Soaring

 

“Marriage counselling?” I asked my phone sitting on the kitchen counter beside where I was working.

Lawr was on the other end and we were talking on speaker so I could continue to make my chocolate chip cookie sandwiches stuck together with chocolate buttercream frosting. A double delight. A real winner. And something I was making because the next day was Mrs. McMurphy’s ninetieth birthday, and she might think I was a Nazi, but I was going to be a Nazi bringing her birthday treats.

“Marriage counselling,” Lawr confirmed.

I slathered buttercream frosting on the back of a cookie and asked, “Are you crazy?”

“No,” Lawr replied with a smile in his voice.

“Okay, you think that then I’ll ask, is it working?”

“I’ve learned she doesn’t mind my working hours because, in three sessions, she hasn’t mentioned them. However, it annoys her that I sometimes don’t hit the laundry basket with my dirty socks. This is something I can’t imagine why it would be annoying since she has a woman come in twice a week who cleans and does laundry so she doesn’t even touch my socks. However, now I make certain I hit the basket with my socks.”

I knew long hours. My ex-husband had worked them too. I hated it but he loved his job, had wanted to be a neurosurgeon since his uncle, who also was one, allowed him to stand in an observation room and watch a surgery when Conrad was sixteen.

Alas, now I knew that those long hours weren’t all about patients.

I’d also had a cleaning lady and Conrad hadn’t even bothered to throw his clothes anywhere near the hamper. I didn’t really care. He worked. I didn’t. I had the time to gather clothes and dump them in a hamper.

If we had marriage counselling, I might mention the work hours…tentatively.

I wouldn’t give a fig about the laundry.

“Lawrie—” I started.

“It’s got to be done,” he told me.

I scrunched the top cookie on and set them aside, asking, “Why?”

“Because I have to tell myself, and my sons, that I did all I could do.”

I shut my mouth but I did it fuming.

He was correct. He should do that so he could live with whatever came of this, but also so his boys could see him giving it one last go with their mother before hopefully he made the decision to leave his wife and find some happy.

But I hated the idea of whatever that witch would put him through in the meantime, including during those sessions.

I mean socks?

Really?

“So, if you’re committed to this, then I take it Thanksgiving is out,” I remarked, irately snatching up another cookie.

“I talked with Mariel about going. We’re considering it.”

I threw up a little in my mouth at the thought of the Wicked Witch of Santa Barbara tainting my whimsical, beachy guest bedroom with her malevolence.

When I powered past that, I declared, “If she’s coming, I’m inviting Robin. Her ex has her kids this Thanksgiving. She’d be all over it.”

“MeeMee,” Lawr stated irritably.

“Mercer and Hart love Robin,” I reminded him, and they did. My nephews thought she was a hoot.

“She drives Mariel up the wall,” he reminded me.

“Of course she does, due to all the sexual tension that’s crackling between her husband and a beautiful, vital woman who’s learned how it feels to have a jerk break her heart so she’ll know it’s worth any effort needed to make a good man happy.”

“You do realize you, and Robin, lost your minds when your husbands cheated on you and now you’re attempting to set me up with your best friend right under my wife’s nose.”

I didn’t care what it said about me that this didn’t cause me the slightest unease.

And I explained to my brother why, “I’d have qualms about that if your wife gave indication she’s still breathing. Heck, if she gave indication she was still human. I’m uncertain of the law, you’d know better, but I don’t think you can cheat on the undead whose sole purpose on this earth is to spread evil. In fact, I’m uncertain your marriage is even valid. Can you pledge your troth to a vampire?”

“Christ, you’re in a bad mood,” Lawr observed, and I could hear the humor in his voice, which made me settle more firmly in my belief he needed to leave his wife. No man who still loved his spouse would allow anyone, even his little sister, to talk that badly about them.

But he wasn’t wrong. I was in a bad mood.

A very bad mood.

And this was because, according to me, things with Mickey were not going very well.

And this was because we had not had sex, something that was admittedly hard to do since I rarely saw Mickey.

It started off so promising and continued that way…for two days.

The first, dinner at my house, had changed to dinner at Mickey’s because Ash wanted to cook something, wanted me to help, and she knew her kitchen so felt more comfortable in it.

Of course, I went over there. It wasn’t hard. It was just walking across the street.

And I’d had fun cooking with Ash.

But it was more. Me being there before her dad got home from work was me being an adult and taking some of the onus off her taking care of her family since she watched her brother while her dad was away. She also liked female company it was plain to see, and while we cooked and chatted, we bonded. She came out of her shell a little bit, lost some of her timidity, and we’d had a marvelous time.

Mickey got home and it got better, mostly because he was Mickey and he was home. But also because this wasn’t a formal dinner gathering. It was an informal gathering of family having dinner. We ate Ash’s meal in front of the TV, Mickey doing this sitting beside me. He was not demonstrative, something I agreed with as it was too soon for that in front of his kids, but he sat by me and it was a thrill to feel the heat of his thigh pressed to mine and have him close, even if he wasn’t really touching me.

When that was done, he walked me home and we made out behind my closed front door, doing it hot and heavy.

He ended it, saying, “Gotta get back or those two’ll know what we’re up to.”

Again, appropriate.

Again, I agreed on this propriety.

But also disappointing.

During our dinner, we’d made arrangements for the kids to go with me to Dove House the next day, which happened the way it did before: Mickey dropping them off and picking them up. The kids had been just as helpful and charming and the residents and staff again had enjoyed having them around just as much as the first time.

