“You give me sweet, baby, you’ll get it back,” he retorted low, angry, and this was infuriatingly but indisputably outrageously sexy, which gave credence to the possibility I was a whackjob. “You ready for me to hit end?” he asked.

“I was ready five minutes ago.”

“’Bye, Amy.”

“Good-bye, Mickey.”

He hung up.

I threw my phone on the bed and it bounced on my duvet cover, which was subtle floral swirls in soft gray, porcelain blue, gentle taupe and muted apple green.

My mind conjured images of Mickey’s long, big, hard body tangled up in that duvet and I shouted, “Arrrrrgh!” before I stomped to my bathroom to get my toiletries.

* * * * *

“Mrs. McMurphy sounds like da bomb,” Cillian stated enthusiastically.

It was the next night and I was sitting at Mickey’s dining room table, a table in a dining room I had not seen on my last visit because it was through a door on the other side of the kitchen and I had not been offered a complete tour.

It was a dining room table that was a long, farm table with ladder-back chairs that had fluffy, but trimmed, navy cushions and had been laid by Aisling for her dinner party.

It was a family table at which was seated a family.

I liked it. And I liked it even though Mickey and I had barely spoken from me arriving to that moment, when we were finishing up Aisling’s delicious yellow cake with its thick layer of scrumptious chocolate buttercream frosting. This being after we finished her delicious meal of Coca-Cola cured ham and expertly seasoned sautéed potatoes.

The food was excellent, but I was with a family and I just liked that.

This time, I had things to say, carrying on the conversation with Cillian, doing my part by sharing about the folks at Dove House, to Cillian’s delight.

Mickey sat mostly silent and definitely brooding at the head, Aisling to his right, Cillian to her right at the long table that sat eight, but me, regrettably, to Mickey’s left, which meant too close for comfort.

Throughout the meal, I gamely ignored him at the same time trying to appear like I wasn’t ignoring him.

This was difficult. He was as handsome as ever and was wearing a dark blue, lightweight cotton shirt with the sleeves again rolled up. A shirt that did amazing things to his eyes.

He was also wearing jeans that were worn in but not worn out, and they fit his front, his back, and his long legs in a way I wish I could unsee because the vision of them kept popping up into my head at inappropriate times, in other words constantly.

It became less difficult because he was seated so I could no longer see his jeans.