“I don’t know,” I hedged.

“Make him pizza,” she urged.

“Really, Roberta, I’m not sure,” I told her.

“Make him pizza,” she pushed. “You aren’t pledging your troth. You’re making a nice, handsome guy pizza. So you drop barbeque sauce on your shirt. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.” She squeezed my hand. “What would be the end of the world is if you stuck yourself in that apartment with your candles and music, having LaTanya over for Glee, going over to B and B’s for tarot card nights, coming to my place for action movie marathons and that was it in your life. No risks. No chances. Nothing that made your heart beat faster. Nothing that made your toes curl. Nothing that was exciting. Nothing that gave you a thrill. That, honey…” she gave me another hand squeeze, “would be the end of the world.”

“I don’t need a thrill or not that kind of thrill. That kind of thrill is not for the likes of me,” I explained and her face turned funny as she looked at me.

“Everyone needs that kind of thrill, Mara, and I don’t understand what you mean ‘the likes of you’. The likes of you should be having those kinds of thrills all the time. Honestly, I’ve wondered. LaTanya has wondered. B and B have wondered. Even Mr. Pierson wonders why you aren’t living a thrill a minute.”

I didn’t understand what she was saying but explaining to her what the likes of me meant was explaining to her my One to Ten Classification System. I didn’t want to do that, especially explaining where I felt I came in on the scale. I’d learned not to share this information because friends who cared about you always tried to talk you into believing you were so far up that scale it was unreal. My oldest friend Lynette, who still lived back in Iowa, was the only person I’d told about my system. She even tried to talk me into believing I topped the scale at Mitch’s rank of Ten Point Five. She was convinced of it and tried to convince me. I knew she was wrong and I knew she was convinced of this because she liked me. I liked her too. She was a definite Eight Point Five. When she was in a good mood and her sunny disposition shone even more brightly, she soared up to a Nine Point Five so she had nothing to worry about.

I couldn’t wander around in a daze of thinking I was in another league which meant making the mistake of making a move toward someone out of my league. This, as I mentioned, only led to a broken heart.

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.