But this was when it started going bad.

Understandably, Mickey couldn’t spend all his time with me when he had his kids or shove me down their throat constantly.

This began our days of brief phone conversations where we said absolutely nothing, their entire purpose, from what I could tell, was reminding each other we knew the other existed.

There were also texts, which were obviously briefer.

Then Aisling and Cillian went back to their mother, something that surprised me considering her behavior that week. I thought he would keep them or at least have words with her about what she’d done, warning her that couldn’t happen again, especially if they were with her, and what might happen if she did.

Mickey didn’t explain this decision to me and I didn’t ask about it because it wasn’t my place. It concerned me, but it wasn’t my place to share this either. They were his kids not mine, and he knew Rhiannon and all the history, I didn’t. So I kept quiet.

I learned the week he didn’t have his kids just how crazy his life was, juggling work he hated, kids back and forth and volunteering as a fireman.

I learned this because he had no time for me.

He did most of his evening shifts at the firehouse when the kids weren’t with him. He made up paid work for Ralph for day shifts he did at the firehouse both when he had his kids and when he didn’t. And all this meant he had no time left over.

Since the diner was just down from the firehouse, he had asked me to meet him at Weatherby’s for dinner one night that week, something I did. Something that lasted for an hour before Mickey had to get back. Something that ended with me not even getting a kiss.

And he’d had one other night off before he got the kids back. A night where we talked on the phone, even though he was on his couch in a house across the street from mine, and I was in my fabulous armchair in a house across the street from his.

We did this for half an hour before he stated, “Wiped, Amy. Gotta hit my bed.”

Obviously, without demur, since he was tired, I let him go.

The kids came back and we’d actually had a family outing, all four of us going to some burger shack out in the middle of nowhere that frankly was kind of scary (the being in the middle of nowhere business and the restaurant, which, even without me doing a full inspection, I knew had to be making a variety of health violations).

It could not be denied, however, that the kids loved it, the burgers were delicious and I loved family time with Mickey and his kids.

But outside brief phone calls and texts, that was it for that week with Mickey.

Now his kids were gone again. It was Tuesday, my kids were coming that weekend and my relationship with my own offspring meant that it was too early to add Mickey to that mix.

So we wouldn’t be seeing each other that weekend.

And it was nearly five and he had not called or texted all day. In fact, the last text I got from him was the day before at nine thirty in the morning that said, Need to make plans.

I’d replied, We do. Do you have some time off some evening this week?

I’d received no return text.

Nothing.

I didn’t wish to be a spoiled, selfish, dainty heiress, but if I was going to have a man in my life, I wanted to have a man in my life, not the specter of a man who became real only infrequently.

And I didn’t wish to allow Conrad to destroy the possibility of me finding something good and healthy (if Mickey and I miraculously found together time to actually build a relationship) by wondering what, precisely, was taking all of Mickey’s time.

The fact was he’d been with Bridget, the tall, buxom redhead. I’d mentioned her, but he’d said nothing about her.

Were they still dating?

Was she being fit in here and there, whenever Mickey had time not working, volunteering, fathering or being with me?

It had been a long time since I’d been in the dating game, but Mickey had told me to end it with Bradley. I did. It might be an incorrect assumption but Mickey, clearly not being tolerant of me being with another man when there was not one thing between us but a lot of arguing and a kiss, would lead me to believe I could expect the same and that, although relatively new, our relationship was exclusive.

Since I’d grown up, I would have broached this subject with Mickey just to make certain we were on the same page.

Unfortunately, I rarely saw Mickey in order to broach this subject.

But obviously, that niggled at me.

Was Bridget still in the picture?

And last, there was the fact that Mickey had said straight out that men needed to fuck and I was right across the street. I didn’t say it outright but it was implied I was a relatively sure thing. I liked the idea that he wanted to take his time with me but I was right across the street.

A man had needs.

A woman had needs.

But he was not seeing to these needs for either of us.

So what was that all about?

The only good thing that came of the last two weeks (and it was a very good thing) was the fact that things were progressing with my own kids. Pippa had started high school, and I was anxious to know how she was handling that. But both of them were back to school, and I was just interested to know how things were going.

So I asked.

And they answered.

Their phones.

As in, not through texts.

I could not say the conversations lasted for hours and included them baring their souls to me, telling me they forgive me and explaining they wished to spend more time with me.

But I called, they answered, we chatted, it was amicable and relatively informative and the more it happened, the less stilted it became.

I did not push this. I texted every day just to say something to let them know they were on my mind.

They texted back.

But I’d called them both more than a couple of times since Mickey and my first date, and they always answered.

Except once, when I got Auden’s voicemail.

But then he’d called me back, getting mine, apologizing for not picking up and sharing things were going okay.

I was ecstatic, completely beside myself with joy.

About that.

But things with Mickey—being fast, heated, crazy and ending with me floating on air, only for them to stall almost completely—made me again feel leaden, carrying the weight of worry that something so exciting, so promising would end so soon after it began.

I couldn’t wait to see my babies that weekend.

But things with Mickey had gone from understandable to frustrating to irritating in a way I knew I was feeling that rather than concern that what seemed to be the beginning of happy would dwindle into nothing.

“Yes, I’m in a bad mood,” I told Lawr.

“Why?” he asked. “You said things were improving with the kids.”

“They are.”

“And you’ve found someone to spend time with.”

“I did. And that’s past tense.”

