Once upon a time, I was very good about responding to each and every review, but life has been much busier than usual, and it doesn't take much for a disorganized soul like myself to get behind. So a big, huge THANK YOU for all the reviews. Another big THANK YOU simply for reading along. This story does have a point and a destination, and though it might take me awhile, I promise we will get there eventually.

The song and movie titles do not completely mesh to give an accurate date, but I wanted to imply a general timeline.

Again, thanks so much. I hope you're having as much fun reading as I've had writing.


He was following her, and she was letting him.

What the hell was the matter with her?

She stepped up to the cashier's desk - at least, she assumed there was a desk somewhere underneath all that clutter - and paid for her books. She wondered if either of the men were curious about her choice in reading material. The proprietor carefully tucked the books into a white paper bag and crisply folded down the top; then relinquished them into her care with a nostalgic smile.

She made her way to the entrance of the shop and opened the door before realizing she was alone. She let the door fall back into place and turned to look for the stranger whose absence she could feel as strongly as if it were something tangible.

He must have felt her as well - felt her gaze when it fell on him - because he looked up and flashed her a crooked grin as he held out the money for the sappy romance novel.

"Knew I'd been looking for it the moment I saw it," he said to the owner with a wink. The older man stifled a smile and she narrowed her eyes.

Who did he think he was, anyway? What was he playing at?

This was a terrible idea. A completely ridiculous idea.

He was walking toward her now, arms swinging easily at his sides, the silly novel in one hand after he'd refused a bag for it.

She should run through this door and not look back.

She felt him again, the weight of his presence as he neared her. His eyes twinkled with humor, but there was darkness in them, too.

Who was he?

Run, Della, her head warned. He'll be nothing but trouble.

But he's not only trouble, argued a voice from somewhere deep inside. Her intuition. She took note of the paradox exposed by his eyes, and her feet kept her firmly planted, waiting for him.

Not only trouble, scoffed her head. She knew her common sense had a point, but she appreciated the honesty her intuition offered: this man would cause her trouble, yet there was the promise of something else.

Something more.

He was standing next to her now, his arm reaching behind her to hold the door open for her.

After all, it was only dinner. Maybe even just dessert. In a well-lit diner on a busy street.

She caught a whiff of aftershave, worn down by a stressful day and warmed by the scent of an intensity that throbbed beneath his skin. What little space there was between them tingled with electricity.

He waited patiently for her to start moving, but she stayed still, studying him. He didn't flinch under her stare, seeming rather to welcome it.

"I'm just going for the pie." She said it to the sensible part of herself that was still objecting to this arrangement, but it was he who answered, his eyes now wide and innocent.

"So am I."

-0-

She was aware of the looks. She was used to men gawking openly, as if they had some right to do so, as if she should take their lascivious ogling as some kind of compliment. But now, she was also aware that he attracted stares of his own. From women who could promise as much pleasurable promiscuity with a single glance as any man could. From men who sensed an imposing personality.

She was vaguely aware of the looks from couples. Admiring looks from those who thought she and this stranger were a couple themselves. It wasn't vanity that made her realize they must make a striking pair as she matched his steady stride with her graceful one, but rather caution. She didn't want him getting any ideas.

Too late.

When they stopped to wait their turn to cross at an intersection, he offered his arm to her. Without missing a beat, she tucked her bag of books into the crook of his elbow. He laughed, an infectious sound full of promises and mischief, and despite herself, she felt a tug at the corners of her mouth.

As he had assured her, the diner was not far. It was full of people as well as light, and they found a booth around the side and near the back. She slid onto the bench that faced the entrance, allowing her a clear view of the front of the restaurant. It smelled of coffee and cigarettes and food sizzling in well-seasoned grease. There was a jukebox behind her, playing an old, mellow Perry Como hit that was out of place in the lively, bustling atmosphere.

From out of nowhere, a waitress materialized, her demeanor relaxed and unhurried even as she was immediately placing napkins and silverware on the table and addressing the man seated across from her.

