We're both at work in the layout room. I'm processing a pile of stuff from the scene as I try to figure out my next move. What am I supposed to say, "Mac, I have the hots for you"? That would get his attention, if I said that clear out of the blue.
Or how about, "This is it, Mac. No more pussy-footing around. You, me, my place, seven o'clock." I try to hide my grin at the thought. I'm gutsy, but not stupid.
"Did you see that reporter at the scene this morning?" he asks, breaking the silence.
"Yeah, what was up with her?" She had been a piece of work, to say the least.
"I hate to think what this is going to look like on the news tonight," he grins ruefully.
"Come over and watch it with me." Now that was lame. Asking him over to watch the news? But it must seem non-threatening, because he agrees.
"Okay."
"I'll get pizza," I offer.
He smiles. "It's a deal."
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I stop at Mac's favorite place for pizza and breadsticks, go home, and set out plates and napkins before he comes. He looks tired, I notice as he comes in. As usual, he's been working too hard. I want to hug him.
Go for what you want, I remind myself sternly, and I wrap my arms around him. I expect him to give me an awkward sort of half-hug and pull away, but instead he hugs me right back, holding me to him securely. I set my head down on his shoulder and lean against him. This is something else I dream about: coming home to the hard clasp of his arms, his gentle, reassuring presence soothing the tensions of the day.
"Are you all right?" he asks, sounding a little bewildered.
I squeeze him. "I'm better now," I answer.
He gives a startled, embarrassed gasp of laughter, and I think, Poor guy, it always has scared him to be flirted with.
Our pizza will be getting cold. I reluctantly pull away, and take his hand and lead him to the table. "Come on. I want to talk to you."
We sit down and help ourselves, and our eyes meet over our pizza slices.I wonder, Could I have chosen a less romantic food for this conversation? I take a deep breath and plunge in. "Do you know why I started seeing Frankie?"
Mac is silent, his eyes encouraging me to go on. "I was lonely," I continue. "I read once that people need someone to love as much as they need to be loved. That's what I was looking for, someone I could love who would love me back."
He nods, his gaze still on my face. I take a moment to chew, because this is the hard part. But I'm not backing down. Go for what you want. It's become my mantra.
"Even if it hadn't turned out like it did, I wouldn't have been happy. Because he was just a substitute for what I really wanted."
"What was that?" he asks gently.
"You."
He's frozen in place, pizza halfway to his mouth, staring at me. I'm guessing he wasn't expecting that. I rush on. "I want us to be together, Mac. So I decided I should find out if it's what you want too. But if it's not, I'll shut up about it forever, I promise."
My heart is pounding after this little speech. There's a pause, and I can hear the clock ticking. Then he says, "And if it is?"
I'm speechless. We just sit there for a long moment, grinning at each other foolishly. Then the clock chimes, and I murmur, "The news is coming on."
For some reason, we both laugh at that. We go to the couch and he sits down in the corner while I find the remote, and motions for me to sit next to him. I tuck my legs up and settle into the curve of his shoulder as his arm tightens around me, his cheek against my hair. We watch the story, and then all the rest of the newscast, because I don't want to move.
When it ends, I switch off the TV. He pulls me across his lap, my back against the arm of the couch, and reaches up to trace my face with his fingertips. "I dream about this," he says shyly.
"Watching the news?"
He grins. "Having you with me at the end of the day."
"Funny, I dream the same thing."
He pulls me closer and strokes my hair. I was right—he couldn't leave it alone for long. "So what do we do now?" I ask.
He considers. "Let's take it slow. It's a big step."
I agree. Frankie and I moved way too fast. If I had taken the time, I might have realized what he was before it was too late. Not that I have to worry about that with Mac, but I don't want to scare him off.
So we spend the rest of the evening snuggling on the couch, kissing a little, talking about work. This is the way our conversation will always be, I think, because our lives are all about our jobs. And I don't care. Couples need to talk about what's important to them.
And I'm discovering other things, too. That he likes to cuddle, and that it is possible for him to relax. That he's absolutely fascinated by my hair. And that when he lifts my hand and kisses the inside of my wrist, it raises goosebumps all over me.
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It's late, and we both have to be in early in the morning. I walk him to the door and unlock it for him, and then turn to face him, thinking how cute he is, with drowsy eyes and tousled hair. I lift my hand to his face and kiss him good night. I don't shove him against the wall this time, though. That can wait for later.
We rest a moment, his cheek against mine. "Thanks for dinner," he whispers.
"Thanks for coming," I murmur.
He dips his head and I breathe in sharply as his lips brush the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. He leaves a trail of tiny kisses along my collarbone, agonizingly slow. When he reaches the hollow at the base of my throat, I give a little whimper as a shudder tears through me, my palms pressed flat against the door. My pulse is racing and I can barely breathe.
"Mac!" It comes out as a little squeak. He's laughing, his face against my shoulder. "What happened to taking it slow?"
"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry in the least.
I snicker at that, and turn my head so my lips are against his ear. "I'm warning you, next time I'll get my revenge."
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Author's Note: Sorry, folks, that's the end. I'll leave Stella's revenge to your imagination. ;-)