reprimands for my slip at the Smokehouse. Nor when he’d called yesterday morning, after the fire.
I had a sudden nasty thought. Maybe that’s why Mitch hadn’t kept me posted on the unfolding developments as promised. He couldn’t trust me not to blab ’em. Or maybe it was more a case of out of sight, out of mind. I didn’t particularly care for either alternative.
I thought about calling him and asking what gives, but decided to wait another day or two. I was glad I had when he showed up at my apartment the next evening.
I was once again wearing my favorite gray drawstring shorts but had donned a slightly more reputable red tank top. An Eiffel Tower picked out in sequins was splashed across my breasts, compliments of my previous place of employment.
When I peered through the peephole, it took me a few seconds to recognize the distorted apparition on the other side of the door. His cheeks and chin were stubbled, his eyes bleary. Nary a trace of a green uniform showed at his neck or shoulders.
He must have noticed my eyeball blocking the light from the inside. Scraping a hand over his chin, he ID’ed himself. “It’s Mitch, Samantha.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered as I slid back the safety chain.
I don’t usually hook the chain. It’s not exactly industrial strength and probably wouldn’t keep out a determined ten-year-old. Besides, as I think I’ve mentioned, I live in a friendly apartment complex. Especially on Friday and Saturday nights.
Last night was no exception. But I’d ignored the splashes and other sounds of revelry outside my sliding glass doors and kept my nose to the grindstone. I’d spent hours double-checking inventory numbers and polishing my report. Seeing those long columns of numbers and realizing how much valuable test instrumentation we’d lost to an arsonist really pissed me off. It had also made me just a tad nervous to think someone had deliberately set out to destroy our lab. Thus the peephole and chain.
All thoughts of arson and inventory numbers dissipated the moment I opened the door to Agent Mitchell. Even scruffy and bleary-eyed, the man got to me. Pure reflex had me chanting my personal mantra. The one designed to prevent my hormones from sabotaging my brain.
“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.”
I didn’t realize I’d muttered my chant aloud until Mitch leaned a tanned forearm against the doorjamb, a quizzical expression in his gold-green eyes.
“Charlie Who?”
“Charlie Spade. My jerk of an ex. I invoke his name whenever . . . Uh . . .”
I floundered around for an explanation that wouldn’t make me sound like a total nympho.
“Whenever men who promise to call me and keep me apprised of unfolding events, don’t.”
“Sorry ’bout that. Everything happened so fast I didn’t have time to call. That’s why I’m here. To apologize.”
“Oh. Okay. Apology accepted.”
I started to ask how he’d tracked me down at home but realized just in time what an asinine question that was. Law enforcement types had access to all sorts of databases unavailable to lesser mortals.
That thought led instantly to another. Did I pay my last speeding ticket? Or the one before that? I must have. Mitch didn’t look as though he was ready to slap on a pair of cuffs and haul me down to traffic court.
Although . . . I wouldn’t have minded the cuffs part. Especially when a smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t one of his full-out grins, but it came close enough to generate some extremely salacious thoughts.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
As I indicated before, my place is cozy but small. The addition of a broad-shouldered male shrank it to minuscule proportions. He took a moment to look around. I took the same moment to look at him.
I couldn’t fail to note the aforementioned shoulders were encased in a faded navy blue T-shirt that also show-cased a very nice set of pecs. The muscular thighs hugged by his well-washed jeans
I had a sudden nasty thought. Maybe that’s why Mitch hadn’t kept me posted on the unfolding developments as promised. He couldn’t trust me not to blab ’em. Or maybe it was more a case of out of sight, out of mind. I didn’t particularly care for either alternative.
I thought about calling him and asking what gives, but decided to wait another day or two. I was glad I had when he showed up at my apartment the next evening.
I was once again wearing my favorite gray drawstring shorts but had donned a slightly more reputable red tank top. An Eiffel Tower picked out in sequins was splashed across my breasts, compliments of my previous place of employment.
When I peered through the peephole, it took me a few seconds to recognize the distorted apparition on the other side of the door. His cheeks and chin were stubbled, his eyes bleary. Nary a trace of a green uniform showed at his neck or shoulders.
He must have noticed my eyeball blocking the light from the inside. Scraping a hand over his chin, he ID’ed himself. “It’s Mitch, Samantha.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered as I slid back the safety chain.
I don’t usually hook the chain. It’s not exactly industrial strength and probably wouldn’t keep out a determined ten-year-old. Besides, as I think I’ve mentioned, I live in a friendly apartment complex. Especially on Friday and Saturday nights.
Last night was no exception. But I’d ignored the splashes and other sounds of revelry outside my sliding glass doors and kept my nose to the grindstone. I’d spent hours double-checking inventory numbers and polishing my report. Seeing those long columns of numbers and realizing how much valuable test instrumentation we’d lost to an arsonist really pissed me off. It had also made me just a tad nervous to think someone had deliberately set out to destroy our lab. Thus the peephole and chain.
All thoughts of arson and inventory numbers dissipated the moment I opened the door to Agent Mitchell. Even scruffy and bleary-eyed, the man got to me. Pure reflex had me chanting my personal mantra. The one designed to prevent my hormones from sabotaging my brain.
“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.”
I didn’t realize I’d muttered my chant aloud until Mitch leaned a tanned forearm against the doorjamb, a quizzical expression in his gold-green eyes.
“Charlie Who?”
“Charlie Spade. My jerk of an ex. I invoke his name whenever . . . Uh . . .”
I floundered around for an explanation that wouldn’t make me sound like a total nympho.
“Whenever men who promise to call me and keep me apprised of unfolding events, don’t.”
“Sorry ’bout that. Everything happened so fast I didn’t have time to call. That’s why I’m here. To apologize.”
“Oh. Okay. Apology accepted.”
I started to ask how he’d tracked me down at home but realized just in time what an asinine question that was. Law enforcement types had access to all sorts of databases unavailable to lesser mortals.
That thought led instantly to another. Did I pay my last speeding ticket? Or the one before that? I must have. Mitch didn’t look as though he was ready to slap on a pair of cuffs and haul me down to traffic court.
Although . . . I wouldn’t have minded the cuffs part. Especially when a smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t one of his full-out grins, but it came close enough to generate some extremely salacious thoughts.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
As I indicated before, my place is cozy but small. The addition of a broad-shouldered male shrank it to minuscule proportions. He took a moment to look around. I took the same moment to look at him.
I couldn’t fail to note the aforementioned shoulders were encased in a faded navy blue T-shirt that also show-cased a very nice set of pecs. The muscular thighs hugged by his well-washed jeans
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