"Fancy meeting you here," she drawled. "And with a date," she added, raising her eyebrows pointedly while she drew a pencil from behind her ear and a notepad from her apron pocket.

He was quick to assure the waitress that she was not his date, that they were here to eat pie and drink coffee and discuss the writings of Oliver Wendell Holmes. The waitress looked about as convinced as if he'd said they'd seen a spaceship with little green aliens hovering over the boulevard on their way over. He pulled out the book as proof, but grinned sheepishly when he accidentally presented the ridiculous romance to the skeptical server. He quickly swapped it out with the works of the contemplative jurist. She turned to Della, giving her a brief once over.

"Mm-hmm."

Della wasn't concerned that she'd been taken for his date, or that the reaction from the waitress implied he was interested less in her mind and more in her looks. She was too busy being intrigued by the idea that he came here often enough to be recognized, and that he came here alone. She had not been wrong about the attention he had garnered on their short walk. Hell, she was sitting here with him after meeting him in a store fifteen minutes ago. She couldn't believe he was incapable of finding company. Did he not have time for socializing? Or did he simply take his significant others to different, more formal venues?

Caught up in her scrutiny, she nearly missed that he was giving her a questioning look. She pounced on the tidbits of conversation that had floated in one ear and were about to leave through the other, reviewed them, and nodded her head in agreement.

"So that's two coffees and two apple pies for the scholars." The waitress addressed Della now, apparently already knowing her other customer's preferences. "Sugar? Milk?"

She shook her head.

With one more glance that said, "Book discussion, my ass," the waitress was gone.

"Come here often?" she asked.

"Only when I'm in the mood for a good meal served with a side of sarcasm."

Impossibly, the waitress was already back with two mugs that she filled with piping hot coffee almost the instant she set them down. Another few moments, and they had two huge slices of pie on the table in between them.

"She's fast."

"And generous with the baked goods."

"Well…?"

"Well…?" he echoed.

"I suppose there are the usual questions."

"Such as, 'What did you think of the book?' 'Did you prefer his poetry or his prose?' That sort of thing?" He watched her arch an eyebrow, then pretended to switch gears. "Oh, you mean, 'What do you do for a living?' 'What's your favorite color?'"

"'What's your sign?' 'How's the weather?'"

"'Do you have a good relationship with your mother?'" he ticked off tediously.

"'What's your name?'" she droned.

He nodded. "The usual, for sure. But also boring. Let's ask different questions."

"I'll let you start, just so I know what sort of questions you have in mind."

"Alright. Is this not the best pie you've ever had?"

She laughed. "I have to admit, this is a pretty good apple pie."

"Mountains, ocean, or desert?"

There was something about the way he said desert, as if he'd reserved the best for last, that made her certain of his answer should she ask the same question. She set down her fork and traced the rim of her coffee cup thoughtfully. He watched her fingers trailing the circumference of the mug as though there were no more fascinating sight in all this world. Her stomach fluttered a little. Luckily, she was fairly adept at concealing things like stomach flutters, even from herself when necessary.

"Depends on my mood. But a safe bet would be ocean."

She supposed it was her turn. She wanted to ask his age - she was pretty good at estimating ages, but he was older than she was and she wanted to know how much older. However, that was definitely a usual question.

"Dancer or wallflower?"

He smiled and pulled his eyes away from her fingers. "Dancer. Classical, jazz, or this crazy rock and roll everyone's so into now?"

"Anything you can put words to. Not that you have to put words to it. I just like something with a melody. Do you take vacations?"

"Yes. I have to get away every so often, even though I rarely have the time to do so. But it never fails: after a few days, I'm ready to jump back into the noisy, obnoxious fray. Do you have roommates, or do you live alone?"

It was a warning flag kind of question, and she automatically became a bit more guarded when she answered. "Alone. But in a well-lit building off a busy street, with lots of nosy neighbors."

He chuckled, realizing he had chosen a question that could be taken wrong. "Good girl," he said.

