I nodded. “That’ll work.”

“Do I get to meet her? Your mother?”

“Yes … when the time’s right.”

“You said that with hesitancy. She won’t approve of me?”

“We’ll find out. She professes to be liberal, but you’re the first black man I’ve ever dated.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He kissed my forehead, brushing hair from my eyes. “As long as you approve.” He lifted up my chin and brought my lips to his. He kissed me softly. Then again, and again. He sighed, then kissed me again. “Oh my God, I got it so bad!”

You and me both, hot stuff. But someone had to be mature. “Go. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Reluctantly, he stood. Wordlessly, he left. I waited until I heard the front door close before I got out of bed. I showered and dressed. Because it was a lovely morning, I put my coffee, juice, toast, and paper on a tray and brought the ensemble out to his rose garden, placing my breakfast on the small, round table, settling into a patio chair. The lot, like all of them in the area, had been cut into the mountains, so I was afforded a view of hillside homes and rooftops. There were houses below me, houses above me, and it was all very charming. I felt as if I were in the artist colony of Montmartre, the Paris neighborhood where the Moulin Rouge still stood. Blue was breaking from the clouds, and in the distance, I caught a glimpse of Silver Lake—truly silver in the muted light.

A good guy, fabulous sex, coffee and the paper while breathing in the aroma of perfumed flowers, and a lake view to boot.

I could get used to this.

But alas, I, too, had work to do. When I was finished, I took everything back inside and washed and cleaned up. I knew he kept kosher, so I opened his cabinets and drawers, and sure enough, he had two sets of dishes and two sets of flatware. I placed the ones I had used with their matching set.

I shut the front door and locked it.

I hefted the key several times, then slipped it in my purse.

I owed Scott Oliver in ways he hadn’t considered. Since we stopped seeing each other, I had avoided visiting my father at his work out of embarrassment. Now that Scott and I were on speaking terms, I could go see the Loo without fear of running into him. I knew that Oliver was a clotheshorse. While buying Koby a shirt, I had bought Scott a tie. He wasn’t in when I came into the Devonshire Detective squad room, so I put the bag on his desk with a thank-you note. Homicide sat in the back of the squad room, its own little fiefdom. I hoped to be a full-fledged member one day, but for now I’d have to be content with vicarious thrills, knowing most of the gold shields here, and knowing that my father was in charge.