“Oh fuck,” Lawr muttered. “You two already broke up?”

“I’d have to see him to break up with him and, again, I’m uncertain of the laws, this time of dating, but I would assume you’d actually have to see each other regularly, and, oh, I don’t know, maybe have sex at least once for a relationship deterioration to be considered a breakup.”

Lawr was silent.

“Did I lose you?” I called.

“You haven’t…” He sounded like he was being strangled. “You haven’t had sex with him?”

“No,” I snapped, slapping the top cookie on the frosted one and setting the sandwich aside, going on, “You’re a man, tell me. You have a sure thing you pretty much know is a sure thing across the street, would you sit on your couch and talk with her on your phone for half an hour before stating you’re wiped and need to go to bed? Or would you find your second wind, walk over and fuck her dizzy?”

“Maybe you should talk to Robin about this,” Lawr suggested.

“Robin’s not a man,” I noted.

“So maybe you should talk about this to a man who is not me, a me who’s your brother.”

“Lawr, honestly?” I asked.

“Mariel and I have not had relations for over two months and the last time we had them it lasted ten minutes and I finished alone.”

I made a gag face that also included a gag noise my brother heard.

Thus Lawr continued, “Do you wanna talk about sex with your brother?”

“Maybe not,” I conceded.

“Right. Call Robin,” he ordered.

“She’s at her new Pilates class.”

There was a moment of silence before Lawr begged, “Please tell me she’s not—”

“She is,” I interrupted him to confirm. “The lover of her ex-husband’s soon-to-be-ex-wife is her new instructor. She says the class is magnificent. The instructor knows who she is. They go for chai teas after and the other one meets them. They’re all bonding over mutual hatred.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lawr muttered.

“It’s actually quite healthy.”

“It’s nutty, like that woman is,” Lawr returned. “And she’s been burned badly enough, she shouldn’t court more.”

“She’s healing, Lawrie,” I said softly. “Let her do it her way.”

There was another moment of silence before Lawr said, “Right.”

I scrunched another sandwich together and replied, “I should probably let you go.”

And I should let him go because he had to get going.

I had an evening of nothing ahead of me.

“Yeah. I’ll let you know about Thanksgiving.”

“That’d be great, Lawrie. Hope the rest of your day goes well.”

“Yours too, sweetheart. And MeeMee?”

“Yes?”

“Slow is not bad,” he said gently.

He was right. Slow probably wasn’t bad.

Crawling to a virtual stand-still wasn’t all that hot, however.

I didn’t share that.

I said, “Thanks, Lawrie.”

“Talk to you soon.”

“Back at you.”

“’Bye, MeeMee.”

“’Bye, Lawrie.”

I hit the button to disconnect and kept at my cookies, thinking it was getting late and I’d not planned anything for dinner hoping that there might be some possibility I’d be eating whatever I’d be eating with Mickey.

After the cookie sandwiches got finished, packed up for transport the next day and I did the cleanup, I realized that was not happening and then got annoyed because I hadn’t taken anything out to defrost, and I had nothing in the fridge to make.

I opened the door, stared in the fridge and saw my only choice was an omelet, which didn’t sound appetizing.

But at least it was something.

Therefore I made my plans. Omelet. Wine. Book. Bath. Bed.

And no Mickey.

Before I started all that skin tingling excitement, I sent my kids their texts of the day and gave myself my only thrill of the day because I then got their replies.

I had the cheese grated, the garlic minced, the mushrooms sliced and was beating the eggs when my phone on my counter rang.

The display said “Mickey.”

I glared at it and the time above it, which told me it was ten to six.

I wanted to let it ring, go to voicemail, force him to make more of an effort to get in touch with me, but that was petty.

And I was no longer petty.

So I hit the button to accept then hit the button for speaker.

“Hey,” I greeted.

“On my way home from work.”

What?

No.

Whatever.

“Fascinating news,” I replied.

He said nothing for a few seconds before he stated, “Forgot if you had bacon on your burger.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m at Tinker’s. Picking up burgers for us for dinner. Remembered you got Swiss and mushrooms. Forgot if you got bacon.”

He was picking up dinner for us at Tinker’s, the scary burger joint out on route whatever?

No, he was not.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m having an omelet.”

“What?” he asked.

“I’m making an omelet. Right now. I’m covered for dinner.”

“You’re making an omelet for dinner,” he said like this was beyond belief.

“I’m hungry,” I replied.

“Tink’s burgers are better, baby.”

The edifice and its environs might be sketchy, but there was no denying the burgers would be better than an omelet.

“I’m beating the eggs now. If I don’t cook them, they’ll go to waste,” I shared.

There was a smile in his voice when he replied, “Amy, you’re a gazillionaire. Thinkin’ you can probably afford to pour a coupla eggs down the sink.”

“I am, indeed, quite wealthy as we’ve discussed frequently,” I replied tartly. “However, that does not negate the fact people on this earth are starving so it would be irresponsible and insensitive to have food and waste it.”

“Then throw in a coupla more eggs. When I get to your place, I’ll eat that with you,” he returned, sounding like he wanted to eat a roofing shingle between two pieces of bread more than he wanted to share an omelet.

“You can get your burger. The omelet’s just for me. And you can’t come over. I have plans this evening.”

He didn’t sound amused when he asked, “You got plans?”

“I do,” I confirmed.

“What plans?” he pushed.

“I’m washing my hair,” I snapped. “Now, the butter in the skillet has melted. I have to go. I’m sure I’ll talk to you later…someday.”

