Still, I figured, once he knew we’d all sorted out our shit, he was making a mental note to do cartwheels.

* * *

I’d cleaned up, made certain my hair wasn’t a mess (it was, the knot I’d tied it in around a ponytail holder had gone wonky so I just pulled it out) and I’d tugged on my panties and tee when my cell rang.

I snatched it up, looked at the display and fought the urge to hurl it across the room.

Fuck. Beau. My most recent ex. That was to say, he was recent in the sense he was the latest guy I’d broken up with not recent in the sense that I broke up with him recently. We’d been officially done and I’d kicked his ass out nearly four months ago. We’d been unofficially done for eight months before that. We’d been teetering on done for six months before that.

Beau just didn’t get that we were Grade A Certified Capital D Done.

And I knew if I didn’t take this call, he’d call me again and again until I did. This was part of how he was working my nerves and had been since I’d kicked his ass out. And considering I had a sister-in-law, two beloved nephews and a Mom and Dad close who had all lost a loved one, I didn’t want to turn off my phone.

Goddamn it. Beau.

When Mike got back, I was going to ask him if he knew how to commit the perfect murder.

Then I hit the button on the screen to take the call and put it to my ear.

“Seriously?” I used as my greeting.

“Dusty, baby,” he said softly.

He knew I loved my brother. He knew we were close. Since he’d lived with me, he had firsthand knowledge that Darrin and I talked on the phone once or twice a week. He knew I doted on my nephews. He knew I, unlike my sister, loved Rhonda. He knew I was grieving and he thought he could use it to get back in there.

“Beau, I’m kinda busy,” I informed him.

“Are you doing okay?” he asked me.

“No. Darrin died four days ago and I’m home in The ‘Burg with my sister breathing my airspace however distantly. It’s still closer than when she’s in DC working to get rapists free and I’m in Texas trying to forget my parents birthed three children. So no, I’m not okay.”

“You stayin’ long? You want me to fly up?”

Why was he so dense?

“Beau, not to be a bitch or anything but what have I done in the last four months that would give you the impression I want you to fly up and be here with me?”

“Dusty, times like these are tough,” he reminded me.

“Uh, yeah, Beau. I’m getting that.”

“And you need to be around people who care about you.”

“No, I need to be around people I want to be around, ergo, not you. Again, not to be a bitch or anything,” I added, well, so I wouldn’t be a bitch or anything even while I was totally being a bitch.

“Baby, I’m tryin’ to look out for you,” he whispered coaxingly and I hated that because it reminded me that used to work on me.

It didn’t anymore.

I didn’t remind him, as I had so many times I lost track, that he should have knocked himself out to look out for me before I dumped his ass. I didn’t remind him that he forgot in a lot of ways to knock himself out for me. I didn’t remind him that I didn’t actually need him to knock himself out but at least put a little effort into us. And I didn’t remind him that I’d knocked myself out trying to make us work and he’d not made an effort until I dumped his ass. Then, when I did, he’d acted surprised like the last fourteen months of our relationship that didn’t crash and burn but died a slow, agonizing death didn’t happen and we’d been riding a high of bounty. So I didn’t remind him how much his being totally clueless pissed me off.

Instead, I reminded him of something that now, because he wanted me back, he’d forget in half a second but he took for granted for the two and a half years we were together.

“I can look out for myself.”

He was silent.

I was wondering how long Mike had been gone and thinking I needed to take his order to heart. I didn’t want to mess this up and although Mike didn’t lapse into a fifteen minute soliloquy about the shit that had gone down in his life, what he said didn’t sound good. I didn’t want to jack him around. I needed to search my feelings and I couldn’t do that when I was getting pissed at my ex-boyfriend who not only couldn’t catch a clue but also had selective hearing and he had this so he wouldn’t have to catch a clue.

“Beau, I gotta go,” I told him.

He was again silent for a moment then in a soft voice he injected with too much sweet, he replied, “Right, baby, you need me, you know where to find me.”

Don’t hold your breath, moron, I thought but, not to be a bitch, I didn’t say.

“Good-bye, Beau,” I said firmly.

“Later, Dusty,” he replied and I rolled my eyes.

Totally couldn’t catch a clue and I wasn’t laying breadcrumbs either. I’d been laying it out, straight up, for four months.

I beeped off my phone, chucked it on the nightstand, got in the rumpled bed, stared at the ceiling and tried to search my feelings.

This was difficult since I didn’t do this. Ever. I felt something, I went with it.

Like being pissed, in pain and in a room with a Mike Haines, my adolescent crush, a man who was far more beautiful at forty-three than he’d been at seventeen and eighteen and when I’d been a total bitch to him the last time I talked to him and he was twenty-one. Finding myself in his arms, I wanted to kiss him. I wanted it badly. So I kissed him.

I felt it, I went with it.

This did not always work for me. I didn’t keep track but I figured I was around fifty-fifty. Sometimes, things went south. Sometimes, I hit a home run. I kept doing it because it was me. I also kept doing it because hitting a home run made it worth surviving the times things went south.

What I knew, staring at the ceiling, was that I wanted Mike to be a home run.

I didn’t want this because he was my adolescent crush. I didn’t want this because over the years I thought of him often and did it fondly. I didn’t want this because Mike was a phenomenal lover. I didn’t want this because it sucked huge my brother had died suddenly at the age of forty-four, he was my best friend and I had no stinking clue how to live my life without him. I didn’t want this because my brother who was my best friend wanted it for me.

