She wakes up hours later and rolls over to look at her clock-it's noon, and she sits up in surprise. She's rarely slept so late in recent years, but, to be fair, she had had a busy night. She yawns and stretches languidly; she can still smell him, and she wants him here.

She shakes her head and climbs out of her bed, stripping the bed and setting the sheets aside. She'll send out her laundry this morning; she will also go to the Met, pick up some groceries, and perhaps get a manicure. She will not-emphatically not-sit around her apartment waiting for his call.

But it's hard to concentrate. Even the soothing pastel tones of the Impressionist wing at the Met do not capture, let alone keep her attention.

'You're being utterly ridiculous, Liz,' she tells herself as she walks out of the museum. 'This is Logan-Mike Logan! Your former patient, a man more comfortable drinking a beer in a dive bar than a cocktail anywhere. Someone with whom you have nothing in common-why are you making a fool of yourself?'

When she gets home carrying bags of groceries the light on her answering machine is indeed flashing. She forces herself to unpack the groceries, wash her hands, and change into more comfortable clothes before she listens to her messages.

Message left at 4:34 P.M.

'Hi, Liz, it's Jim Kittredge. I was wondering if you were free sometime this week for dinner? It was great to see you this week and I'd love to continue catching up. You can call me back at 555-6184.'

Beep.

Message left at 6:12 P.M.

'Hey, it's me. Interviews are taking ages and also we'll need you tomorrow to come back in and interview the suspect again. Is that okay? I'll leave a message at your office too. Wanna meet me at Phil Hughes later? Call me back at the precinct.'

End of messages.

She feels her heart race and she takes her time, walking over to the fridge to pour herself a glass of ice water. Will she call him back? She knows she will… she finds her address book and dials his number at the precinct.

'Mike Logan.'

'It's Liz.'

She can hear the smile in his voice as he responds. 'Well, hello there. Didya get my message?'

'I did, yes. What time do you need me to come in tomorrow?'

'First thing, if you can-but let's talk about that over dinner, hmm? Can you meet me?'

'Yes.'

'Great. I can't wait to see you-I've been thinkin' about you all day. Meet me in an hour?'

'All right. I'll see you then.'

She hangs up the phone, but not before she hears Phil Cerreta say 'well, Mikey, I've rarely seen you so infatuated by anyone…' She smiles.

Throwing open her closet, she looks at the dresses hanging up in orderly lines. She's been to Phil Hughes before, in college, and wearing either of her standard uniforms-Rowayton or the city-would make her stand out like a sore thumb. She eventually decides on a simple light green shift, cardigan, and flat sandals. Running a brush through her hair, she takes a deep breath, collects her purse, and then goes downstairs to hail a cab.

He's waiting for her at the bar, a beer and a G&T in front of him. She slides into the seat next to him and smiles at him.

He leans over and kisses her deeply, surprising her though she responds immediately, without thought. When he breaks the kiss, he rests his hand possessively on her knee.

'Got you a G&T,' he says, sliding the drink in front of her. She accepts it and raises it to her lips with relief after the hot evening outside.

'How were the interviews?' she asks.

He lets out a sigh, then takes a deep swig of his beer. 'God, it was difficult. So many lying witnesses, it was exhausting. We'll need to go back to the source-that's why we need you to come in tomorrow, if you can, first thing. I'll drive you in,' he grins wickedly. 'No need to bother with the subway.'

'Hmm, well, if you put it like that,' she says, feeling her body start to hum again. She shifts in her seat and she takes another drink of her cocktail.

His hand slides up her knee to her upper thigh and his thumb rubs small circles there.

'Mike-'

'Yes?' he asks, looking at her. 'Are you hungry, Liz? We could grab some food.'

'Sure,' she says.

'Wanna eat at the bar, grab a table, or go somewhere else?'

'The bar is fine,' she says, knowing he feels more comfortable here and wanting to get this meal over with. She wants him back in her bed… she's never felt like this before, never so driven by desire. But then again she has never had so satisfying a partner.

'Great. Then, maybe, d'you want to come back to my place?' He is endearingly diffident, looking at her through his lashes. She looks away from him, heart fluttering.

'All right. Should we order?'

He squeezes her knee as he gestures for menus.

'How was your day? What'd you do?'

She takes a sip of her drink. 'Nothing much. Laundry, grocery shopping, went to the Met. I hadn't been all summer.'

'I've only been once.'

'Once?' she splutters on her drink. 'Only once?'

He shrugs unconcerned. 'Fifth-grade field trip for art class. Always liked the Natural History Museum, though.'