“Am—”

I hit the button to disconnect, turned off the ringer and turned my phone over so I couldn’t see the display. When it vibrated, making noise against my counter, I shoved it in a drawer and picked up the remote to turn on my system across the room, bringing up Pandora and listening to my Billie Holiday station.

The day was gray and drizzling. I was eating alone. Mickey was probably still dating a redhead who was not me. And he thought he could come over whenever he could squeeze me into his life.

It was time for the blues.

I was about to slice the side of my fork through the finished omelet, and not looking forward to it, when the banging came at my door.

My head whipped that way.

Through the glass, I saw Mickey.

On no, he was not banging on my door like he was angry when he said we needed to make plans and I agreed and asked when, then he did not bother to reply to me.

I wasn’t sitting around, anxiously awaiting his attention!

And I was not going to be the type of woman who accepted the scraps of attention from a man.

He had a busy life? He had things going on? We had to plan and be patient and time our moments together?

I could do that.

If we spoke about it, like two adults, and we both knew where we stood.

Not Mickey expecting I’d be hanging around waiting for him to decide to bring some burgers to me.

And being one of those two adults, the one not banging on someone’s door, I decided I’d be adult enough to share that with him.

I dropped my fork, stomped across the landing, unlocked the door and threw it open.

“I have a bell, you know,” I informed him acidly.

He moved in, his big body in motion meaning I had no choice but to get out of his way, so I did.

I watched him turn and did this shutting the door.

“Do you need something?” I asked.

“Washing your hair?” he asked back angrily.

“Yes,” I returned. “Though I haven’t gotten to that portion of my exciting evening yet. However, before I get to it, I’ll thank you not to bang on my door, which has beautiful stained glass in it that I very much like and would prefer it stays exactly how it is. So, in future, I’ll ask you to use the bell.”

He planted his hands on his hips, asking, “What’s this game, Amy?”

I crossed my arms on my chest and returned, “What game, Mickey?”

“Said I was comin’ over tonight, I’d bring dinner. And you got somethin’ up your ass and you’re dishin’ that shit to me for no fuckin’ reason.”

“You did not say you were coming over. I asked when you had a free evening this week. I asked that yesterday morning. Since then, I’ve heard nothing from you.”

“Took a coupla hours to reply but I did and I said tonight and I’d bring dinner.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You did not.”

“Fuck,” he leaned back and threw out his hands, “I did.”

I glared at him while stomping to my kitchen. I had to stop glaring at him to yank my phone out of the drawer and pull up his text string.

I recommenced glaring at him when I stomped back to him, shoving my phone his way.

“You…did…not.”

He aimed his angry scowl at my phone, his eyes narrowed, then he dug out his phone.

I crossed my arms on my chest as he ran his thumb over the screen for some time before he muttered, “Fuck, texted that to Janice Quiller.”

My stomach started roiling.

“And who’s Janice Quiller?” I asked.

Mickey looked at me. “Client of Ralph’s.”

“Oh yes?” I asked disbelievingly.

His expression turned stormy. “Yeah, Amelia. She is. And she replied she didn’t understand, and I didn’t understand what she didn’t understand so I texted her back something about the job, which was what we had been texting about. Answered her question. The texting died and I didn’t realize I’d fucked up.”

Well, clearly there was a mistake and it was an innocent one.

But somehow, that didn’t make me any less angry.

Mickey wasn’t either.

I could tell when he said, “And not real big on you insinuating that Janice could be somethin’ else to me.”

“If that’s the case then perhaps you’ll take this moment to share where things stand with you and Bridget.”

“Bridget?” he asked, looking perplexed, like he’d never heard that name in his life.

God!

Really?

“Yes,” I returned. “You see, you made it very clear when it became clear something might be happening between you and me that I needed to get rid of Bradley. It was uncomfortable and I’d already planned to do that, but just in case you have any ongoing queries about that, I’ll confirm that I ended things with Bradley. Now I’d like to know where things stand with you and Bridget.”

“Went out with her twice,” he told me.

“Is that your answer?” I pushed.

“Not sure what more you need,” he shot back.

“Are you going out with her again?” I explained, and his stormy expression turned thunderous.

“You really askin’ me that shit?”

“We’ve been on a date, Mickey,” I replied. “I’m rusty with this but I do think it’s within your rights not to want exclusive at this early juncture. However, I do believe it’s within my rights, if you don’t want that, not for you to expect that from me.”

He lifted up a hand, snapped loudly twice and clipped, “Reality check, babe. You are not standin’ here havin’ it out with your ex. I’m,” he leaned toward me, “Mickey.”

I felt my eyes get wide in preparation for my head to explode.

“Did you just snap at me?”

“Yeah, seein’ as you were in the middle of a flashback, havin’ a conversation with a guy who’d be asshole enough to make you end somethin’ with a douche so he could start somethin’ with you at the same time carryin’ on with somebody else. That guy not bein’ me.”

“Well, I’m sorry I’m troubling you with this conversation, however, I’ll make my apologies reminding you that we haven’t actually had this conversation or many conversations at all since we never see each other.”

“Amy, I work.”

“I’m aware of that, Mickey.”

“Got kids,” he went on.

“That hadn’t escaped me either.”

“And give my time to the department when I got it to give.”

“Which is a lot,” I noted.

The thunderous went out of his face and angry, surprised wariness slid in when he asked, “That a problem for you?”

I shook my head incredulously. “You doing what you’ve always wanted to do?”