I just wanted it.

I heard the lock click on the door, my head turned on the pillow and I watched Mike walk in.

No. That wasn’t right.

I caught a glimpse of Mike carrying a pizza box held aloft in one hand, his fingers wrapped around the handle of a six pack of bottled beer in the other hand. He was wearing a pair of jeans that looked freaking great on him. He was also wearing a brown sweater flecked with cream and gray bits with a tall collar that stood up around his muscular neck and had a couple of undone buttons at the throat that looked freaking great on him. He was further wearing a brown leather jacket that looked freaking great on him. And last, his hair had been mussed, probably changing, he hadn’t sorted it and that looked unbelievably freaking great on him. So I sat up in bed and twisted his way to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

He walked to the bed, his eyes on me and didn’t say a word as he dumped the pizza box on it. Then he kept silent as he moved to the nightstand and put the beer there. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a bottle opener and dropped it with a clatter next to the beer.

I was thinking he was smart to remember to bring a bottle opener because the hotel wasn’t The Ritz but I was guessing they probably would frown on us using the edges of their furniture to force off beer caps as he shrugged off his leather jacket and threw it at the end of the bed.

Then he looked at me, crossed his arms on his chest and asked, “So?”

He totally wasn’t dicking around.

“Welp,” I started. “I figure you had time to think too but as for me, you want to, you’re spending the night.”

He studied me.

Then, softly, he asked, “Sure?”

I drew in breath.

Then I nodded and whispered, “I’m sure.”

When I did, he returned bizarrely, “How do you feel about cold pizza?”

I tipped my head to the side in confusion and asked, “Sorry?”

Before I knew what he was about, he picked up the pizza box, dropped it on the floor, leaned into me, put his hands in my pits, plucked me right out of bed and into his arms. Then he twisted and dropped, landing on his back with me on top of him. I was recovering from this, not, mind you, successfully when he rolled me to my back with him on top of me.

His face all I could see, his hands moving on me, he whispered, “Cold pizza. You got a problem with that?”

“No,” I whispered back.

“Right,” he murmured.

Then he kissed me before he did a bunch of other stuff to me while the pizza sat on the floor and got cold.

* * *

“Pottery?”

“Yep, vases and bowls and shit like that. I mean it’s mine. It’s gorgeous. I love it. I put a lot into it. I totally get off on it in a way that when I say that I mean, when I’m working, I lose time. I can start at noon and the next thing I know, it’s midnight. But still, I think it’s totally whacked that someone pays two hundred dollars for a medium-sized vase,” I shrugged, “but there it is.”

Mike had on nothing but his jeans. His back was to the headboard. His eyes were on me.

I again had on nothing but my tee and panties. My body was cocked at the hips, my calves lying across his thighs, the rest of me lying across the bed. I was on my side, up on a forearm with a pillow scrunched under me.

I had a beer resting in the crook of my hips. We had the pizza box between us. And we now knew each other pretty thoroughly biblically so we were getting to the other good stuff.

“Damn, honey, your shit must be good,” he said softly as I took a bite of pizza.

I chewed, swallowed and grinned. Then I stated, “I think so.” Then I took another bite.

“I’m impressed,” he replied.

I chewed, swallowed and grinned again before I warned, “Don’t be until you see it.”

He grinned back then remarked, “So you do something you love.”

“Totally,” I confirmed.

“Good for you, Dusty,” he muttered and took a bite of his own pizza.

“You like your gig?” I asked.

He chewed, swallowed and asked back, “Bein’ a cop?”

I nodded.

“Days I hate it, days I love it,” he answered. “But I feel it’s important work. Some days, I knock myself out and don’t see anything for it. Some days, I make a difference. The days I make a difference make the rest worth it. So yeah,” he grinned again, “overall, I like my gig.”

“Awesome,” I whispered then told him, “I thought you’d be president one day.”

He burst out laughing and I watched. That was something else I always loved about Mike. His laugh. He had a great sense of humor and he laughed a lot. It was always close, easy to get. Still, back in the day, I worked for it. But it was also deep and attractive. And, over the years, it had only gotten better.

A whole lot better.

When he sobered he asked, “President?” before he put the last bite of his slice of pizza in his mouth.

“Yep,” I replied, reaching for my new slice. “I crushed on you hard mostly because you were gorgeous, partly because you were you. I thought you could do anything.”

When I had my slice and looked back at him I noticed his face had gone soft and, seriously, he naturally had a lot of good looks but that was a clear winner.

Then, quietly, he said, “Sorry to disappoint you, honey.”

“I’m not disappointed, Mike,” I assured him. “I’m not certain, being older and understanding the ways of the world, that being president is such a sweet gig. Not thinking, the way you describe it, being a cop is any sweeter but, you do something you like. You make a difference. You feel that. It’s worth it to you then it works for me. Not that it has to work for me as long as it’s working for you.”

“It works for me,” he assured me back.

“Then good,” I whispered.

He grabbed a new slice. I took a bite of mine and washed it down with beer.

He took a bite from his, reached and grabbed his beer from the nightstand and was leaning back to replace it after taking a drag when he asked, “Wanna explain something to me?”

“Shoot,” I invited, taking another bite.

He sat back and leveled his eyes on me.