The chiseled features of his face softened as he smiled. She felt approval of her independence, but also protectiveness, a combination that was remarkably alluring. She cast about for another question, eager to pretend she wasn't being completely drawn into him.

"What was the last movie you saw?"

"Strangers on a Train. You?"

"The Quiet Man. It's been awhile for you."

"Things have been a little hectic lately."

"Tell me a secret."

Tell me a secret? Where had that come from? Her common sense hung its head in disgusted defeat.

He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in. She leaned in, too. The electric crackle became stronger, and she suppressed a shudder. He whispered conspiratorially, "I had apple pie for dinner last night, too."

She smiled widely. His eyes dropped down to her mouth before wandering back up to meet hers. "I had strawberry pie for dinner last week."

"We were meant to meet each other." The words were delivered lightly, but tossed into the charged air, they took on a tantalizing glow.

"How's that book discussion coming along?"

They both sat back, a little dazed to discover the waitress topping off their coffee.

"Swimmingly," he replied jauntily.

"Yeah, I'll bet." She retreated, and Della's attention went with her. Abruptly, she was reminded they weren't the only two people there, although the crowd was beginning to thin. Patsy Cline's musical lament wafting from the jukebox still didn't fit the mood.

"Want one?"

Della turned and saw a proffered cigarette. "Thank you."

He placed it in his mouth to light it, then passed it over to her before lighting his own. She saw him drag deeply and knew the tension in him had loosened somewhat. Probably as much as it ever did.

"What are you thinking?" he asked simply.

She shook her head. "Not much of anything. This and that."

"That doesn't happen often to me."

"I believe you. What about now?"

He slid down in his seat a little so that his head could rest back against the vinyl cushion of the booth. She felt a whisper of contact between his trousers and her stockings as his legs stretched toward her side. He didn't seem to notice. She was having trouble convincing herself that the stomach flutters were the result of sugar, caffeine, and pre-interview jitters. "Lots of things," he said. "But most of them aren't complete thoughts."

It was his turn, but he didn't ask anything and she didn't press. She was finally relaxing, too. It had been a long day already and it was far from over. Tomorrow was important and she had a lot to do to prepare for it. For now, she was content to share a cigarette with this man she didn't know, but felt she did; who she suspected was calmer with her than he had been in awhile. Though her feelings were all mixed up, she merely let them come and go without trying to analyze them.

Something maternal made her want to sit next to him, to scoot close and put her arm around him so to welcome his weary head onto her shoulder.

Something plutonic wanted only to sit steeped in this companionable silence while the other customers moved out into the world and the people who worked here began their nightly routine to clean up and restore order and get ready for the morning, which would come early and fast.

Something else was there, too. Something rare and reckless that made her want to run away with him, to see life as it existed through his eyes, to drive all night through the desert or along the coast, to unravel the mystery of him and explore all his paradoxes. To remind him that she lived alone, and ask him if he wanted to -

"If one more slow song comes on that jukebox, I'm either going to fall asleep or kick it to pieces." In an instant, he was on his feet and digging into his pockets for change. It didn't take long before she heard Frank Sinatra singing "Fly Me to the Moon."

He came back for her, holding out his hand. "Come on, it's a foxtrot."

"There's no dance floor," she protested, even though her mind was already made up. Every other possibility had melted away for the time being, and she wanted nothing more than to feel what it was like to dance with him.

He shrugged. "There's music, there's room. Kind of. C'mon."

He didn't have to ask again. It turned out that he danced the foxtrot divinely, that touching him made the sparks between them almost visible, that they fit perfectly against each other.

That the amused looks from the other diners and the mildly irritated sighs from the wait staff who had to skirt their makeshift dance floor with arms full of heavily laden trays - all of it bounced unacknowledged off the shiny exterior of their little bubble.

And that the waitress was right. There was no book discussion. In fact, when they left - five dances, another cigarette, and one more coffee refill later - she had to holler after them because they had forgotten their books in the booth.

to be continued...