“I made that clear enough you know that’s what I need, which makes your comment about me spendin’ a lot of time doin’ it somethin’ that doesn’t sit real good with me.”

“Perhaps I made that comment since you spend a lot of time doing a lot of other things and all those other things don’t really involve me,” I retorted.

His expression again changed to disbelieving with a hint of repulsion. “So you’re havin’ a shit fit because you want your piece of me?”

“No, Mickey Donovan,” I snapped. “I’m having a shit fit because I want you to give some indication you want your piece of me.”

His upper body swung back and his voice quieted when he replied, “You know I do, Amy.”

“Really? I’m sorry, that escaped me.”

“Got shit on, a lot of it, and you know it.”

“You’re right. I do. And I understand that. And I wouldn’t have a problem with it. One date we’ve had, I am aware that doesn’t shoot me up to the top of your priority list. But I’d like some indication I’ve actually been scratched on it.”

His face started to go hard again when he stated, “The shit in my life, I bring a woman into it, I need some understanding.”

“And you’d have that,” I returned. “If I knew what I was understanding.”

“And you’d know that,” he fired back. “If you’d fuckin’ asked.”

“Fine,” I bit off, throwing out my hands. “Consider this my formal request.”

His eyes flashed. “Jesus, you’re a serious fuckin’ smartass.”

I lifted my brows. “Shall I take that as you declining my request?”

“Yeah, babe,” he clipped while on the move toward me. “That request is declined until I can cool off and speak to you without doin’ that at the same time I wanna spank your ass.”

I didn’t have the chance to make a dramatic gesture by opening the door for him, considering he was moving so quickly he got there before me, but I did manage to get in my final shot.

“That effort would be appreciated, Mickey.”

I got that off, aimed at his back, right before he slammed the door behind him.

I glared at it.

Then I leaped to it and locked it.

That done, as Billie Holiday serenaded me, I stomped back to my kitchen, tossed down my phone and stared at the omelet on my fantastic new plate, trying to convince myself not to pick it up and throw it across the room.

Billie barely got in there before I heard banging at my door again.

My eyes shot there and I saw Mickey framed in the glass.

“This man cannot…be…believed,” I groused as I stomped back to the door, unlocked it and threw it open, looking up to him and on a near-yell demanding, “Do not bang on my—!”

I didn’t get it out because Mickey was kissing me. A hard, invasive, shut-up kiss that he delivered at the same time shuffling me in and closing the door with his boot.

I put my hands to his chest, pushed free and snapped, “I cannot believe—”

I didn’t finish that either because Mickey’s hand darted out, catching me at the back of my neck. He yanked forward and I slammed against his body right before his mouth again slammed down on mine.

I pushed back at my neck while lifting my hands to press against his chest. But he caught one wrist then swept it across and caught the other one, holding both tight in one hand between us.

This meant the only thing I could do was twist my mouth from his and order loudly, “Take your hands off me!”

He did.

I took a furious step back.

He took a furious step into me, lowering his torso and catching me in the belly with a shoulder.

Then I was up and he was stalking across the landing, taking me with him.

“Mickey!” I shouted.

He didn’t reply.

I was so angry I decided a fall from his shoulder was unlikely to kill me so I rotated my body to twist away.

Being the trained firefighter he was, he simply adjusted his hold to keep me where I was and kept stalking.

Down the hall.

To my bedroom!

“Put me down, Mickey Donovan!” I shrieked.

He did as I asked but only after planting a knee in my bed and tossing me off his shoulder onto my duvet.

My breath swept out of me as he instantly gave me his weight.

I stared into his irate, very heated, amazingly beautiful blue eyes and it struck me immediately that I’d made them that way.

Me.

“Mickey,” I whispered.

And that was again all I got out before he was kissing me. In his dusty construction clothes, his weight and heat pressing me into my bed, his mouth on mine wet and hot and demanding.

I’d given it a try, fighting him off.

I’d failed.

And if I’d learned anything, it was when to stop fighting when it was getting you nowhere and find alternate ways to get what you needed.

So I did that and kissed him back.

The second I did, he made a sexy, manly noise that drove down my throat and detonated right between my legs.

It was on.

And I was for once going to get what I needed.

I got it.

But Mickey helped me.

I didn’t care about his dusty construction clothes. I didn’t worry that I was out of practice. I didn’t get tense that I wasn’t going to give it like Mickey liked it.

I just took what I wanted, kissing him, touching him, ripping off his shirt.

He arched away to let me to do this then went back at me, rolling us so I was on top, then knifing up, still kissing me. I was forced to straddle him and his hands went to the hem of my top.

I lifted my arms as he tugged it off and threw it away. Then I put my hands to either side of his head and was going to dip in for another kiss, but I halted when Mickey did the dipping, trailing his lips briefly over the skin above the beige lace over the cranberry silk of my bra then, without warning, he went down and, through the lace and silk, drew my nipple in his mouth, swift and hard.

I arched back, grinding into his crouch.

I was wrong.

Now, it was on.

And it went wild.

He took.

I took.

He bit, licked, sucked, kissed, stroked and groped.

I bit, licked, sucked, kissed, stroked and groped.

He might argue but I had it better since there was so much of him to take in in so many ways and all of it was solid, hot and staggering.

Then I had nothing on but my panties, Mickey had nothing on but his jeans, our mouths were locked, our tongues tangled, our bodies sealed, I had my hand down his fly stroking something rigid and thick and long and promising, when I let out a cry because Mickey broke the kiss and hauled me up.