She doesn't know what to say. The Met has been her favorite place for years and she has no idea who she would be without museums, culture, art in her life.

'Does that surprise you?' he asks.

She lifts one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug, looking down into her glass. She is saved from a response when the bartender slides their food in front of them and she takes a large bite of her club sandwich.

'So, d'you like the Mets or the Yankees?' he asks, changing the subject.

'The Yankees-you?'

'Thank God!' he says with relief, then launches into a long monologue about the chances of the Yankees against the Red Sox. She eats, listening to him abstractedly, for she is not that interested in sports.

'You look bored,' he says.

She laughs. 'Well, I'm not that interested in sports. I mean, I will root for the home team, but...'

'I bet I could change your mind. How about we go to a game this week?'

'Mike Logan-are you asking me out on a date?' she asks, astonished.

'So what if I am?'

She feels off-kilter. He's not supposed to do that, is he? Not supposed to ask her out… she likes what they have now, doesn't know that she wants to change anything, spend time with him like this. But she absolutely, emphatically wants him in her bed.

'All right,' she agrees. 'When's the next game?'

'Thursday afternoon, 5 P.M. I have the afternoon off… Can you make it?'

'Let me check tomorrow, but I should be free.'

'Great,' he grins. 'Now, are you ready to go? I'm dying to get you into bed, Liz, especially after this morning…'

She blushes, ducking her head. She's not used to men like this, men who are so upfront about what they want. She always thought this was crass-she wants poetry, but with Mike- 'You're insatiable.'

He slips his fingers under her chin and she looks into his eyes. 'Can you blame me?' he asks, smiling at her. 'Let's go.'

They walk out of the bar and down the street. He lives a few blocks away on 87th and 3rd in a fairly decent building-no doorman, but it is clean and there is a nice lobby. They take the tiny elevator up to the third floor.

'It's not as nice as yours, of course, but it's home,' he says, opening up the door. He's right-the apartment is a typical bachelor pad, but it is relatively clean. There's a bag of clean laundry on his sofa, jackets draped across the chairs at his table, and the kitchen has a few bottles of whiskey on the counter. There's a record player and quite a nice stereo player next to the television and VCR, piles of tapes in the TV console, and a guitar in the corner. There isn't much hanging on the wall-a poster of Yankee Stadium, a bulletin board filled with snapshots-a complete contrast to her well-decorated apartment.

'D'you want something to drink?' he asks.

She sets down her handbag on the table, then shrugs out of her cardigan.

'No,' she says.

He steps over to her, resting his hands on her waist. 'D'you want to go to bed?'

Yes please! she wants to yell, wants to wrap her arms around his neck and cast herself into his embrace, run her hands down his chest, wants him inside her…

'You with me, Lizzie?' he asks, his voice low. He raises his hand and brushes back a curl from her face, then twirls it around his finger. He lowers his head to kiss her jaw and she shivers. God, how can he do this to her? How can he so consistently make her melt…?

'Yes,' she says. 'Let's go to bed.'

Every time he grins it weakens her knees. Does he know what he does to her?

He leads the way down the hallway to his bedroom. She is surprised that his bed is made-that's not something she expected from him.

He takes her in his arms and unzips her dress. 'Can I hang this up for you?'

She nods, watching as he opens his closet and reveals a few suits, shirts, and a rack of primarily plaid ties. She kicks off her sandals and sits on the bed in her underwear, watching him, trying and failing to bite back a chuckle. It's a lost battle when he yanks down the comforter.

'There's so much plaid!' she laughs, noticing now his plaid sheets. 'Dear Lord, Mike, it's practically your leitmotif at this point.'

'Yeah, I guess that your refrain of "so much plaid!" could be set to music,' he says.

She raises an eyebrow.

'What can I say? I love music,' he says, and she can hear a hint of defensiveness in his tone. God, how different they are! How can they ever have anything if she is constantly surprised by knowledge she suspects he doesn't have, the gulf in their lives, the way it began…

She watches him undress, his movements jerky. She's hurt him, hasn't she? How could she…? but she has.

'Will you come to bed?' she asks him, deflecting their attention from a contentious subject.

'In a minute,' he says, then walks out of the room.

She lies back on the bed and looks up at the ceiling, listening to him move in the other room. This is not what she wanted-the stress of a relationship, tiptoeing around hurting each other. It's hard…

When he comes back in she stands up to meet him, wrapping her arms around him. His embrace is oddly impersonal and she pulls back.

'Mike-'

'You know what? I'm a bit tired,' he says.

She's flabbergasted. 'Oh.'

'Yeah, you know, it's been a long day.'

