Kristen Ashley - Law Man

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.

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.