He settled on his back at the same time he settled me on him.

On him.

Straddling his face.

One hand yanking me down, one hand between his mouth and me shoving aside the gusset of my panties, suddenly his tongue was buried inside.

Oh God.

Yes.

“Mickey,” I breathed.

He said nothing. He was busy eating.

And he ate, licked, sucked, tongue-fucked and took me high, higher, flying, before he drove two fingers inside, sucked deep at my clit and I was soaring, arching, moaning, shuddering and coming.

It was so big, I couldn’t breathe. Whimpering and gasping, he kept sucking and finger-fucking me driving me higher until he stopped, gently pushed me off, tore my panties down my legs, whipped me to my back and covered me.

“Mickey,” I whispered, still feeling it, still up in the clouds.

I also felt him doing something between my legs.

Then he whispered back, “Good?”

Good?

No.

There were no words for how it felt when Mickey sent me flying.

“Yes,” I breathed.

I saw the grin hit his blazing eyes before he warned, “Get ready for more.”

Before I could, he drove inside me.

Oh yes, what I’d been stroking was promising.

Rigid. Thick. Long.

Amazing.

My back curved up and my limbs curled in, cocooning him as he thrust hard, deep, fast.

“Yes,” I whimpered, not having come down, I was again climbing.

“Yeah,” he grunted and then kissed me.

I kissed him back, clutching him to me, gliding my hands over the muscles of his back, over his short-cropped hair, in every way drawing him in deeper, closer, wanting him to soar in the clouds with me.

I knew he was getting there, I could feel it, taste it, then I lost it.

But only for a second when he pulled out, flipped me to my belly, kicked my legs apart with his knee, positioned, yanked me up at my hips and reentered me, slamming me back with his fingers curled at my ribs as he powered inside.

“Yes,” I repeated on a gasp, taking over, pushing back as he thrust forward.

Mickey said nothing intelligible, but the power of his grunts matched the power of his drives, and both pushed me higher.

“Mickey,” I gasped as I again began to soar.

“Padded headboard,” was his reply.

Too far gone, all I could do was keep rearing back and blink.

Then I wasn’t rearing back.

He pulled out, flipped me again, lifted me up and walked on his knees until I crashed into the headboard and Mickey thrust back up inside me.

I looked into his blue eyes and moaned, “Honey.”

“Yeah, Amy,” he grunted, one arm around my waist holding me to him, the other hand slipping over my hip and in.

His thumb hit my clit right when he drove his cock deep.

“Honey,” I breathed and I was gone, arms curled around his shoulders, heels digging into his ass. The power of my orgasm meant I gripped his sex with mine as I clutched the rest of him to me and fought for air. So high it felt there was no oxygen left to breathe as bliss scored through me.

“Fuck, astounding,” he grunted before he groaned, “Amy,” and fucked me wild, his face buried in my neck, as he pushed me higher, making mine last longer, score deeper, and he joined me.

The pounding gentled and slowed before he slid inside and stayed there. He glided his lips up my neck, along my jaw and up where he caught my mouth, sweeping his tongue in, kissing me, this time wet and sweet.

I held him close and kissed him back.

Still needing oxygen, it was me who tore my mouth free and pushed my face in his throat.

Mickey slid his hand from between us, over my belly, around and across my back, tightening his arms and pressing deep, giving me a sexy, sweet hug as he called, “You okay, baby?”

I was.

I absolutely was.

Even though he’d wrecked me.

He gave me a squeeze, prompting, “Amy.”

“I’m good,” I replied faintly.

He heard it. He read it.

He knew he’d wrecked me.

I knew he did when his body started shaking and a low satisfied chuckle vibrated up his chest, but he did this moving back. He held me to him as he shifted in a variety of ways and I would know what he was doing when he slid me off his cock, laid me down in bed and touched his mouth to the base of my throat before he murmured there, “I’ll be back.” He rolled away and twitched the covers he’d yanked from under us over me.

I stared at my ceiling a moment before I turned to my side, languorously stretched, then curled into myself, pulling the covers up to my shoulder.

Mickey came back from my bathroom in nothing but his jeans, his eyes on me.

I kept my eyes on him too, delighted I was not wrong.

That body was hard everywhere.

And utterly fascinating.

I was in the throes of memorizing the definition of his collarbone as he sat on the edge of the bed.

I didn’t move, just shifted my gaze to look up at him.

He grinned at me as he brushed my bangs out of my eyes and slid the hair away from my cheek and over my shoulder.

“Been a while?” he asked gently.

If he hadn’t just wrecked me, I might find this question annoying.

Since he had and the answer was obvious considering I’d gone wild and come two times (maybe three), I just said, “Yeah.”

His grin remained as he bent to me, putting his weight into both forearms on the mattress in front of me and his face close to mine.

“Omelet on the counter, I take it you didn’t have dinner,” he remarked.

“Nope,” I answered.

“You like Chinese?’ he asked.

“Yep,” I answered.

His grinning eyes moved over my face as a breathtaking mix of tenderness and amusement slid into them, something else I gave him even as he was giving it to me.

“I’ll order delivery,” he declared.

“Crab cheese wonton and hot and sour soup,” I ordered instantly. “Surprise me with the meal.”

His gaze stopped wandering, he looked right at me and said, “You do know this means we’ll have to be irresponsible and insensitive to the starving nations of the world by throwing away that omelet. Eggs don’t keep.”

