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.