I breathed after I was done. I lifted my feet and put them on the coffee table.

“Your feet hurt after you’re on those heels all day?” Mitch asked and I looked down at the high, spiked heels next to my chair.

Then I looked at the TV.

“Yes,” I answered.

Even though I wore heels every day for years, this was no lie. They still hurt.

I sucked back more beer and watched a Dodger strike out.

I vaguely sensed Mitch moving and I equally vaguely heard his beer bottle hit the coffee table. What was not vague was his hands capturing my feet to pull them into his lap thus twisting me in my seat.

My head jerked toward him to see he was no longer stretched on my couch. He was sitting at the end closest to my chair, my feet were in his lap and he was lifting his to set them on the coffee table.

“Um…” I mumbled when I’d regained the ability to speak. “What are you doing?”

His fingers on both hands dug into one of my feet, his palms wrapped around, the warmth, the pressure, the power, holy crap…heaven.

“Massaging your feet,” Mitch belatedly replied, long, muscled legs stretched out in front of him, eyes to the TV, his hands working sheer magic.

“Uh…Mitch, my feet are fine,” I told his profile.

“They’ll be better when I’m done,” he told the TV.

He was not wrong.

“I think –” I started to protest, I lost his profile and gained the full beauty of his face when he looked to me.

“Shut up, Mara, and relax.”

“’Kay,” I murmured.

He stared at me a second, shook his head and looked back to the TV, his hands not for a moment ceasing in giving bliss.

I drank beer and watched baseball while I tried to force myself to relax. Mitch finished with one foot and started on the other. I drank more beer, watched baseball and Mitch’s talented hands did what I could not do and forced me to relax.

I was in the zone. Beer done, bottle on the floor by the chair, eyelids half-mast, probably close to drooling when Mitch’s hands left the foot he was working on and went back to the other one but up, starting to massage my calf.

“Uh…Mitch?” I called.

“Quiet, baby, and relax,” he said softly.

“’Kay,” I whispered. I did this because he called me baby, because he said it softly and because his hands felt so good. Then I slunk down in the seat to give him better purchase on my legs.

I stared at the TV, Mitch rubbed the tension out of my legs and together we watched the Dodgers win by a bottom of the ninth, two run homerun.

My head tipped back when Mitch’s hands stopped moving on my flesh, his feet came off the coffee table and he gently set mine back on it. Then he was up and I watched that too, my head pressing into the back of the chair to keep my eyes on all the magnificence that was him. Then I watched him bend toward me and put his hands on the armrests on either side of me, his face close to mine.

“I like this Mara,” he said quietly. “I could work with this Mara.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“I’m always this Mara,” I whispered, not able to talk louder not because I was exhausted and relaxed but because I liked his face that close to mine. I liked the way he said my name in that quiet voice. And it was taking everything I had not to lean in two inches and kiss him.

“No, sweetheart, the usual Mara has got herself wrapped so tight in that cocoon she’s woven around herself, she’ll never break free.”