I had enough in me to narrow my eyes. “Don’t piss me off, Mickey.”

He pushed closer and dropped his voice low. “Think doin’ that’s workin’ for me, baby.”

Too sated to rise to the bait, I rolled my eyes.

“We’ll talk while we eat,” he went on after I rolled them back.

I held his gaze and whispered, “Yeah, honey, that’d be good.”

He pushed even closer and kissed me lightly.

Then he moved away and, not moving a muscle, only my eyes, I watched him bend down and snatch up his shirt. I also watched him tug it on as he sauntered out of my bedroom and into the hall.

He even made tugging on a dirty tee look sexy.

I sighed.

Then I snuggled deeper into my bed, thinking that had actually gone quite well.

Mickey was no longer seeing Bridget.

Auspiciously, at this early juncture, he expected exclusivity from me and intended to give the same.

The fact he didn’t text me since the morning of the day before was a simple mistake.

He was insanely phenomenal in bed.

And he liked Chinese.

Yes, that had gone quite well.

So well, naked and alone in my bed while Mickey was off ordering Chinese, I started smiling.

* * * * *

After ordering, Mickey came back to me and told me he was going over to his place to shower and get out of his dusty clothes.

He then sat at the edge of the bed again, but lifted me in his arms this time, kissing me thoroughly before he ended it, kissed my nose, placed me back in bed, got up and walked away.

I was wrecked but I’d just had sex with Mickey. We were going to have dinner together, alone at my house.

And I didn’t care what I was going to do was going to say.

I wasn’t wasting this opportunity.

So the minute I heard the front door close, I threw back the covers and launched myself out of bed.

I put on new undies—ecru, lacy, sexy—and a pair of loose-fitting yoga pants (that Josie disapproved of me buying, looking at them with revulsion and stating she feared yoga pants were heralding the death of fashion). I paired these with a powder pink, light cashmere sweater that had a deep dip in the back that was held together with a thin strap of cashmere across my shoulders.

I arranged my hair in a messy knot at the top back of my head, pulling out tendrils around my ears and neck that I hoped looked both adorable and appealing.

Then I dashed out of my bedroom, got rid of the omelet, did the minimal clean up and ran around lighting candles and lamps so the effect would be cozy and romantic.

I left Pandora on my Billie Holiday station. I wasn’t feeling the blues but Billie Holiday worked for a variety of situations.

I was pulling down plates when Mickey came back.

I watched as he caught my eyes, grinned, then looked around the house and back to me, his grin turning smug.

I didn’t care. He knew I was into him and I wanted him to know that what we’d just shared and spending time with him was important to me.

He could be smug about it. He was gorgeous.

And right then he was all mine.

The delivery guy came, Mickey paid and I brought plates, silverware and napkins down to the sectional while Mickey pulled out food. I also got myself a glass of wine and Mickey a beer (something I started stocking when the possibility of him being over became a probability, something that, until then, I’d never had the chance to offer him).

Mickey was lounged back with an eggroll over a plate and I’d torn the corner of a crab cheese wonton loose and had dipped it in some sweet and sour sauce that was resting on a scrap of the brown paper bag the delivery came in that was sitting on the couch between us.

I held the dripping wedge over my plate, my eyes to it, when I said quietly, “I like spending time with you, Mickey.”

“Got that, Amy.”

At his response, I lifted my gaze to him and put the wonton in my mouth.

As I was chewing, Mickey went on, “Need you to get that I like spending time with you, too, baby.”

I nodded, swallowing.

“We both got busy lives,” he told me. “This isn’t going to be easy. We just gotta work at making it worth it.”

He was right about that.

His tone had changed when he continued, “And I gotta admit that I took it for granted you’d get it without me giving it to you.”

It wasn’t an accusation.

It almost sounded contrite.

But I took it as an accusation. “I understand you’re busy, Mickey. That’s not what I’m saying. And don’t take this as ugly, just me sharing, but even knowing you’re busy, it doesn’t feel good that in all that busy, you don’t have a lot of time for me.”

“Got word out that I’m takin’ private roof jobs.”

I held my forgotten plate with its lone, partially dissected wonton on it in my hand and stared at him.

“Already?” I asked.

His eyes warmed. “You gave me the idea. It was a good idea. I thought on it and when I did, I thought, why wait? Either I’m gonna be able to pull this off or I’m not, but either way, I gotta know sooner rather than later. So I told a few folks, talked to a few of the crew. That rain last week, had two people phone me because they had leaks and they didn’t want Ralph to deal with them. They wanted me.”

I smiled big and said excitedly, “That’s great, Mickey.”

He smiled back, popped the rest of his eggroll in his mouth, chewed, swallowed and told me, “Sent boys to do those jobs and do ’em right and also had a meet with Arnie so I could find out what I had to do legally to establish a company. Started work on that too.”

“Arnie?” I asked, resting the plate in my lap to rip off another wedge of my wonton.

“Arnie Weaver,” he answered. “Attorney in town. Him and his partner the only ones I’ve met that I actually like.”

I hoped that didn’t color his hopefully eventual meeting with Lawr.

I didn’t remark on that.

“So you’re busier than normal,” I noted.

His voice lowered. “No, Amy, I’m usually busy. I’m definitely busier, but I’m always busy. Now we’ve had that out, though, won’t take where you’re at with me and what we’re tryin’ to build for granted.”

The light feeling I was experiencing got lighter and I gave him another smile as I replied, “And in return, I’ll try to be more understanding.”

