This, in itself, said a lot about him.

He was a Rockies fan, a Broncos fan and it was clear he loved his family, Denver and his job.

I told Hank that I lived in Chicago and owned a work at home web designing business but I’d been born and raised in Brownsburg, a town fifteen miles west of Indianapolis. I told him my parents stil lived there, my brother was a Park Ranger for Indiana State Parks and my sister worked in hospital administration at a medical center in Louisvil e. I told him I’d never been to the Indianapolis 500 but I’d been to the time trials, like, a mil ion times. I told him I was a Cubs fan, as were al the family, but we switched staunchly to the Pacers and the Ice for our basketbal and hockey needs. I explained I’d rebel ed against my family’s devotion to the Colts and cheered for the Bears.

I also told him, as was a prerequisite for anyone who lived in the Midwest, I loved REO Speedwagon (though, not the power bal ads, just songs like “Roll with the Changes” and “Ridin’ the Storm Out”). I also told him I liked Springsteen but had never seen him in concert.

Then, I’m afraid I got kind of lost in the discussion and admitted to him I loved Springsteen and thought he was a storytel er poet of biblical proportions (but I didn’t tel him I thought Springsteen had a beautiful lower lip designed by the gods because I thought that might be sharing too much). I also waxed lyrical about Mel encamp, maybe a shade too long but I’d been born in a smal town and Mel encamp sang about smal towns. I’d also watched a lot of my minutes turn to memories, life sweeping away the dreams that I had planned and Mel encamp sang about that too. A girl from Indiana understood those things like no one else. Springsteen might be able to tear through my heart but Mel encamp shot straight through my soul.

When I was done talking, Hank was staring again, but this time, his eyes were soft and lazy and I felt a shiver drift across my skin.

I didn’t tel him about Bil y.

When we were done, I declined dessert because the button of my jeans was digging into my bel y. Hank paid and I began to feel relief that the date was soon to be over.

If it lasted much longer, I knew I’d lose myself, I even knew I wanted to.

In the end, it wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was nice. I could almost pretend I was on an actual date, a great date, instead of on the run from a criminal boyfriend who was way too possessive and not afraid of wielding a sledgehammer.

Hank led me out the door and I began to relax thinking he’d take me home, likely kiss me (which would be a lovely addition to a lovely memory) and then we’d be done. It would suck, I’d hate it and I’d regret our timing for the rest of my life, but I was trying not to think about that.

Instead of going to the parking lot, he guided me to the light rail platform.

I stared at him as he bought tickets from a machine.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Takin’ you downtown.”

I blinked.

“I thought the date was over.”

He grabbed my hand and moved me toward the tracks.

“The date is definitely not over.”

Shit.

I pul ed my hand out of his.

“I’m tired. I’m ful and I’m tired. It was a delicious meal and thank you but al that wine and food, I need to go to sleep.”

What I needed to do was get out of my jeans and get away from Hank, not in that order.

He was staring down the tracks, partial y ignoring me.

“You’l wake up,” he said.

“I’m cold. I didn’t bring a coat,” I tried.

He took off his coat and settled it on my shoulders. He did the closing the edges with his hands thing again and bent his head to look down at me, standing smack in my space.

“Better?” he asked.

“Better” was not the word for it. “The f**king best” were the words for it.

Cripes, there was no shaking this guy.

“You’re in my space,” I said.

He got closer. “Yeah.”

“Whisky, back off,” I warned.

He grinned.

“Roxie, relax. We’re goin’ downtown and walkin’ off the food stupor. That’s it.”

I sighed, or more like, harrumphed.

I sighed, or more like, harrumphed.

I supposed I could go downtown, see a bit of Denver, walk off the food stupor.

“Oh, al right,” I gave in.

He got even closer. Then, I kid you not, he rubbed his nose against mine and then he looked me in the eyes and my breath caught. “It’s after that you need to worry about.” Shit.

I was in trouble.

* * * * *

We rode the light rail downtown and Hank walked me through Denver. I wore his jacket and at first, he held my hand. Then, he dropped my hand and pul ed me into his side with his arm around my shoulders. I al owed this because I decided that to get through the night, I was going to pretend to be someone else. I was going to pretend to be the Roxanne Gisel e Logan before Bil y Flynn, who hadn’t yet made a stupid decision that f**ked up her life. The Roxanne Gisel e Logan who deserved to be out on a date with a tal , handsome guy named Hank Nightingale.

I was going to give myself this one night of pretend.

“You can walk in those shoes?” Hank asked.

“I can play basketbal in these shoes,” I told him, and I wasn’t lying. I’d been wearing high heels since my Mom bought me those little, pink, plastic kiddie go-aheads when I was five.

“Your feet hurt, let me know.”

Shit.

He was a good guy, through and through.

He was a good guy, through and through.

We walked down 16th Street Mal and the streets were packed with people even though it was Monday night. Bars were hopping, restaurants were jammed, lights were shining, it was gorgeous and alive. He walked me through Writer Square and down to Wazee Supper Club where he bought me a drink and we talked some more.

We were heading back up 16th Street Mal and I knew the date was about to come to a close. It was getting late and Hank had to go and do good deeds tomorrow. As for me, I had to sort out my life.

Then, I saw the horse drawn carriages.

I loved horses.

Okay, it was safe to say I loved anything with fur.

“Just a sec,” I said to Hank and pul ed away from his arm around my shoulders and walked to the driver.

“Can I pet your horse?” I asked him with a smile.

“Sure,” the driver replied.