“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.”

Oh no. Not this again.

“Please, Mitch, I’m worn out. Can we not go there?”

“All right,” he replied without hesitation. “We won’t go there but I’m gonna take advantage of you bein’ worn out and point out that you are and if you’d let me in, I could help and maybe you wouldn’t be.”

I was never letting him in.

“I’ll get used to it.”

“You might or it might wear you down.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He shook his head and one of his hands left the armrest. It lifted and I held my breath as he took that lock of hair that always escaped the twist at the back and tucked it behind my ear. A whoosh surged through me because him so close, looking so good and his touch being so tender was something I’d never had.

Not in my whole life.

And it was beautiful.

Then he was speaking as his fingers trailed from behind my ear down my jaw. “I’m sensing, baby, you’re not a fighter. You’re a survivor. You need to be a fighter not to get worn down by all this shit.” His hand cupped my jaw, his eyes roamed my face, his face warmed and he whispered, “What I’d pay money to know is what you survived.”

Stupidly, I replied, “It wasn’t that interesting.”

His eyes instantly cut to mine. “So it was something.”

Oh shit.

Mental note when dealing with Mitch: he was a police detective and he had ways of getting information therefore never let your guard down.

“It’s just normal, everyday life stuff. Lots of people have been through worse than me,” I told him. When his eyes didn’t leave mine and his thumb swept my cheekbone and that felt so freaking nice, I repeated, “Lots of people.”

“Normal everyday stuff does not make someone retreat from life like you do.”

“I don’t retreat from life. I have a job. Friends. A car –”

Mitch’s hand left my face and planted itself back in the armrest as his next surprising words cut me off and totally flipped me out.

“You’re into me,” he declared.

My breath froze in my throat.

I pushed passed it to whisper, “Pardon?”

“You’re into me,” he repeated.

I straightened in my chair and since he didn’t move I, firstly, had no escape and I, secondly and stupidly, brought my face even closer to his.

“I’m not into you,” I lied.

“Liar,” Mitch called me on it. “You’re so into me you’re shit-scared of me.”

God! I hated it when he figured me out.

“I am not!” I lied again.

He ignored me. “A woman like you, who looks like you, dresses like you, who’s into me does not run away from me, she does not push me away and she does not lie to her friends about me unless she’s for some secret reason shit-scared of me.”

Okay, we were done.

“You need to leave,” I told him.

He continued to ignore me. “What a woman like you who’s not got some secret that makes her shit-scared of me does is make me pizza. She tells me about her life. She asks me about mine. And she doesn’t get pissed as all hell anytime I get close to figuring something out about her.”

“Well, you would know. You’ve had plenty of women ‘into you’ parading in and out of your apartment,” I fired back.

“So, you paid attention,” he returned.

“It was hard to miss.”

“No, Mara, you paid attention.”

He was not wrong about that.

Moving on.

“I will remind you, Mitch, that when I made you that pizza that you said you didn’t care much about but bring up all the time, you had a woman in your apartment.”

“And I’ll remind you, Mara, that I told you I’d be over in fifteen minutes which meant I intended to get rid of her in fifteen minutes so I could be with you.”

“So you could have my pizza!” I snapped.

“No,” he growled, visibly losing patience, “so I could be with you.”