He smiled back but his was different. His was sexy.

“You could. Or you could get pissed, stick up for yourself, get in my face, be a smartass and earn yourself a couple of orgasms.”

I felt my knees tingle in a way I knew they’d be weak if I was standing instead of sitting cross-legged, facing him on the couch.

I didn’t show this reaction. I shook my head like he was annoying and kept eating my wonton.

“Though,” he kept going, “after my dainty heiress went wild for me, we’ll see about you gettin’ orgasms on a more regular basis.”

I felt a tingle elsewhere at that and the tingle traveled north to my nipples when I caught the look in his eyes that told me how much he wanted to give that to me.

And how much he wanted me to give it back.

I liked that. I wanted more.

It was frightening but I couldn’t deny that, from the moment I saw him, I wanted it all from Mickey.

But in getting, I had to give.

“I appreciate you being so sweet about all this, honey,” I said softly. “But I’ll still try to be more patient and get that you have a lot on your plate.”

“That’d be good, darlin’,” he replied softly. “But I’ll repeat, I get in my head or in my life and I’m not givin’ you what you need, you let me know. We both got hot heads. We get into it, we do.” His lips twitched. “Just as long as we make up.”

I liked the variety of ways Mickey was showing that he could make up, so I shoved more wonton in my mouth and smiled at him with my eyes.

“One thing,” he stated.

I swallowed and asked, “Yeah?”

“I’m not him.”

I stilled and forced my mouth to say, “Mickey.”

“I get he scarred you. I get that might take time to sort your head about. But I’m not him. Told you I’d never do that shit to a woman, and it’s arguable, but with the one I had, I actually had cause to go lookin’. I didn’t. If you need to work that out with your girls, or me, you do it. I’m here. I’m gonna make time for you, for us, because that’s important. I’ll definitely make time for that. Us startin’ out, both of us got a lot going on, I know I’m already askin’ a lot of you. But that’s not gonna stop me from askin’ that. I can’t promise I’m gonna do everything right, and it sucks but you already know that with how we got right here.” He dipped his chin to indicate us eating Chinese on my couch. “But I’d never do that to you and you gotta get that.”

“Okay, Mickey,” I whispered.

“Okay,” he replied. “Now come here and give me a kiss.”

I balanced my plate, avoided sweet and sour sauce, and leaned toward him to give him my kiss. He helped by leaning into me and lifting a hand to cup the back of my head.

It was a quick touch but I liked it very much.

I didn’t move very far away before he stated, “Spendin’ the night, Amy.”

“Okay, Mickey,” I repeated my whisper.

He leaned and touched my mouth again, let me go and settled back.

I settled back too, finished my wonton and reached for the soup.

* * * * *

“Mickey,” I breathed and went flying.

He let me.

Then he kissed me as he kept taking me.

I descended but kept gliding as I felt him move inside me. Listened to his noises. Took him in with fingers and mouth. Moved my hips with his increasing rhythm. And helped coax him there until he slid a hand up my forearm, pushing it up over my head, linking his fingers with mine and pressing our hands into the pillow.

He squeezed hard as he thrust deep and groaned loud.

My heart took flight.

I gave that to Mickey too.

How was it that his weight was on me, his body connected to mine, and it felt like I was floating?

I knew he recovered when his hips stopped spasming between mine, he tweaked my nose with the tip of his then took my mouth in a slow, deep, tender kiss.

He ended it, brushing his lips along my jaw, as he gently slid out of me, rolled off but pulled the covers over me before he got out of bed and sauntered naked to my bathroom.

I watched, my first view of his sculpted behind a vision I enjoyed greatly, before I shifted to sitting on the side of the bed. I reached and grabbed his tee from the floor, tugged it on and straightened off the bed, nabbing my panties.

I had them up and was walking to the bathroom as he was walking out.

Mickey, naked in my bedroom, full-frontal view.

He had a great ass, an amazing back.

But his chest and other attributes were better.

He stopped to bend his neck as I stopped and got on tiptoes. My hand was light to his flat stomach as I touched my mouth to his.

He lifted away and I walked into the bathroom going direct to the drawers in my walk-in closet.

I exchanged Mickey’s tee for a short, satin nightie in a dusky rose with deep edges of delicate oyster lace and thin spaghetti straps that crisscrossed at the back.

I walked out holding Mickey’s tee, turned out the lights of the bathroom and walked into the bedroom.

There I saw Mickey Donovan in my bed, under my duvet, on his side, head in his hand, elbow resting in the pillow, long legs partially visible but totally tangled in my sheets, eyes on me. Eyes now telling me he really liked my nightie.

I took him in.

I had that. I’d had that.

That was all for me.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to jump with joy.

Instead, I dropped his tee and joined him in my bed.

He grabbed hold of me the minute I did, shoving his face in my neck, brushing it with his lips, touching it with his tongue, before his hold got tighter and he rolled this way and that, taking me with him to turn out the lights on both nightstands.

He settled us front to front, covered by my duvet, tangled in each other.

He slid the tip of his nose down the bridge of mine before he whispered, “’Night, Amy.”

“Goodnight, Mickey,” I whispered back.

He lifted up, kissed my forehead and settled in to the bed, doing this tightening his arms around me.

I pressed closer and returned the favor.

I didn’t think I’d do it.

Heck, I didn’t want to do it.

I wanted to lie in the dark in my bed with Mickey Donovan and exalt in the feeling.

I did that.

But I did it quickly falling to sleep.