She feels humiliated. She knows it's a coping mechanism-he shuts down every time someone gets too close, unwilling to be vulnerable. He was her patient after all… but how can she go about fixing this? She has this knowledge, she knows the why, but she has no idea what to do next. Well no, that's not quite true. She could show her own vulnerability, her fear that he will reject her because she's not good enough in bed for him or attractive enough to keep his attention. She could just tell him how very much he is wanted. After the physical and emotional abuse he suffered at the hands of his mother, surely his philandering makes sense. He looks for someone wherever he goes, someone who will want him, someone he can let down instead of the other way around. But she's different. He chases women who are less intelligent than him, women who could never challenge him. But she does, doesn't she? And the fact that she cares-not because he was her patient, not because she finds him so satisfying in bed-surely means that she cares because she cares about him. Those telltale signs-the fluttering heart, the weak knees-well, she knows what they mean, even if she doesn't want to admit it to herself. And Mike-he cares and it's so painfully obvious it nearly breaks her heart.

She sits back down on the bed and looks up at him. 'I want you so much,' she tells him. 'God, Mike, the thought of you-I had to force myself to stay out of my apartment all day. I didn't want you to know that I was simply waiting for you to call me back… I wanted you to stay this morning. That's what I wanted-all I wanted.' She reaches out and takes his hand in hers, drawing it to her chest so that he can feel the quick beating of her heart. 'Can you feel that?' she asks. 'Put me near you and my pulse does its best to win the Kentucky Derby. If you are in any doubt-'

He cuts her off with a kiss, bearing her back onto the bed.

Later, when he is lying next to her, she finally allows herself to trace the strong lines of his face with gentle fingers. She smooths the strong eyebrows, feels the traces of stubble on his cheek, runs her finger down the defined bridge of his nose, the surprisingly soft lips. She will sleep wrapped in his arms forever, if she could.

'Mm, Lizzie, you know you're gorgeous, don't you? You know that I want you…' he murmurs, trailing lazy kisses along her collarbone.

She closes her eyes and lets herself drift off to sleep with endearments ringing in her ears.

They drive to work together, as promised, though she insists he drops her off a block from the building. She doesn't want them to be seen together, not when they have no idea what's going on. She greets Phil and goes with him to make coffee while they wait for Mike to arrive.

Phil gives her a synopsis of their interviews and she gains a much fuller picture of their activities. Mike, if anything, has downplayed their difficulties.

'Hiya, Phil,' Mike says, waltzing into the break room. He's practically walking on air and she looks away as he walks up to them. 'Mornin', Doc.'

'Good morning, Detective,' she says crisply.

'Ready for our busy morning?'

'As ready as I'll ever be,' she says, taking a sip of her coffee. 'Let's start.'

She doesn't see Mike when she exits the interrogation room after wrapping up the second, far more satisfying interview. She spends a half hour writing up her notes and making a copy to leave with Phil Cerreta before she heads downtown to her office via taxi. She'd hoped that Mike would be there and would offer her a ride, at least to her apartment, but that was a hope in vain.

Julie is waiting for her in her office, and she spends two hours helping Julie come to terms with her loss, adjust herself to relying on her own judgement and defences in her everyday life. When Julie leaves, she checks her messages. There is nothing from Mike-no, she didn't expect a message, but she had hoped-she calls into her home answering service and listens to Jim Kittredge's message again. This time she dials his number.

'Hi, Jim? It's Liz Olivet.'

'Liz! So good to hear from you, thanks for returning my call. As I said, I'd love to get together sometime this week. Are you free?'

'Sure,' she replies, touched by his eagerness. 'Maybe Wednesday?'

'I can't do Wednesday-I'm on call, unfortunately. How about Friday?'

'Friday is fine.'

'Perfect. Can I pick you up at your place around 7 for dinner?'

She nods, then realizes he wouldn't be able to see her. 'Yes, that's fine.'

'Great. I'll see you then.'

She feels a vague sense of guilt and betrayal as she settles back into the afternoon of seeing patients and catching up on the past two weeks.

Mike picks her up at her office in midtown on Thursday at three-thirty in afternoon for the game. She's changed into jeans and a polo shirt and stuffs a Yankees cap in her purse. She hasn't seen him since Monday, nor have they talked-he'd called and left a message on her machine telling her he'd pick her up on Thursday.

'Hi,' he greets her, turning around to check he can pull out of his parking spot safely. She feels a bit dismayed that he doesn't greet her with a kiss, but as they start driving he rests his hand on her knee. When they park, he turns to her and smiles. 'You look good.'

