Not, mind you, that the condo really resembled a cozy home at the moment. As we stepped through the front door, the scent of industrial cleansers burned our nostrils, a large, bleached spot on the living room rug a reminder of what had happened here. I made a mental note to get the carpets replaced ASAP. Our belongings were still in a state of disarray from the break-in, there was nothing to eat that hadn’t spoiled in the fridge, and the place was like an oven from being sans air conditioner all day. But, still, it was good to finally be home.

Aunt Sue made a beeline for the kitchen and began immediately dialing for pizza. Which left me awkwardly standing in the doorway alone as Cal checked the place out. So…are you coming in? I asked, suddenly fidgeting with my hands, though I wasn’t really sure why. Cal’s job was over. I was safe, the killer was behind bars. Really, there was no reason for him to stick around.

Cal’s eyes stopped sweeping and locked squarely onto mine. Do you want me to?

Oh, boy. That was a loaded question. One I wasn’t really sure I had a loaded answer to. I shrugged my shoulders. I guess I don’t really need protection anymore.

That isn’t what I asked.

I bit my lip. I know. Well, I mean, if you’re hungry, Aunt Sue’s ordering pizza. So, if you want to…

But he cut me off. Do you want me to come in? It’s a simple question, Tina.

But it wasn’t. And we both knew it. I could feel his eyes intent on me, doing that looking-right-through-you thing.

I shifted onto my heels. I knew if I said yes, I wasn’t just agreeing to an evening of pizza and chit chat. And while part of me, the part that had melted into Cal’s arms that afternoon, had melted into his kiss the night before, melted every time his dark eyes bore into mine the way they were doing right now, really, really wanted to shout yes at the top of my lungs…somehow I couldn’t make my mouth form the word. What if Cal didn’t really want the kind of pizza I was offering? Or, worse yet, what if he said he did, then changed his mind in the morning? I’ve been around Hollywood long enough to know that guys like Cal didn’t end up with short, purple-haired, funky journalists like me. Guys like Cal ended up with supermodels, leggy blondes, stacked beach bunnies. So, as much as that little hopeful corner of my heart was rearing its ugly little head, my shoulders shrugged again, and I answered, It doesn’t matter to me.

Cal’s face shut down, expression blank. It doesn’t. A flat statement, not a question.