'You too,' she says, appreciative of his tight t-shirt and the way he looks in his jeans. He slips his hand in the back pocket of her jeans possessively as they walk into the stadium. She smiles, leaning against him as they find their seats in the stands.

'D'you want a beer?' he asks.

'Yes, but I'll get it,' she offers with a laugh. 'The game's about to start and you're certainly more interested.'

He kisses her absentmindedly as the first pitch is thrown, and she slips through the cheering fans to find some beer. About half an hour later, she carefully balances their beers and some popcorn as she makes her way back through the crowd. When she returns to their seats, he isn't there, so she settles down and takes a sip of her beer. She watches the game with absorbed abstraction, though her eyes wander as the game progresses. Suddenly she catches sight of him by the stairs, his arm slung around another woman. She looks and sees him kiss the woman, then he walks back towards her nonchalantly.

She goes hot and cold all over, appalled and betrayed. Well, is she betrayed? They haven't agreed on anything between them-what do they have?

'Sorry, nature called. What'd I miss?'

She hands him his beer without a word, eyes fixed on the game. What is she to say? 'I just got back myself,' she tells him. He settles his arm around her shoulders and she flinches visibly.

'You okay?' he asks, and she sees him look at her from the corner of her eye. She refuses still to look at him.

'It's just hot,' she says, finally forcing herself to look at him. 'I think I'm getting sunburned.'

He laughs and runs his hand down her arm. 'Yeah, you look a bit pink. Well, the game is going pretty quick, so you shouldn't get too burned, I hope.'

'Hmm, yes,' she says, taking a swig of her beer. She watches the game without really caring and her brain whirrs as she thinks about the man beside her.

She may have been right after all. She knew he was a philanderer, emotionally unavailable, but she thought-well, she thought that what they had was good. But it has only been a week. They haven't talked about their relationship, whatever it is, and she has to acknowledge that she hasn't asked him for anything. She shouldn't feel like this… especially as she has a date tomorrow night with another man. But she also didn't kiss anyone else on a date with him, and that hurts.

The game ends with a Yankees victory and he is particularly amorous as they walk out of the stadium. As soon as they get to the car, he leans over and kisses her deeply.

'Your place or mine?' he asks, and she hates his presumption, hates that he assumes he can kiss one woman and expect to go home with another… but then he slips one hand up her shirt and she says 'mine,' breathily.

'Let's go, then,' he says, and breaks quite a few speeding laws as they drive back to her apartment.

He follows her up to her apartment and she is angry again, her desire cooled in the long drive back to her apartment. But then he says 'you look so sexy in those jeans,' and she turns to face him. He starts unbuttoning her jeans and she helps him, pulling off her shirt. He kicks off his own jeans and pushes her back against the wall.

'Mike,' she says softly, eyes closed.

'Mm, what?' he asks, occupied in trailing kisses down her neck. She doesn't know if he's thinking of her. He unfastens her bra, kisses her breasts, and she twines her fingers in his hair.

'Lizzie, you are amazing,' he says, his words vibrating against the flat planes of her stomach. He leans back on his heels and looks up at her. 'So beautiful, so clever,' he continues, turning his attention back to her body.

She brushes his hair back from his eyes. 'Can we go to the bedroom?' she asks quietly.

'If you want,' he says, kissing his way back up her body. She leads him into her bedroom and wraps her arms around him again, trying her best to blot out the image of him kissing that other woman.

'So what are you doing tomorrow? Wanna have dinner?' he asks, stroking her hair.

She shifts uncomfortably. 'I'm busy. What about Saturday?'

'I'm on duty on Saturday. D'you have a late appointment or something on Friday? Maybe we could meet up after.'

'No, I have a date,' she says.

He stops stroking her hair abruptly. 'Oh.'

'Yes.'

'Well, maybe I should go, then,' he says, making to move out of her bed.

'You don't have to go,' she says.

'I'm sure your boyfriend wouldn't like it if you woke up in bed with someone else.'

'He's not my boyfriend.'

'Whatever, Liz,' he says. Rolling out of bed, he starts getting dressed.

'It doesn't matter, Mike. It's not like we're exclusive,' she says, struggling to remain calm.

'Who?' he asks, turning to look at her. 'You and him?'

'Yes. I haven't even been out on a date with him yet, so he's certainly not my boyfriend, let alone exclusive. And you and I-well, we also aren't exclusive.'

'Right,' he says tightly, and she feels as though she's disappointed him somehow. 'You're right.' He then turns back around and shrugs to himself. He resumes getting dressed and she watches him.

'I'll see you at the precinct,' he says, and she nods, watching as he walks out of her room. She closes her eyes when her apartment door slams shut and she blinks back unexpected tears.